Serendipity is a ridiculously cute film. No shame in saying that.
You parade through my mind, my veins, my eyes and I’m bloody sick of it. What the hell have you done?
You weren’t invited into my headspace, with your lazy smile and relaxed eyes.
A safe distance was enforced, guarding against drunken textual confessions.
I was protecting myself from the throng of flustered feelings.
The smooth scalpel drew paths and plans into the core of my body. Peeled away tissue and tendons, reached in and yanked out the gritty truth.
I don’t regret the hands on my body, God no, it felt so fucking good. I do regret letting you weave your way into my bloodstream and breath, something so sacred that I don’t just give up for anyone. I regret letting you cause this anger to bump against my skull like dodgems.
Naive hope has clutched its chubby hand round mine since birth. Now it tears up, fatty purple droplets, and I can do nothing to stop the cries.
Radio befriends me in the early hours between sunset and sunrise, lies with me until thoughts of you drift off with my dreamy REM.
Rain drops bump into umbrella fabric, in a moment of madness I curse umbrella and cloudy gods and run, feet slamming on pavement as though it was you. Look what you’ve lead me to do – I fucking hate running.
Sometimes I am as numb as sandpaper and burnt tongues.
Sometimes I am all rage and waves and electric shocks from plug sockets.
Sometimes I am as quiet as dead plants and unnoticed tube gaps.
Sometimes I am a fiery kitchen stove, exhaust fan moaning defiantly.
Sometimes I am all chewed-up drink straws and discarded aluminium cans, excess energy played with me.
Sometimes I am a writer, bold and unapologetic, cliche as birds tattooed behind an ear.
I used to scrape the mirror and
stamp on scales, uncovering
I used to punch at fat and ostracise
the fridge, curl in on myself
until the numbers dialled down.
A challenge of counting time and
calories – how long could I last
Clothes ate with luxurious abandon,
chewing skin, cleaning bones,
Criticised for being irresponsible,
but how could I be irresponsible
when it wasn’t a choice?
How could I be irresponsible
when food was not a necessity,
but a prize for good girls?
Responsibility never got involved,
it was that bloody voice, echoing
abuse all hours of the day.
Glaring at magical junk, eyes tasting
all the comfort and warmth.
Habits form easily
when you’re committed
to beating the shit out of yourself.
Stress was a convenient excuse,
so perhaps it was you who was
irresponsible, for swallowing
my bullshit with easy hope.
We tap in short-hand and it all makes sense. Snipping the ends of words before we run out of breath. We all understand, grammar critiques simply ignored. We whisper secrets to a keyboard and our lol-ing proves we’re listening. Time plods through mundane puddles and we all try to avoid getting our shoes wet. Hopping and hoping our way through life, yet our chats are our umbrella, that brief moment of laughter and friendship, before a gust pushes us forward again.
I’m thrashing against bedding and I can’t believe it’s come to this, you leaving me here, with no bloody training.
Remember when we were kids and we’d weave unlimited race courses along the quiet residential street, you laughed at my helmet, I felt ashamed for valuing safety.
So why am I surprised that you’ve left me now, unsafe and without stabilisers? Your love of risk was always in cahoots with your sense of humour.
I sometimes wish that I could be invincible like you. That you leaving wouldn’t scrape jagged tears into my skin. That you leaving wouldn’t drag the tablecloth out, crashing music.
But wishing doesn’t always work, shooting stars are just a fucking fantasy to keep fear at bay.
Goodbye is the hardest word in the English language to spell. Forget words like xylophone and pneumonia and ambidextrous (Dyslexia problems am I right?). Staining goodbye with ink, breathing it out, tapping it into code,
hurts so fucking much.
It’s a common feeling – this whistling sadness under the curtains before sun has risen, this contagious cough from polluted newspaper commutes, this nagging Yelp review that takes petty to a new level of hell.
I don’t want to miss you any more, but for now it’s unavoidable.
People are not bandages.
You cannot strap a pulsing heart to your wounds and expect no blood to drip. Sticking comfort against your damaged skin only offers a cheap solution.
You could dance until all the words drop to their knees, but the pain will still stitch your dress to your skin.
A huddle of hugs, kisses, caresses could settle you into sleep, guard the door for a while, yet this won’t stop you waking up.
Wearing a veil of sympathy and love only obscures your view of the world, you don’t actually deal with the problems.
Hands can offer a tissue when you cry, hold you, talk to you, but hands can’t rip out the sadness, with roots grown stoic from childhood.
Realisation is a shitty feeling, as uncomfortable as a pruned kiss from an elderly aunt. You can sacrifice the wildlife, scratch nature until nothing springs alive, but a quick fix will not be granted.
Coldplay on repeat, ice climbing up spine, as you sit upright, pillows as lumpy as reality. Saving yourself takes an insomanic’s patience and an element of childish hope. Add in the realisation that only you can fix yourself.