self portrait

i start with my hair. 

black as ash, filled with the same. 

something to shade me from onlookers and those bewildered with me. 

cracked lips, so ungraceful that a cigarette would feel shame to be brought to touch them. 

improper to kiss,

forever ungraced by such. 

beard, filled with smoke. 

armour against the cold wind that blows from these mountains i call home. 

eyes like swamp water and death. 

forever looking,

shifting, a to b. as if i am constantly under threat

or as if i was looking for new prey. 

neck, broken from wordless whispers

and misplaced prayers

spoken onto it by tongues forgotten. 

arms left cratered and wet from tearless and equally tearful nights. veiny and inked. 

like a blade traced with black saliva on the tip 

carved. 

hands that haven’t been held in far too long. 

hands that are calloused, cramped and cold. 

hands that have fingers like daggers. 

long, wide and sharp. 

nails of jet. 

hips to be pulled closer,

but lest, they remain hips to be pushed away. 

hips that are burned. 

sledgehammer hips, blunt and hard. 

true weapons. 

lastly my feet. 

torn to shreds. 

bloody and beat. 

cold and red. 

brittle like ice. 

brutal like blood.