1 more day 1 more crush 1 more day 1 more

My girl is a storm cloud. Heavy with the weight of all that she carries she is trembling but still she marches. Forward. She teaches me the meaning of perseverance. She teaches me that taking that quivering lead shell of anxiety around love and opening it to her is not weakness. It is trust and trust is a sword.

 

My girl is a serpent. She sees that I believe that I am snakelike- un-lovable, deceitful, un-caring. She laughs and tells me to suck my venom dry from the throats of young boys and aim to strike something bigger than them, bigger than her. She is well versed in the fight, her coils are scarred with losses and lessons.

 

My girl is 7 in the morning. She is the dizziness from getting out of bed too fast. She is fucking unbearable. She is also the pill that you need to swallow to make it through the day; she is also the shock of pink dawn; she is also the yellow door-frame halfway through the commute. You’ve never seen it before but you’d never miss it now.

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1 more day 1 more crush 1 more day 1 more

i once heard

You told her that /time was constructed/ and she was too young to hear it.

An eye for raw denim, pressed powder, bottom shelf- highest percentage.

Constructed by whom?

/Who but the rulers of the sky who rake their fingers through the clouds and weave the atmosphere into golden nylon

Who have used a thick needle to push and pull that string through your skull

Even when you’re gloriously blank, laid down in crunchy leaves in autumn- drifting off into the spin cycle- listening to songs from days that have died in your legs/your throat/your stomach- do you feel it tugging?

FOR A LIMITED _____ ONLY!

RUNNING OUT OF ______.

I don’t have _______.

I don’t have _______./

An eye for top shelf- highest percentage, pressed cheekbones, raw silk.

You told her that /that nylon string makes a beautiful cocoon to hibernate in until everyone is gone./

i once heard

med

Carefully weave thorn-covered vines through the memories that you don’t want, let your fingers bleed, let them cry for your stupidity

 

I used to look at your sleeping face and imagine a child that I’d never wanted before

 

Shove the memories down your throat and swallow, may you bleed internally and suffer for months, may you smile widely at your dearest friends.

 

Don’t compromise yourself again.

med

girl²

A week ago, she asked me:

What does your golden hour look like?

Tell me about the first time that you looked into a downpour and found that you wanted to hold an individual droplet on your fingertip and watch it melt into your skin because that process of not-quite-involuntary-return was so beautiful-

so beautiful that you either wanted to fall in love with or fight and scream at the next stranger who passed you- so beautiful when you see all of those tiny links in the world like bright slashes of starlight- so beautiful when you realise that you’re all alone and unimportant-

A week ago, it seemed vital to respond:

My golden hour looks medical.

I tell her about the first time it seemed like truth had been warped but people still wanted to chop it up into tiny black and white pieces and separate them into old newspaper to be sold for a dollar- buy a wrong, buy a right-

the confusing thing was that nobody knew what right was and what right really was was arbitrary- particularly when it’s the last hour of your life and it’s crucial to stop the bleeding but all of the photo frames in your home are dripping- the nurse sighs and rolls up her sleeves because she’s seen this all before-

I looked back at her. She was disinterested. It began to rain when she left.

 

girl²

a reading

She asks you:

What are you doing here?

Dice click, rolling over her knuckles, candle light wanes.

You answer:

Learning how to love.

She lowers her hood, an unblinking bright blue eye, the colour of a summer with a girl who made you feel like you were not alone; the colour of an ocean that you nearly drowned yourself in when she left.

 

Try again.

 

She asks you:

What are you doing here?

A bird preens itself; there is the smell of lavender.

You answer:

Learning how to live.

She stretches out her wrist, black choked veins, the colour of a thick spew of oil and of lines in a balance sheet, the colour of a black out on a street with no signs occupied by people who have already seen apocalypse.

 

Try

Again.

 

She asks you:

What are you doing here?

There are mirrors everywhere, refracting light from different worlds.

You answer:

Learning how to die.

She stretches out into a smile, her body is a circle, the colour of the deepest winter sunset witnessed by all life upon beginning and upon ending, the colour of deep acceptance and of a battleground.

 

She says:

Continue.

a reading

RE:

Mum, I’m tired of painting myself.

Shaving my body until I am sleek feels like a self-harm

I love the furry down that grows on me and reminds me of how many years my skin has had

But tonight I am shaving myself sleek again

Before I paint myself to look like a golden goddess that you see inside glowing glass

My hands move around my chest in circular motions

I’m expressionless,

Preparing a corpse,

Mum, I look like I’m dying.

Did I get 100 likes yet?

 

Mum, I’m tired of chain smoking.

It makes me so fucking sick and I’m always coughing

But I’ve told myself that it is a stress relief because I need that

Do I need that? I probably need a one-way ticket to the middle of a forest, to be told

To create something in that solitude

Before I become part of a concrete block-

4 stories of artificial light and decaying human beings.

Mum, I feel like a blip of data.

Do you wanna talk about anything yet?

 

Mum, I’m tired of the circle of mould on the wall by my bed.

All this time we’ve been told that this life is an exciting journey

That one-day we’ll be understood as if we are all different

But life is, in fact, one dull grey sky after another.

It’s learning to wake up every morning at 7am and drink your coffee

And look at the sunrise bleeding bright pink and truly know

That this is the most beautiful thing you will see today.

Mum, you needed to teach us

To embrace monotony.

 

I’m

tired.

RE:

divine

We throw around the word ‘beautiful’ a lot.

As poets, as dreamers, as people moving about in the world.

Beautiful gives off a sense of purity, a sense of righteousness, a societal achievement.

I will begin to push away the beautiful for the whole sense of self.

I am whole.

I am not beautiful.

I do things that I know I should not do, things that will age me, make me ugly, make me unkempt, make me hated, make me self hate.

But I bring these things into myself to create a whole.

Whole not as in the common meaning of the word when a half and a half meet and they meet perfectly and become one.

But when you look at an aspect of your being and you think

Yes

This is me-

It is not perfect

But I am doing the best that I can.

I am a whole person.

I will self destruct, I will implode, I will love, I will be loved, I will hate, I will rage, I will write, I will procrastinate, I will be lazy and self hate for a month, I will run into a glorious sunset the next.

I will taste every broken shard of this existence and they may make me bleed and I will look to the sky and plead for more.

I will embrace the fractured parts of myself and love them enough to call them a divine whole.

divine