By: Aurora Skye

Mask

Your broken childhood was littered
by the shadows of monsters, unleashed
to a chorus of screams. There lies
your father, below him your shattered
dreams, that have slipped through
your fingers like sand. The monsters
emerge through the mist, taunting,
the worst one of all was wearing the
mask of ‘mother’. Your only parent now.
One that shook your life up like a kaleidoscope
and complained when she saw the broken
glass, the remains of your heart, on the floor.
The monsters remain, warp everything.
All of your partners are monsters with
different masks, they do not understand
your darkness and make space for it,
twisting your mind round like the rope
they wish to hang you on.

The identity of mother is a foreign word
on your tongue. Only three memories
cutting through it all, faces sliding
away from your grasp.
You have no children. Only a trio of strangers.
Looks like the monster under the bed
wormed its way into your head and won
the war.

Vision

A vision is what I see,
of something dark and sepulchral appearing to me.

When my time comes, death takes my hand,
guiding me on a leisurely stroll across pure white sand.
Taking me, I would imagine, to its ruined land,
because my demise was pre-destined, already planned.

It senses my fear, it sees my pain.
I know what I’ll never be able to do again.
Like a crown, my sun-kissed hair tumbles down;
cascades as a river does, one last time.

Shining gold for all to see,
my own personal halo. Made just for me.
Although I’m not an angel or a saint,
I’m not quite a sinner. No soul
for my sickly sins to taint.

My heart is on fire,
your preacher is a liar.
Hell isn’t here nor is heaven.
Purgatory? Please.
Not a chance.
The Grim Reaper asks me for one last dance.

His kiss on my lips, and the thrill, is now all I can remember.
And that, some years ago, I was born in the chill of December.
I wasn’t touched by death so much as tapped on the shoulder,
still, I guess that becomes inevitable as you get older and older.

I let out a rattling gasp, refusing to believe this breath is my last.
Yet my work here is done, finished, game over, time out,
before I could eve figure what it’s all about.
The sun may be setting on my tale,
but I lie here and hope a sunrise will arrive soon-
that a new day will prevail.

He whispers some love words into my ear,
telling me that I’ll enjoy it here.
And although this wispy half-existence is new,
it is probably something which I could get used to.
I must admit, though, that it is not quite bless,
when you’re finally touched by death’s tender kiss.

But then I open my eyes, and my life is still with me,
for the time being.
No time at all to comprehend the unusual apparitions which I was seeing.

I don’t know what is left, what words can I say?
Except maybe: enjoy every moment, make the most of every day.
Before life is stripped away from you like wood on a tree;
before it is taken away.

The vision will haunt me for an eternity, I know.
One thing is certain: life is precious, don’t wait for it to go.
Before you realise your true, honest calling.
I was stumbling through the air, falling-

so, before you go tumbling into the abyss,
make sure to lead a loving life that you will miss.
Living life, there’s nothing better than this-
because it is terrifying, being tainted by death’s final kiss.

Don’t let it slip away,
or before you know it, it will be your doomsday.
For Death is a master, but it does not play.
Before the Grim Reaper grabs your hand and asks you to dance,
go ahead. Surprise yourself, and give life a chance.

Shapeshifter

I recall the poisonous potion
scattered on the kitchen table.
Did you try to resist it? Or were you unable?
It turned you from Jekyll and Hyde,
this drug that’s wrecked you inside.

A shadow of a child flickers into your vision.
Is she ready for the show?

You morph into a monster in front of our eyes,
your sweeping rage taking us all by surprise.
We dance and tiptoe around you to avoid stepping.
on the eggshells littering the floor. My father is gone.

A lying shapeshifter has taken his place,
wearing your face.

Ghosts

Today, I’m laying flowers at the graves
of the friendships I lost along the way,
wishing I could turn back time and take them
with me, to see the best version of my life.

Losing some of my friends feels like
my only true regret through the nostalgic
haze of rainy days. I wish I could but can’t
forget; their ghosts still loiter in my head.

When I try to shut my eyes tight at night,
they soon spring open out of fright,
knowing I slowly lost what once was mine.
I have all of their birthdays memorised by heart.

There’s puzzle pieces from their lives that
fit into my jigsaw just fine. If only they
could see who I’ve become, make amends.
Knowing me now, would they want to be friends?

I let a few friendships slip through my fingers,
then cut my foot on the broken glass and cried.
For others, I threw them out in a toddler tantrum,
with these all gone, a piece of me has died.

I don’t desire to drag down these souls and
muddy memories of old, all the way to the grave,
or worryingly wonder what could have been.
I’ll wish to move on with my life, knowing deep

down inside, that I’d do some stuff differently,
if ever I could do them all over again.
Aware that ultimately, instead, at 3am,
it’s their faces that’ll haunt me all over again.

The faces of old friends will haunt me to the end.