Miriam Joy

“But nobody writes fairy talesabout the ugly and poemsare not there for the brokenand I will never find myselfin the words of a hymnnor will any whispered prayerever say my name(which name, which meam I looking for?)because I am shoutingat a cross splintered into piecesby my angry fists, and cryingat the stained glass fallinglike killing rain around me.”

“Words do not come back to me easily,so I pull out my heart and wrap itin a thin sheet of paper, let the bloodseep across in stanzas of honestyand hand it to anyone who will take itso that the still-beating heart can tell themall my secrets, all my weaknesses,because if they are not hiddenthey cannot be taken and used against me.”

“In July I thinkabout the idea of being cursed(because it’s not strange to me;when I look in mirrors I’mnot there, blank walls gleamingwith bloody condensation,and my shadow behind memocking me with his persistencewhen I keep telling himto leave just to leave to let me be).”

“I cut off all my hair, cut awayat the soft curves of my clothinguntil I have edges once again,using my body like broken glassto slice at the world around me.I have to take something back,because I have nothing more to”

“When I wake from my nightmaresI’m more afraid of the breath in my lungs than whatever might be chasing me.”

“I felt happier yesterday. I do not feel happy today – I feelabandoned and godless and brokenin a church built for the damnedwith artificial light through stained glassand warped wooden doors.”

“I want her sinful arms wrapped around me,bloodied and angry and triumphant in shame.”

“Some people unfold into a thousand wordsand others never speak to me at all,never take the blame at all,never look at me at all – I wonder whyhe never looks at me at all (perhapshe cannot bear to meet my eyes).”

“It’s voyeuristic the way you searchfor answers in these cries for help,and how you see Death’s fingersbut always think they’re paintbrushes.”

“I am still trying and trying to exorcise youbut you cling to me like mud or bloodstains,like a battlefield fought in my imaginationevery day that I raise my pen against the swordyou used to slice my heart into small, bitter pieces.”

“I cannot love my neighbour as myselfbecause you bid me do him no harm,and I cannot love my enemiesbecause they keep crawling inside meand tearing out all my emotions:if I am made in your image then youare not somebody I want to seebecause why believe in the broken,why depend on the weak,why seek the lost and bewilderedwhose only answer is “please”?”