I dance on my tiptoes and spin on the roof.
My past mistakes take a seat in a room.
They deliberate, trying to find a reason,
Seeking proof that I committed treason.
I dance in the dark as the gods observe,
And I scream when a blessing hits a nerve.
Perhaps my rage is an unyielding flame,
But my senses are pets ready to get tamed.
-Jackie
The sickness I feel when I see my own reflection haunts me.
Some days I check if the mirror isn’t shattered,
But it seems like even the shards don’t want me.
Devastation is a simple poison –
It only kicks those already on the ground.
Each time I stand up with broken ribs there is nobody around.
Still, I’m no martyr, so hold your pity applause.
The storms keep finding new ways to shake me.
I get no breathing space, no break, no pause.
But the sickness, it sticks with me like a faithful dog,
Not letting me forget the past slip ups,
Not allowing me to know what I did wrong.
-Jackie
Perhaps I would be a better person
If my blessings did not come with curses.
Perhaps they would hold me in high regard,
Perhaps they would simply clutch their purses.
I wonder if everyone wants to change me.
I can’t help but notice the rotten looks.
Perhaps I would be a better human
If they didn’t rig every rule in the book.
-Jackie
I count down reasons, but they don’t speak in your favor.
I might regret writing these lines twenty years later.
I wish there was a spark, I wish there was some longing,
But you will be out of my mind when I awake in the morning.
There is not enough strength in me to say I am sorry,
And I am glad you found your own way to adore me,
But I must close the door, I must leave you here alone
Because I will never crave you,
Will not build you a home.
-Jackie
There is this fury I hide under pleasantries and visors,
It carries shipwrecks to its cave and eats the survivors.
The flame in its eyes burns with a charcoal black flame,
And no soul in this city can know its middle name.
The things it smashes and crumbles turn into ashes.
The grey particles stick to my trembling lashes.
Do not say the name, do not give it back the power.
All my fury knows is how to slay and devour.
-Jackie
Tables turn and fall down like leaves in the fall.
My knees beg me to crumble,
They beg me to crawl.
I light six black candles and let the wax melt.
I wonder whether love is built
And not really felt.
The horizon buries its mysteries too softly.
They find a way out,
Find new ways to mock me.
Nights turn on their faces and call it a day.
I still have enough spite,
I can make it through May.
-Jackie
When the hell freezes over you will give me your sympathies.
I will live on sharp tongues and through graceless eulogies.
Your plain white laughter will cover up the dark scene.
Someone will curse my demons.
No one will know what that means.
Once in a blue moon my ghost will recount the chances,
The thoughts will fall like snowflakes, forming avalanches.
Was the loud river of your guilt truly always this dry?
Would I meet one more spring if I did not give you a try?
-Jackie
I’m not sure I’ll make it through the final grater.
What if I lose this empty head seven pages later?
The main hero of this tale has mastered deception,
And maybe one day I’ll know she is my reflection.
Today is not the day so I just pick up the pace,
Plaster cheerless smiles all over this darling face.
I see the cutting edges moving in the distance.
What if I lose this story and no one ever listens?
-Jackie
You slipped the words in my pocket as the door was closing,
And I knew that the weight might pulverize my knees.
You tripped me up, then painted indigo thoughts rosy,
And a chuckle spread across the city like a disease.
I took the words and dripped velvet thoughts around them,
Knowing all too well that tomorrow they might be gone.
Even if it is true, even if I bleed out like a fountain,
I still get to cuddle your confession until the dawn.
-Jackie
What is the point of fleeing this ship?
I can take someone’s joy and live with it,
So, tell me –
What is the point of escaping?
Seven wounds on my back,
Seven battles in the making.
I heave from the weight put on my shoulders.
I keep breaking backs,
Keep growing bolder.
What is the point of going home?
My palms try to grip the dying foam,
And I know these moments must be fleeting.
So, honey, what is the point of fleeing?
-Jackie
The Daily Writing of Jackie Wright 