Bright Lights

The power of light is a wonderfully

dangerous thing;

it requires two components to exist,

the light we wish to see by and the

object to be illuminated,


bathed in all its innate beauty

and all its jagged edges, sharp folds,

shadowed spaces and deep trenches.

what do you wish to see?

what hidden hollow can i show you?

are you prepared to face yourself?

are you prepared to live with what you see?

nothing can be unseen.

Can you stand the


sounds of agony,



brutality of your own judgement

repetition of a disturbing truth in your ears,


a truth you cannot speak for lack of words


I can show you.

I see her twice; once in the daylight;

purposeful, electric lights bouncing radiantly from her soft

steps, forced bustle and grace in order to drown something ticking in her head;

and at night, a quiet mess, a broken shell,

the light’s fingers can no longer grasp her, wrapped in the

sturdy oozing blackness encasing her cries.

In a small truth, you are beautiful.

you rise up from your falls, a phoenix given the warmth of fire.

yet that small cling-wrap of beauty compares little to the

coiled, twisting mass of loss you carry inside.

the hole you cry for others to fill,

the seething pain that keeps you from sleep,

the head that worries, the body that aches,

the heart that slows and the breathing that escalates,

when will someone be able to fix you?

there are two sides to every light.

this girl, she possesses those two.

a light she forces to shine, and the other that


through her skin when she feels adrift, lost.

it’s a light that seeks, prods, not tentative but abrupt,

carving out her craters and ridges like nails in thick dirt,

it traces her hollows, her curves and angles

a light that shows everything she wishes to hide from you.


and your judging eyes,

you prowling like a wolf around her starving soul.

you, who seeks to remind her of her damage


who cannot accept her, how she wants to surrender to defeat.

I see it all.

I am blessed with the ability to discern such lights.

yours is frightening.

trembling body, tight in defence,

I pity you.

you shine such brilliant light, yet you can’t find it.

I told you to never look at yourself.

Mirrors are glass; glass breaks, the shards will pierce you every time.

you know how worthless you are, you know abandonment like no other,

do you need to see it again for yourself?

my voice drowns yours, I am the light you seek to conceal.

but I know you too well. I always will.

the light is too bright. too strong,

people must look away from the burning flame of her.

They risk themselves, being lost like her

and so they walk away, leaving scorch marks on her skin

from the places they’ve

touched, explored, caressed, and cut.


scoring her broken heart

its easy for people to play with it in their cupped hands,

loose pieces of flesh still hoping to beat as one someday.

She knows that her light is blinding.

She tries to connect, to kindle a fire inside, some shield;

she gives over all of herself, every time,

holes and caverns forming,

from donated pieces of herself

that she can never have back,

given over to intangible forms of men

as real as dawn fog,

as greedy and lustful as ravenous wolves

all sweetness and smiles until her light burns

through them and they realise

she is too much to fix.

You look down and touch those empty spots.

They feel raw don’t they?

They bleed and weep as tears drip down

from your eyes.

You wish you could patch them up,

feel whole,

but the light is too bright for you to try.

Why must you give so much?

your heart remains fragmented,

half disappears

I can see that.

a dull ache is all you feel when the rest beats.

Is your beauty worth something then,

if you are lacking a full heart?

bundled in on herself,

she waits.

She hates the wait, the pauses;

heat crawling like waves along her skin,

stomach roiling

insides twisting,

head pounding,

she only waits for the light to burn down,

a candle out of wax,

but then she’ll have little left to offer.

What about love?

I know how much you crave it.

People hand it to, teasing you with your desires;

on golden platters dusted with pearls,

sugar and spice and all things nice.

‘I love you’ they whisper in your ear,

filling those cracks in your shell,

‘I love you’ and warmth sparks from a dark void

in your soul,

they make you believe something fake.

Make you fall under confidence, bending to temptation,

spikes of desire driven under your skin.

you yearn for more, you set fireworks sparking,

the heat together

…until he turns away from you.

He slides his fingers deep inside your

chest, and helps himself to his slice of you,

you don’t even feel a thing

before you cry.

it’s gone.

They leave her. That’s all there seemingly is.

Rocking alone, neglected, ignored,

shown love before it’s taken.

‘Will it ever change?’ she mouths to herself,

voiceless, breathless.


She lives with this emptiness. This cavity inside.

but in the end,

so do you.

Because you fail to see the energy and life light,

can only give birth to.

And that itself is beautiful.


*Art by Vincent Castiglia- “The Art of Blood”*


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