Sometimes I write to silence the bad burny thoughts in my head, to stop myself from just screaming ‘Help!’ to anyone passing by. 

Sometimes, something interesting gets written, and this is probably as close to poetry as I get. Call it prose poetry, call it spoken word slam, call it whatever you will. This will probably make it onto the set list for the next Orthros event, and I’m going to try to memorise it so I can slam the hell out of it. 


Pinioned, hanging from iron spikes that pierce forearms, legs, shoulders. I’m stuck, stranded in mid-air, and I cannot move. Can barely breathe from the pain that courses through every nerve. I’d have thought that I’d be numb to pain by now, my nervous system fried like chicken with the constant agony I feel. I can’t see anything through the blackness that surrounds me, can only feel the pervasive chill eroding my skin, seeping through flesh to inhabit my bones.

And yet… and yet… you see me, standing here, arms flapping, mouth yapping and a smile on my face. Ghastly, ain’t it? I can move and laugh and hold a lengthy conversation and present a façade that enjoys life and all its pursuits of happiness. I look free, don’t I?

And yet… and yet… behind the teeth, hiding deep down in the eyes, there am I really. The one crucified by her own mind, yearning to be free of this creeping darkness. I rattled the doors, and look what came crawling out. Monsters and demons and abominations, oh my. All here to carve me through and devour whatever goodness and light I managed to cling to all these years.

The worst times are the battles for my hands. Where I have to fight with the monsters and demons and abominations, oh my, to reclaim my hands, to put down that knife, to put down that fucking knife, and take up a pen instead, and turn that pen away from my eye, and put it to paper instead, and write and write and write the demons and monsters and abominations, oh my, into the prison of paper and ink, bind them tight with words and syntax and voice, my voice, MY FUCKING VOICE, because these are MY hands, not the monsters’. MY hands, not the demons’. MY hands, not the abominations’. My bloody hands, and they won’t pick up a knife to cut out the pain. I refuse to let my hands go to waste by drawing that blade down my arms, across my throat. My bloody hands, and they will write and take back the goodness and light, reach into the maws of the monsters and demons and abominations, oh my, and haul out what is rightfully mine.