Cut out (2)

I cut myself, with paper,with people; I’m a thin sheafof moonlight trying to get a fixon reality.Today, fifteen years after your death it's your birthday, I woke this morning and couldn’t make out what was making me feel so sick, it took till lunchtime staggering about to realise why. I expected to see you walking across an empty room, I kept imagining what it would be like to see you again mother, if you weren’t a ray of dust lost on a bottomless sea. If it’s true that only thought remains then that makes it almost harder to bear, your thoughts are like shimmering pools of evil, angled at me from eternity.I try to forget all the times I’d stuttered to please you, as abused children always do, with the presents and the phone calls, your eyes boring through me like some black magic ceremony on late night T.V. I never lose my sense of humour as I dream of you dead: you often try to come back and haunt us, with your pinched face rigid like a kabuki mask and your long scarlet nails. It’s not as if there was ever anything left unsaid, you’d say it all face to face with a brick wall of demented logic which never kept me in place, and you would fly at me suddenly like the mad bitch that you were: that you kept so so hidden inside your sociopathic exterior.There was never any use my hiding it was always staunch up:the wounds couldn't plunge any deeper could they?Today on your birthday, fifteen years after your death, we won’t be making a cake and I am perhaps the only one that truly remembers you.It isn’t with a kiss, and if I could watch you die all over again each day of my life it wouldn’t be enough.So I cut myself, on paper, on people, watch the blood flow with disinterest, walk down another road.I have fed on love like a junky, but now stay in my self allotted place where the roses grow.I cut myself, with paper,with people; I’m a thin sheafof moonlight trying to existtrying get a fixon reality.