You were something once.
I think there was something inside:
spherical concave back,
single winding spine.
Ribbed lips and rugged tips
held you fast against the brine.
You were Tossed,
but your solid hands cradled you.
There was something inside once;
you were your own loving arms.
You did not want to be found
when the insides died.
But I suppose old bones cannot hide.
finds you on the sands
among the glass shards and unwritten cards
and takes your hands.
Scarlet claws under translucent skin
scratch the innards of your hollow soul
find home in your solemn, unmoving
A cluster of stalks
spout from your mouth –
that bouquet of flowers
You never asked for.
It is easy to be still.
It is a blessing
to have no will.
Living flesh presses the cold
you hold on to its itching legs
while it crawls
It takes you places. Breathes; then sleeps,
I am your thing.
There is heat in your empty corners
life in the spaces
where you thought
you were dead.
So hold me.
A hermit does not stay long.
In the glare of an acid morning
it releases the claws that held
Heaves, struggles to leave you
like in the splutter of one unpleasant breeze
it cannot bear you, cannot
to tear from you, all its limbs from all your things.
That sheen of poisonous sunlight split
in the lap of a jagged rock;
when you thought you might be,
something, once again:
Wind screams through the tunnel
of a gaping face
wringing a core
that did not shiver before.
I do not live, I do not live
you sigh into the rushing walls
I leave my will to the water.
By Nikita Singh