January dark

It was a smiling horror, those five years. A slow walk to the knife drawer on a Saturday afternoon. January dark. Eyes pleading with supermarket strangers, it’s okay love, we’ve got you, you don’t have to go back, fantasies uncoiling in the frozen aisle. It was no fairy tale back in the magnolia palace, unpainted tiptoes over egg shells and ego. Crying on the carpet, that night throwing up the blood and the bile. Keep it down as the bedroom door slammed against my suffering all the way to A & E on a lonely ambulance ride. Staying up til dawn to keep the hours spent next to that robotic carcass at a minimum. Secretly wasted on Christmas Port in August, just numb enough to slip beneath the sheets. Green around the edges, pale and uninteresting. It comes on like a glacier, casual hatred, a barely perceptible death-wish, it flickers in the ad breaks of a prescribed schedule of tv and dinner. The insidious on-set of control. Stop shaking, stop typing, that keyboard’s too loud. A love letter, the closest that ever came, bearing the words ruined and desecrated left on the bed where his body (o)pressed against mine, a figure made up of accusatory adjectives; stupid, lazy, childish, evil. In one sentence he damned me hollow, scooped out my womanhood and let it echo; you would be a bad mother. I swallowed it like a pill, all of it, the well practised Prozac princess that I am.

I have strength but I am not strong. Weakness and a dull blade on a Saturday afternoon. January dark. These were my saviours. Help me disguised as goodbye on a tiny screen and a bruise where the wound might be. These saved me. Out of my hands and into theirs. We packed it all in an afternoon, five years wrapped up in newspapers and brown tape that ought to have read Crime Scene. You can kill a person over the course of lifetime. And your mother will cry as she tries to buy you lemons in the supermarket but can’t, because he wouldn’t like it.

All those tiny cuts will bleed you out and the tragedy of your life will be in what you let die inside of you while you lived.

Pink Patios

Too old and too young | bare foot cliff climbing |slit soles and split souls | falling in between the waves | yellow dinghies and long grey ships | watercolour, cotton birds and broken figurines | super-glue porcelain smiles and plastic guns | pick ‘n’ mix afternoons drawing in The Little Room | stolen ice-cream sandwiches on hot pink patios with sand encrusted fingers stretching up to oceanic skies in sun roof flight | castles, crabs and the never ending seagull caw | raw with jellyfish sting on golden sea salted skin.

– This is the city of my interior. These are my continents.

Summer is coming and the summers always belonged to you. I hold tight to those eternal halcyon days – short lived and enduring, like a fast manufactured scar, lethargic in its fading – and if I ever let go I assure you that they will have claw marks all over them.
I have rattled the mystics and the stars to find you since that last sad, goodbye-eyed smile, embracing you straight through as you gifted me with the secrets of annihilation. I have heard you cry in an empty room. I have cast the stones and stormed in the cave. I have opened my eyes and dared into the darkness, listened between the gaps to white noise, red eyes and black mascara lines. I have swung the pendulum and carried it to your grave. I have protected the others, had mercy on your soul. I have written it and I have burned it again. And all of this I have, and do and will. Because I never gave my thanks and you, you never begged forgiveness and whatever I could say would be too much and it might never be enough.