It's not so much butterflies
fluttering, but corrosive bats flitting
with barbed wire wings,
venomous teeth gnawing at me,
acid laced claws tearing at my flesh,
puncturing my lungs
so that the oxygen won't stick,
the air claustrophobic in my throat.
It's a rabid fever I can't sweat out,
percolating and putrid,
and its fangs won't release me.
The world drowns in inky gloom,
stars blotted out by the weight.
The Midas touch in reverse,
watch as I turn everything to shit.
Every nerve numbed and dead,
my wrists beg for the blade
but settle for the cyanide smell of the pen.
Pain bleeds onto the snowy page.
A scribbled out story, a biro biopic;
a life both over-lived and under-lived.
(Kirsty A. Niven lives in Dundee, Scotland. Her writing has appeared in anthologies such as Landfall, A Prince Tribute and Of Burgers and Barrooms.She has also featured in several journals and magazines, including The Dawntreader, Cicada Magazine, Dundee Writes and Word Fountain. Kirsty's work can also be found online on sites such as Cultured Vultures, Atrium Poetry and Nine Muses Poetry.)
The Beautiful Space-