In Which You Are Rapacious And They Are The World



Rapacity spells her desires into the skin of her beloved.

Years upon seconds she sits across Purity,

A needle and thread between her fingers;

Tiny words and wishes spill from the pinpoint end –

Across any bare skin she can touch

And the infinite thread of fate weaves into

And out of

And into and out of the exposed epidermis.

It becomes metallic and blooded,

Whispering longingly the novels of her yearnings

Into the flesh of her unobtainable.

Piercing into the coniferous veins of Purity,

Blood-spill, like sap.


The hollow sound of her voice shackles Purity.

She uses this to speak nothings – heartless,

Loving nothings – into the sunlight of her emotion.

And her empty, soulful eyes implore for Purity

To be hers: to control, to devour, to own.

She winds her fingers through etiolated flesh

And grapples with oak skeleton:

Crushing her palms into the wooden bones

That she thinks will always be there;

Carving her nails into the wooden bones

That slowly wear away, disappearing.

Her hands stain dark, wounds open wide,

Blood-spill, like sap.


She pulls tight the vine tendons of Purity

And strings them up, across beams;

She has a marionette tethered to her impish joy.

And the words are still written,

Written with ferocious tenacity:

A perpetual existence of want and get and

Take and take and take and take.

Yet; dripping dry, bleeding broken;

Her work is only half complete!

Fervent, her love drives her insane,

She desires and consumes-

No care for the waste,

Blood-spill, like sap.


And Purity is shredded asunder because

Rapacity has no control over anything,

Least of all herself.


To read more of Siân’s poetry visit her Tumblr page, Splitting Graphite, HERE