I’m never going to own a soul
for some things you cannot buy
like a gun,
I’ve never shot one
How can I breathe the next few words
let alone write them:
She is gone
Him, Them, All.
a disconnection can be measured
but the world closes in every day
as our narrative’s converged,
washed up on guarded shorelines,
truth in waves, lapping at walls
To fill in the blanks,
the authority we feel,
and so it all will be
and will happen
I spend, much of my time, these days
climbing, and building myself up
which is why, I refuse to fall, I suppose
in or out of love
It’s is a question, uninteresting
a mere cliched, concoction
of dried rose petals, stained lace;
an antique image, to replace
the self-indulgent pity,
of a table set for one
My letters now rearrange,
against our selfish, un-defined age,
though blunt, and graceless,
“A thicker skin”,
too thick for art, for change, for renewal
When the signs scream, commercial, bright
sound attached to a finger, pulling at the other end
of my fraying rope
Time to begin –
scales of greens and purples
illuminated by moonlight
This is my act of growing,
for art, for change, for renewal.
Retreat to their within, a room, corner, find that closed door and open it. Words don’t break or build illusions they are the illusions we build and become. Grow now. My fingers fumbling on keys in stretch for metaphor. Grounded we are now. A drought struck farmhouse. Clambering over quarry boulders, down ditches with fabled laughter. 6 years. Hands stained by dust. Now. 23. Rhythmic headaches pounding doubt in eardrums. Further down to folded pages, fraying edges. Those existing within the seams will understand. The rest is forgotten. Machine sewed into the hemlines. A tidy overlock if you will.
Found. 1 recipe for youth. Substitute a heart attack for anxiety and a fresh face. Soil, dark, deep, damp. A breath. In. Out. of yourself. In. 16. Scrapped knees, white sandshoes. Ruined I am. 23. 23.
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,
Do we make noise when we sleepwalk
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.
She has a beautiful voice
and her violets grow intricate
over the neighbour’s fence
and a face I could trace
but dare not
in case a scar, with longing
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.