Poetry

Weronika Brzechffa

Lady Macbeth Syndrome

I counted the time in winters and
looked for distractions on the edge of the precipice

I scrubbed my body raw in
search of that cleanliness only Lady Macbeth knew

I sang the hymnals and prolonged
my debts to myself, waiting for salvation to come around

I kept my defenses up as if armor-clad
and stumbled into habits I hoped to be predestined

When an avalanche of the bloodiest scars fell upon the wasted weeks I deemed it only right to weep for my once untouched skin
while digging deeper – into the wound,
into the body
into the hand of God.

the not knowing

There is a certain thrill in not knowing.
like a flush, a rush of fool’s gold
water building up in a stream
until it overflows and covers you
whole.

so you smear it with the blues and grays
of your daily sorrows
but it comes back around to taunt you
just like a mythical being should

it comes and it stays; a nonsensical unrelenting
yearning for something uncertain
full of sin and pearls and all those trivialities
which make up a life

familiarity is a reckless liar with an
attitude of an optimist with no prospects.
so you stick to what mystery has to offer,
if only for a brief sweetness of a momentary touch

There is a certain thrill in not knowing.
a flicker of a spectacle
of two pretenders – no more, no less
until the curtains close and cover you
whole.