Tag: moving on

Reading The Court Transcript: Manipulation

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Oh, but I know what happened.

Yes, I know that happened.

It happened.

You don’t need to tell me it did.

You don’t need to confirm.

The mountains were mine to move,

So were the storms.

There’s no shred of doubt so there’s nothing to prove.

He taught me that things could get worse.

You taught me things could get better.

That’s how it works.

But you’re not the recipient of this letter.

It was me all along,

Sitting in closets, haunting my soul,

Yelling at wind, singing songs,

Begging for a chance to become whole.

And all along I knew it was a trick.

Your words, they’re kind yet they sting,

Everyone around me got sick,

And butterflies lost their wings

While you told me you didn’t intend it to hurt.

You molded me like I wasn’t human,

Branded me a savage and a brute,

So it became the norm.

Now time passes and you sit with your truth,

Eat it up like a worm.

I know who did it so I’ll sit with mine,

Play your game of pantomime,

And if I’m wrong,

I’m fine being the one who crossed a line.

But if I’m not…

My heart is a prison, and I’ll assign you a cell where you can rot.

Because it happened.

-Jackie

Moving On

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Wasn’t I moving on before I saw you in the midnight train?

Wasn’t I looking out for myself?

Why am I here, mixing tears with the rain?

In times like these I question whether this cycle will end

With me still being able to fix it

And call my broken body a friend.

Or perhaps I’ll strangle myself with sentences never spoken

Until I’m broken and you’re broken,

We’ll wear it as a token.

But together we’re much number than when we’re alone

So I let the train pass to save my bones.

I don’t pick up the phone.

-JW

Miss Neon Light

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The design is perfect but something is leaning off-centre,

Nobody seems to care, they keep preaching so gentle.

I just want to hold your hand one last time, before it goes.

Many elbows in my back pushing towards the midnight show.

Can I cry on the stage and make everyone oblivious

To how I’m barely hanging in there by my resilience?

Will the weight be lifted or will it never let me exhale?

Is this a nightmare turned into a Hollywood fairytale?

My eyes shoot every scene but I can’t make them focus

As I drift away to neon lit graveyards and locals.

The pattern is flawless but the story still sounds offbeat.

No one seems to notice until you’re the one burning alive

While they’re escaping the heat.

-JW

Waterproof

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You should never speak to me again or even look at this direction.

The floor is made of paper cut-outs of your short aggressions.

I’m dirty, I haven’t been baptized since you entered the room.

Ceiling hanging over my neck as a guillotine but you’re yet to learn –

Under pressure I bloom.

All that’s been taken by you during decades, please, take even more.

My back is strong enough to never look back, doesn’t mean it’s not soar.

The next time we go toe to toe, don’t beg me to stay like you always do.

You should never speak of me again or ever assume for one second

My soul isn’t waterproof.

-JW

A Beautiful Day To Die

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The sun is playing on bare skinned people passing by, not reaching me yet.

I’ve become a mirror to the world’s worst battle cries, the symbol of debt.

Would be a lie if I claimed I’d rather touch the rays instead of reflecting –

It’s a beautiful day to die from overdosing on medals I’ve been collecting.

Never thought of myself as a warrior, cleaning up foreign messes, not my own,

Making sure as a foreigner I hide my own truths and give my illness a loan

To take out later, when I’m crumbling in the concrete walls of another city

Where windows are larger than life and privacy means you must be guilty.

All these second-hand “thank you” notes I’ve gathered now don’t mean a thing –

Loneliness carries itself just royally well until it finds a place to sting.

Then you’re down with the venom tearing your vision apart, installing mirrors.

You feel like it’s a beautiful day to die if you get to see the world any clearer.

But that was then – I continue to walk the streets with my growing reflective hopes.

I’ve become the mirror to the world’s battle cries but I’m no longer a ghost.

***

I shut the neon gates to my city.

The rebels are gone with the winds of fog colored in pity.

The small picture’s gone, replaced with only this memory

Of how I treated the streets I created as an enemy

I know I can’t reach my younger self but I’ll try through this revery:

Love, I hope you remember me.

-JW

New Chapter

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Blood on my trembling fingers from yesterday’s out of control rendezvous.

I don’t think I’m ready to ask questions with answers dipped in your blues.

It’s true, wanting everything from my past to be torn apart isn’t a solution

But I’ve waited too long for a happy ending, not another mediocre conclusion.

“I love you so much it pains me,” I say, looking at a gold framed mirror.

Bought this one myself in a vintage shop made for people-shaped errors.

Painted my walls white and took the hoarded neon to another graveyard –

I spilled my paint going there, then accidentally became the vanguard

Of some new, braver movement… Sorry, I can’t really recall their name.

They told me tales about the fame monster but I won’t listen to reason

When it comes to my shame.

So there’s still blood on my hands and I should admit – it’s probably mine.

Cutting your heart open becomes a hobby if you start practising when you’re nine.

Bleeding yourself dry daily for other’s mistakes feels OK, you’ve gotten better.

But I’m still unable to remember a time where I looked at myself

And didn’t feel dry or bitter.

May this mirror I’ve bought myself serve as a reminder of how I’m here, breathing,

And if I happen to bleed for my own life again, that’s because I’m leaning on myself,

The one person honest enough to drop her habit of being deceiving,

Instead of running for the hills, walking the walk through the delayed grieving.

May this mirror be the first thing to remind myself I am not perfect at it,

But I am healing.

-JW

Rapid Eye Movement

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I’ve lived past two cities with contained light sources.

They’re tightening around my neck with some nooses.

My burgundy dresses aligned with their tales

But in order to breathe, I went off the rails.

I’ve lived by five rivers, all seemingly dirty.

The locals swore I wouldn’t leave until thirty.

Now five years have passed and I’m haunted by them –

Isn’t leaving the original REM?

And what if I carry this spirit of judgement?

Somedays my heart runs yet some – it just doesn’t.

I’ve lived past two cities with contained light sources.

Perhaps to escape that I’ll need more wild horses.

-JW

Symphonies

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The monster I raised is no longer inside.

No running or hiding from the spoiled evening tide.

Relief bouncing off walls, exploding from the chest.

I want to rest. I want to rest. I just want to rest.

Birds chirping to some long forgotten symphonies.

I dance and I swear, no one sees –

I can do as I please.

When I’m alone, I control all the seas

But only as long as the monster agrees.

-JW

Décolletage Cuts

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My promises are as cheap as my perfume

But, love, I paid for it with my pride

So don’t stick it up my nose, let doom be doom.

…I’ll meet you on the other side

Without your backstabbing smile.

My hopes are as low as my décolletage cuts

And don’t try to convince me that it’s too much

Because two-faced boys dance where everything rots.

I’d suggest we never keep in touch.

I wasn’t the joke but you treated me as such.

My past is as vivid as my lipstick stains

So don’t play with the devil to ease your pain,

Don’t suck me dry just to fill up your veins.

Take your ego down the shallowest of drains –

Or keep your distance, stay in your lane.

-JW

Leaving Ante: Part V

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Healing

We’re building a corporation from scratch – some luck and eighty-seven guns.

I’m calling you my co-conspirator when they find out so you don’t even run.

Zero factories around the globe, no employees good enough to hire –

Yet I’m convinced you’re the one ruining this, you started the tax haven fire.

The upholstery business is a nice shell for your mother’s inaudible cries.

It must’ve been Linklater who taught you how to be fine when the time flies.

My feet are sore from carrying the boxes of liquid guilt into the basement –

But I don’t mind, the art you keep and treasure was begging for defacement.

Now the flames are eating up the framework of the company without any shame.

Perhaps the next business we build will take less gasoline to stay in the game.

-JW