Thorns have no concept of time

The first blanket of depression pins my arms to my sides, pulls in my chest and fingers my spine. 

a hand testing how much force the bone takes to break 


I am already broken. 


But broken isn’t enough. 

I must be crushed. 

Trodden into the dirt, 

until my hopes and dreams survive only at the bottom of a strangers shoe.  


can witness my demise 

like a withered rose,

well past its prime but the thorns have no concept of time. 


Then wave two appears, 

With ringing in my ears, like church bells

It is every sin, every crime, 

Every lie beneath my eyes

Every bad decision laid out to be judged. 
I am the Judge 


and I am not merciful

How can I be merciful when I’ve been so hurtful. 

My sentence is nothing.

Because no change is this 

The freedom of punishment,

would be equal to bliss

 anything to stop the screaming in my head. 


That being said, 

the third strand brings no relief 

Hands shaking, tears rolling 

A clench of my teeth 


This stage usually brings the blood 

A knife glided so quickly against my thigh you’d think it was art 

It’s not art 

Art couldn’t go so deep 

Then I wait. 

long enough until my body lets me sleep

A moments peace. 

Praying the nightmares will leave me alone


I wish I could talk of bravery, 

Of strength overcoming pain

How the battles are hard but I’m winning the war. 

This is not a war, 

This is slaughter 


I am not a soldier 

I am the mouse under their feet   

It is the poison in the wine 

It is the insect in the heat. 

The hand wound tightly in my hair, 

Whispering deep into my ear 

every insult that has ever left my lips 

It does not fight fair, 

But then again, neither do I. 


Mary Magdalene

 The Mary Madeline, 

tied to her crib 

But the welds on her wrists 

Won’t compare to his. 


Hiding in the shadows

Validation unclear 

Sprinting into action

Only when he is near


Mothood and maiden 

A Crone for the king

The lost soul for the savior 

A tale to begin? 


Wiping out her existence

Limiting her time

Shaming her life style 

Been forced into crime 


Now the children are starving 

She scrambles, undressed 

The world crumbles around her

Yet they say she’s blessed. 


Their eyes are hurricanes

Destructive and deep

A statue of stone,

Too pious to weep. 


A sinner with the savior 

Yet the irony is lost 

We’ll bury the memory 

And pray to the cross. 

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