I cannot channel
into mere syllables
these emphatic surges
of concentrated pain.
How do I scribble
all the angst out onto
a page?
Can you see in the way
I cross my t's
that I am completely
broken?
Is it obvious
in the arrangement
of grammar that I have
have lost
myself?
Possessed and tortured
by a voice,
a voice I call my own.
These things,
these fragile beckonings,
they tempt me into
fractures.
In the leisurely sigh 
a raven takes flight
and I fall further
down.
Wild melodies
that haunt
like cruel lullabies
that only bring you
nightmares.
Some unworthy passion,
undeserved adoration,
an untainted taste
of love.
Ah, but how could he
love me?
I can't love myself.
In fact, throw it around,
confronted by contrast,
a blank space filled with
ink.
A poison so strong
it deteriorates 
everything,
everything that I touch.
Acidic, corrosive,
self-destructive.
A feather touch
and there are valleys
of tears.
What are we going to do
with me?
I ask you,
tired, so, so tired
of bringing you to
this place.
Your patience is
infinite,
your heart
infallible.
I am nothing,
why you dedicate 
yourself to that
is beyond me.
But I cling to it
like it tugs the azure sky
a little lower down.
I breathe in fear
that you will realise
and run,
leaving me with only
clouds.
You see how this torrent
cannot be blunted?
You see my inability
to quell the flow?
Oh yes,
and you are my
secret.
They don't know,
no one knows.
An obscuring blanket
of numbing deceit.
Where do I go 
to redeem myself?
Can you point me towards
atonement?
(As if I'd even
read the map.)
I'm sorry,
I'm sorry.
I called myself
broken,
then named it
histrionic.
A label to repel
myself further
from me.
A porcelain doll.
A hammer.