It Never Heard That

I don’t want to remember exactly how I was or who I was before you,
and I know that isn’t what this world wants to hear,
but it never listened to the beat of my broken heart
or caught the pain in my eyes anyway.
It never heard the way I hated myself when dawn hit my window
and sliced its way through the mountains of maybe next time
I won’t hurt myself, but for now just cut these colours
easy enough to taste something less bitter than I am.
It never heard that. It never listened to the way I could gulp and howl
under the light of a full moon, a new moon, of any moon,
of a sick and sculpted summer moon that hung above the grime
I pretended not to notice. It never heard that. It never listened
to my voice calling out from the dark when every last light in me
had been dimmed, it never came to chase the shadows or the monsters
that waited to lunge the second the lights went out.
It was never there to shine hope into my darkened heart or hear the cries
of my soiled soul. It never heard that. I never knew that silence
with you whispered the most extraordinary tales, and sitting
in the way of sunsets with you shifted the ugly inside of me,
and burst beautiful rays into the dark of my eyes.
I don’t want to remember who I was when I was without you,
but I do, and I will, and perhaps remembering how cold it was in the dark
will never let me forget how I can hear the warmth in the light.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

A Cosmic Disappointment

I drink

and I scream

and I curse the stars,

and still you are here,

blaring in my fucking veins.

Nicole Lyons 2017

Most Days

I don’t know if I will ever

know the truth of us,

and what could have been,

what should have been,

what will never be.

But I do know I loved you

and I think you may

have loved me too,

and most days

that is enough.

Nicole Lyons 2017

Once Upon A Time

I am standing here, screaming,
“I live, I live. I love.”
and they are laughing as you dig in
to this pile of bullshit,
shovels full of our own wasted lives.
Oh, if we all could live,
right and good like stories
filled with mighty conquests
and happier endings.
My feet are covered in this waste,
wishes treading the water
that has been pissed out of finer souls
than we could ever hope to be.
We should hope less and dig more,
there are treasures to be found
beneath the pile of golden souls
who would think well enough
to shit outside the gates of their own
once upon a time.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

I Told Him No

He told me how brave I was,
writing my story into a sea of stigma,
how my words, my voice,
would break waves and save souls,
a lighthouse for the mentally ill,
the distraught, the unloved.

I told him no.

He told me how beautiful I was,
smiling sadly with eyes like burnt moons
hiding secrets behind the sun,
a gravitational pull for the mentally ill,
the distraught, the unloved.

I told him no.

He told me how special I was,
tempting great men with good faith,
a harlot born from Satan’s tongue,
a perfect delusion for the mentally ill,
the distraught, the unloved.

I told him no.

He told me he was mentally ill,
distraught, unloved,
in dire need of desperate release,
and salvation would only come on his knees,
shaking to the sound of my voice.

I told him no.

He told me how sorry I would be
when he twisted my words like arms
and shot arrows through the bull’s-eye
he had painted on my chest.

I told him no.

I am not the voice of a saviour,
nor the hint of a wish,
I am fucking dangerous,
coming to claw the truth
from behind a liar’s lips.

 

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Fancy Meeting You Here

Sometimes the memories become too much,
and I wonder if you have locked me away
as I have you.
And if every now and again I begin kicking
through the walls of your mind,
overwhelming you,
and if I do I wonder if you quietly surrender,
or if you furiously gasp for air
when the regret takes you under, too.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Selfish On Sundays – Nicole Lyons & Rachel Finch

I wrote a poem called In Blues and Golds that was published on Sudden Denouement a few days ago and one of my dear friends, Rachel of Bruised But Not Broken, read the piece and was inspired enough to write a piece around a couple of the sections of my original poem. Upon reading Rachel’s poetry I was taken aback, quite literally struck dumb for a few minutes while I soaked in the power of her words. When I could finally speak, I asked Rachel if she would consider allowing me to play with both poems and combine the two and without hesitation, she agreed and I am blown away by how it has turned out. We hope you like our collaboration: Selfish On Sundays

And Rachel, thank you again my dear friend and warrior soul, it’s an honour to sit with you in words and soul.

21291316_365461813888866_1229301113_n

God, I am selfish.
I am a selfish lover,
and a selfish friend,
and I am a selfish saint.
But am I selfish on Sundays
when I break my bread
and remember that girl
and her tingles,
and every prayer I whispered,
when I was running
from scared into terrified?

I am a selfish lover, because the first hands to love me,
pleased themselves.
I am a selfish friend, because the first friend to show me
the self, loved with her hips and not her pulse.
But am I selfish on Sunday, when her own blood
stands before me, and I morph the memory
into something beautiful for the sake of the baby
that came from her womb and with his innocent eyes
looking into mine, I silence them.

I was unselfish when
I was terrified in that tunnel,
and I was high on those vibes
when we met.
The electric terror and tiptoes,
the sweet sound of bored teenagers
breaking trust and all the rules.
We smoked her stepfather’s cigarettes
and drank my mother’s wine,
and we spray-painted our names
inside each other’s secrets
in golds and blues across dirty metal,
and then she laid me down.

I was unselfish when I lay there and let her merge
the trauma carried in her muscles, into mine
and told my sister to turn away so the memory
didn’t stain her eyelids, so she didn’t feel it.

I was unselfish and terrified
that time I said yes
when I meant to say no,
but her fingers were quick
when my resistance was weak,
and I was two seconds to thirteen
and a lifetime from knowing better.

What was I when I let her lips press down on mine,
still carrying the stale taste of the beer from his tongue
and I swallowed both their shame?

And now I can’t help but feel sorry
when I remember her then,
under those flickering lights
a block away from home,
and the way we kissed.
That kiss that stormed the skies.
That kiss that shook the plains.
That kiss that had her speaking
of tingles and first love,
and body rocks.

How my body wanted to deny her,
but my hands ground down her hips
and I needed her to know I knew him too.
And I’m still selfish on Sundays,
when I look back at our prayers amiss the tears
that were our words and I still taste her wounds.

That kiss and those tingles,
on that body from a lifetime ago,
are now ravaged to bits
in a home somewhere,
eaten by the degenerate mouths
of degenerative diseases,
and here I am,
still selfish and terrified,
at breakfast on Sunday,
saying a prayer and wondering
if the tingles her body is wracked
and wrecked with now
can come close to the ones I gave her
in blues and golds, way back then.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

© Rachel Finch 2017

Rachel is an old soul bursting with young energy, her work is a glorious mix of heaven and hell. She writes with a soul shattering, ethereal, raw edge that holds nothing back. As the founder of Bruised But Not Broken, Rachel has helped thousands of people find a safe place, reach out, and tear the shame from their stories. A true humanitarian, Rachel is one of my heroes and I am grateful to call her my friend. Follow her on IG and her blog.

Syllable by Syllable

And sometimes these words,
they save me, but sometimes,
most times, they kill me,
syllable by fucking syllable,
they rip me to shreds.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Waiting For Winter

I remember looking up
when the lock shattered,
watching the tree dropping its leaves,
and I felt disappointment,
and as naked as its branches.
That tree had kept our secrets,
and I think I may have thought that
somehow we would have been hidden now,
from prying eyes and a looming winter.
But the winds had come, and he had gone,
and I found myself in the open, lonely and alone,
breaking bits of memories into my hands
and walking the abandoned road,
until I sat in the spot where
we paid our toll and had been granted passage,
and I waited for winter to come again.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

I Would Run

I feel what you feel,
and I know
what you know,
and in another time
or another place,
on every other plane
of existence, I would run
anywhere with you.