that incur international shipping rates
while buying skirts
and three dollar shirts
from op shops down the street.
For all the times you’ve held my hand
I know, you have a strong grip, your spirit
never ceases to brighten, or radiate
warmth from your fingers, to mine
Of secrets, I have one worth hiding
One mark on pale skin
I can trace it from my forearm
lacing the edges of my mouth
the corners of my lips
Their words make small incisions,
cruelty sleeps between my bones
I trace invisible scars to feel
the rise the fall
Spring is here. I can feel it seeping into my skin, crawling up my bones, a warm tingle spreading from once cold fingers.
I am a winter person, or autumn, to be more accurate but I’ll deal with extremes. What I mean is that given the choice to live my last day in either excessive heat or cold I’d choose the second. For heat is stifling. Spring means summer is on the way and that reality leaves me conflicted. Eyes looking constantly forward are bound to be disappointed.
So to make a cringe-worthy metaphor, to find positivity, to spring to a spring cliche, I can pluck a small flower of optimism and let words like renew and re-birth cloud my formerly pessimistic vision.
Eyes wide open.
This change of season and late afternoons spent outside in the fading light. The buzz of insects and the rumbling purrs of my cat and the smell of grass and growing humidity lets me breathe a little deeper, a little longer.
Change is in the air.
Hold me a little closer and drown out the lies. Their words are becoming truth, snakes under my skin.
I can no longer find the quiet spaces I used to retreat to. She has been taken from me. My secrets have been snatched, still untold, but not mine to tell anymore.
I feel like the dull ache in your legs after a Thursday night shift. Like the emptiness of being awake at 3 Am. All the time.
I can taste hostility in the back of my throat. Sour grapes, hard to bite into. I scrape my tongue with a tooth brush laden with paste as Mum always told me that was how you got rid of bad breath.
Her words rest on my tongue now.
The edging of lace on my grandmother’s table. My fingertips pull at the edges. Photographs, paintings, of those who do not want my eyes there are screaming at me. I am wasting away in my own way. On the inside I am dying, drying. A dried, feeble daisy.
There is no brightness in the hollow of now. The sound is screeching, moving to the beat of a thousand electro hits. It’s a dark tunnel. Most people think and fear loudly in 140 characters or less. I fear permanency.
If the cold rain could wash us away, down the sidewalk, to a drain. If we could run through the cobblestones and create irregular rectangle patterns through the cracks of less accepting times, well, maybe, that would be for the best. Quieter at least.
I hold this to no standards
The air that you are
the mornings of cold comfort and ice melting down your chest
I feel like a tidal wave that will drown you
I am sorry for the immensity of my words
But if I cannot hold thoughts of you in the jars I gaze up at longingly on my highest shelf
Or keep secrets locked in jewelry boxes in my bottom drawer underneath socks and magazine brochures
How will I remember the moments of fleeting sense and reckless abandon that carved out spaces of beauty in my grey months
How after all that I have invested in seconds, and calendar crosses, and alarms will it not go to waste
I cannot let you be that
an absence of explanation a slip in my minor scale
a fallen note into pale silence
the splash of milk in morning coffee
the worn pairs of socks sliding down hallways
the snort of true laughter
and the crinkles of true faces
and the gaps between teeth
the colour of ideas, rainbow, tomorrow
The scraping of chairs, the taker of seats
The owner of space
the rustle of feathers, the rustle of papers
the leaning forward, the leaning in
the unfolded petals, of letting light in, open
Turned to face the sun