carve this marble face again
it’s the ADHD masking me,
the drink blurring my face into a recognisable shape,
something I can stand looking back at me,
though the mirror grimaces at my horror contorted teeth.
we dance to melodies I’ve never heard and will not remember
but surrender to, nonetheless.
I find a crushed rose somewhere on the floor,
tangle it between strangled hair,
artfully arranged into something like hope,
maybe the scent will cover the lonely.
my gown snags on nettles but the burn is intoxicating,
I imagine how they will tattoo me in red,
create patterns that are not of my own making
and I sigh in pleasure at the full moon hanging low.
in this light, we are all still children,
possibility in our veins
like vessels yet to be chained.
he takes my hand to leave
and I visit the compact,
ensure the lipstick is still intact
for the burgundy lines contain my lies
and he cannot see them yet.
here, the scars feel like velvet
and lust overwhelms the fear in touch,
when he kisses me,
I see constellations of memories
where I did not need to hide.
later, thirsty and naked,
I trace gentle fingers over the cloak
he cannot see,
how I offer my form in ways I know will please him.
it will not last much longer,
my energy straining at the extension of the deadline,
he will never understand why I’ll leave him here.
when I go, torched swan feathers will flutter down in my wake,
my neck will break again
out of the pretence,
these wings of bone will bear me home with vicious whistling.
the empty is always so loud,
and so unbearably,
unforgivably
crowded.
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Cara Pleym could tell you many things about herself, most of which are true but few that would make sense. Her work is often uncomfortably, brutally honest and interrogates trauma in a way which might not be completely healthy. The poetry is melancholy and an- gry but tells the story of evolving identity and the ever-present spectrum of mental health.
You can find me and my sadness on Instagram.