Face It.

You are a parasite.
The slug that worms it's way through the insides of their body.
And leaves them sick.
Haunted. Skeletal.
You. The way you manipulate is awe inspiring.

You have this way of being that takes a lifetime to master.
I wonder, who you were in a life before.
Perhaps the gatekeeper to a hellish prison.
Maybe that's how you learned to shake keys so seductively.
How you learnt to taunt and to tease.
I find you to be brutal. Both archer and bow and arrow.
You rejoice in the blood brawling down the victims eyes.

Bullseye.

How do you spew these words like spears and cut so deep they wish to reminded of their pain at night.
How do you howl to the moon at twilight and cover your scars at dawn.
Where did they teach you?
To pretend so well that you do not know yourself my love.
That you are not familiar with the blacks the reds and greys.
Deep purples. Toxic greens.
The making of potions for peers in cauldrons.
And this rainbow of masking.

Stop it.

I know and you know. Very well. That you are much more than you let on.

In fact you are dual.

You are trapped in cages.
And taunted by the tingle of metal on a witches hip.
You have been their sacrifice.
In the dead of night.
These wolves are relentless to your innocent flesh.
You have felt streams flood down your face at dusk. At the memory of the words they spat at you.
You drown in reminisce. Your duvet a sea of blue.
If they were to see you now.
If only they knew.
How your head is heavy and veins are tight.
At dusk you prey for the next life.
You are forced upright. To be their target.

Bullseye.

Your brain scattered to oblivion. 

How do you. 
Find a way. To crawl out of that. Pitch black cave and into the light, with a smile on your face.?

How are you.
Both sides to this penny.
How is that you've perfected such a duality? 

Pretty Paradox

She is Venus. 
And you are aimless. 
A fly. 
Trapped. 
In notions. And disguises. 


Obsessed with beauty. 
Any extreme is destructive. 
You willingly walk into deterioration. 
And a collision of your bones. 
And the liquid that is your blood. 


Mixed with pollen. 
And perfume.
Sweet seductive potions. 


Both you and her together.  
Are toxic lovers.









(I have plenty, a gazillion words to share :P. For the sake of it,
and because I thrive on their creation- stringing them together,)

- Hermenia. 

Many A Sunset

Many a sunset has graced my heart in your absence. 
More than once. 
Has the wind sat on my skin in solidarity. 
The rain on my palm and tip of my tongue is more than occasional. 
The bristle of grass and soles sunk in soil is often recurring. 
I was told to use my unbroken reflection in the lake as a remedy. 
Just as earth knows to repair itself. 

Shall it resurrect me.










- Tis' all. 
Hermenia P. 

Bits Of Me

There is a part of me.
I wish I could tear out.
Like paper.
I wish I could glue back a fresh piece.

One that hasn't seen ink.
And sharp edges.

Bits of me are full with regret.
I wish I could.
Squeeze my loins like rags.

And watch the,
pain of nostalgia pour out.
I am a sponge that has,
soaked in all too much.

And is sinking in what it fed from.

- HP.

The Faces I See

How strange.
To barely know someone.
But to be tied to them by branches on trees.

Inconsistent winds were persistent enough to blow our leaves, 

and leave us wondering who we are with each-other.
What are we doing with each-other?
What do we mean to one another?

To say 'I love you' isn't so heartfelt.
It becomes duty.
Because my name and yours.
Are penned in.
In the same book to be passed down.

Whether we travel to different landscapes.
I shall remember you by name.
And empty feeling.
Because you are not merely these letters and dates which state.
I know you.
I don't. 

I see these faces. 

That I cannot attach to spirit.
Only stories and glimpses of soul I hold on to.
That let me know,
There is a real you.

And in this.
I find it funny that.
These are the shoulders.
That would be cleaned -air dried.
Ready to take my tears.
Or perhaps watch my sorrows.
On cold mornings and dark nights.
When loss knocks on our doors.

We are both dried ink.
bearing loose condolences.
And hollow presents of, 'I'm sorry. I never knew'.

- For the connections you don't choose, 

Stay blessed everyone.

XO. 

- Hermenia