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

talking 2 your dysthymia

He tells me to prise open white bone/ take an axe to an edge of jagged cut snow/ burrow into the ground to hibernate and live

within that line.

His sentences are disjointed/ he’s a rabbit with it’s foot stuck in a trap/ fever’s grip: “I feel like I’m running out of time- I feel like

I’m running-”

Can’t physically reach him through a receiver/ but he knows that now we’re looking down the barrel of the same gun/ I can’t speak his enemy’s language,

and he won’t translate.

talking 2 your dysthymia

what it is made of it will return to

There was a day handed to us:

-glass cup filled up to it’s brim with red dust/black soil/pink corals/silver fleck-

we drank it and we were fine.

We looked at each other laughing-

“the world will be ending tomorrow. It will:

spit out a flame tipped soprano to sing you into sleep;

gush poison into your child’s open mouth

with the fish they will drown;

gently wrap our bones in sweating palm fronds;

leave us alone to suck at our wealth from underneath the soil.”

We drank red dust together and we laughed

-you had started to tear your hair out because you’d always wanted

to shave it all off-

and we were fine.

 

what it is made of it will return to

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: