Morning 1/1/18

Eight is one of my favourite numbers. I’m not altogether sure why, but the fact that it is must mean there was once a reason for it. So while the logic, the explanation, is lost, I know it’s somewhere, existing, and I can attach meaning to it, the number eight.

Wanting a year to be good is strange. 2017 was not easy, difficult indeed, but in its complexity, I found parts of me I thought were gone. A “good” year feels dull to request in the wake of such intense experience and personal progress. You’ll forgive me for not being specific. Some truths can only be felt anyway. While I’d like to think my words carry weight and the ability to convey what I feel, much of this still feels new and not yet cemented, or ingrained. I’ve laid firm foundations and started to build. That was 2017.

So 2018, what will this new year bring? At this stage, I only know what is certain, the basics; work and university.

Now I can feel possibility, flounder in excitement for the yet-to-be-decided. The unknown is far more exciting when you feel it from a place of security. Unexpected opportunities presented themselves at the tail end of last year, I can only hope that this weird, terrifying, upward spiral continues.

What 2017 taught me is that it’s all ambiguous. And that’s more than okay.

***

To return to the here and now. Linear time is overrated and not something I fear that much anymore, privileged I am as a 20-something.

I slept in this morning. Woke up feeling too hot for comfort. Threw open my window and breathed in the familiar scent of my neighbourhood; trees, warm bitumen, fading humidity.

What I’m saying is that it’s all good. The number eight will mean everything if I want it too, or nothing at all.

 

Happy new year, everyone! Here’s to another year of incomprehensible rambling and mutilated writing. All the very best. 

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Cliché

Though I grow,
only so within the parameters of my soul. A prescribed disposition, a certain reflection, I paint it all in grey, with black and white precision.

That is not how I see the world,

How then?

Do we make noise when we sleepwalk

into corners
inches,
inches, confined,

limited. Muted. In that famed song of self.
Brown hair. Hazel eyes. Average height. Build me up.

I always think about the description they’d give me if I went missing. Or got Lost.

Elsewhere. Out of mind. Out of sight.

Out of self.

Small Worry

I fear that I have always been small, obsessed with taking up as little space as possible.
My shy girl persona threw me into the deep end. High school. Though whatever splash I made, no one noticed. The dramatics of teenagehood extend well into our twenties. Or is the drama only me? My fingers fumbling on keys in stretch for metaphor. Finding the space between experience and present has grown so much the stretch leaves marks on your stomach. The acne scars that occupy my jawline are a constellation of anything but stars and hope. They frame a mouth that kept silent, sealed itself against whispers that slithered in between the pages of whatever novel I was reading. Time heals all wounds except these, and many others you’d find if you looked in the mirror long enough. Rolled tartan skirts above knees, mine brushing shins. Fingers wanting to find her’s. Laced. 3:20 bell. Rings. A headache and cramps and the powdery taste of paracetamol and fear for tomorrow on my tongue. A basketball hitting the pavement. Handball. Her turn. Switch on, and off, but they keep the light on, over you, a surgical lamp, examining, manipulating, updating, live, real-time in a new-world yearbook. Log off. Cousins over for lunch. Things are going well. Tinsel on the tree. A new year calling my name. I reverberate down the halls. Fading out, out, smaller and smaller. Fading white to black to reunion.

A Slip of Scissors: Flash fiction

tumblr_l5iwqhm6sJ1qbsxopo1_400I sat, sticking to a stool in the middle of our cramped kitchen. The scent of boiled vegetables on the stove saturated the summer air while I fidgeted nervously, fearing the end result of a bi-annual haircut. I wanted nothing more than to join the shrieking, playful cries of my younger sisters outside. Continue reading A Slip of Scissors: Flash fiction

Echoes

Confusion, in the face of one thousand lines
heartfelt sentiments, I have penned
these broken, 1am rhymes
are out of step with you and them
and us.

Echoes fade out
my trust in you
continued your illusions
painted in muted, watercolours
droplets, tears of pale lavender
and the tree we sat under
in our first and last January
It will all taste sweeter than this

You lied like the deceiving prince I knew you were
but I was a Lie
in words and in body

The space matters now you no longer fill it
only now I know it’s there
and it exposes me.

Kiss her like you kissed me
taste lipstick, love and meaning
no taint of hesitation
lose your fingers in her knotted hair
I’m sorry, so sorry
to have weighed you down with me

We were never anything more
than an event
occupying the smooth transition of a few months
where you unleashed your passions and perversions

as I hid, in the corners of your covers