Saturday, 23 May 2015

Answers I do not have.

...Every now and then, I search.
I type in your name to google and see what I can find.
See if I can find you. Any traces of your existence.

And today, there you are.
There is your face that I haven't seen in years.
How old were you then...the last time I saw you...

What can I say?
How do I begin?
Why should you want to know of me at all...
When you were probably too young to feel it as a loss of any kind.

My heart freezes.
I type no words, just in case they are the wrong ones.

I don't know what I can say

I don't know what I can say...


Thursday, 7 May 2015


Shall I begin?

"...My heart is a barren wasteland
Where things go to die... "

(7th March... A day of drama clearly... )

I pick up where I left off, almost...Almost a month later. My feelings...evolved?
Perhaps more set than ever. All the more terrifyingly certain.
I feel myself growing comfortable with it. This endless alone.
Those moments where it pricks at my eyes. It scrapes against my tenderness.
I like the way I hurt.
Hurt has worth. Hurt is safe. Just like old times.

"...My skin itches, my belly aches and grumbles.
I lie in bed too long. As though restrained.
I wait. Wait for the wonder to pass from me.
Staring out of the window. Passing clouds.
Turning a longing for air, Into...
Too late in the afternoon to leave.
To live."

A month ago. More than that...
Here I am sat in Foyles old Jazz café...
Having wondered (yes...wondered...) my way half way across the city.
In dreams. Dreams without sleep.
The best of dreams. I breathe real air. And my lungs...
Fill with love for all this existence. All this.
As though I had woken up somehow
from wherever it was I had been lost.

A Million Little Things, None Of Them You

Stop looking for him.
He does not exist.
He's gone.
And this love is just a scar to run your fingers across
Savouring pain where no sweetness can be.
He does not miss your bones as you miss his.
He lies awake at night thinking of a million things
And none of them are you.

Monday, 4 May 2015

Never Really There.

I take the train to the other side of London...
Some people go out running to decipher things
Their brains are unwilling to give up easily to them.
I sit in silence, I walk. I watch other people -
With awe and love and...understanding.
Finally I stumble upon forgiveness.
That was held out of reach because of the tangle of pain
In the way. Enough love will mend
The most broken of things.
The most wounded of hearts.

Maybe he knew that he was leaving.
Perhaps he was always leaving, or...
Perhaps he was never really there.
He didn't want us to hold on to him,
So tight. Maybe now I understand it.
How it's possible for someone to leave you,
Even though they love you.
How being responsible for another tiny being
Can scare you utterly shitless. By showing you yourself.
Somehow you think that by the time you have children,
You will not be vulnerable anymore.
How doing the best thing, can be the worst
Depending on perspective.

Long ago I learnt,
To be alone.
Even when I wasn't.
It was the only way to stop people leaving.
The only way not to be the one who left.

Never exist anywhere deeply enough to root.
Leave when it begins to feel,
That leaving will rip out your heart.
As punishment.
For trying to escape your ingrained solitude.
It's a learning curve.
The further I get from the lesson,
The harder I spring back.
People will devour you if you let them...
You devour yourself instead.

But however strongly I long to stay hidden
I long more to feel safe being found.


Friday, 27 March 2015


I've been in bed all day not feeling like facing the outside world. which admittedly looked rather dashing through my half drawn curtains...But ahhhhh, the effort in going out there. In looking acceptable. in putting one exhausted foot in front of the other. In worrying that it won't be cold enough to keep my hat on, for I haven't bothered to wash my hair. But now, it's grown dusky.
And I, have grown tetchy. As always occurs. I never learn from these episodes of cabin fever.
But I am about to embark on a journey,...
A mission. Of great psychological importance.
I need chocolate. Or I may have a breakdown.
Thusly I must away...

The air is fresh, could be described as pleasant even if it weren't for all this awkward repressed sadness. Tesco is too bright by comparison to the night I walk in from. The scientific term for how I feel is "icky" . There are however many other strange people here on a Friday night...umm, Thank goodness?...
I feel ashamed with my unhealthy intended purchases as I look up to see a tall handsome man, who looks like he's just spent the last few hours doing something unbelievably athletic and wholesome.
He smiles at me, but here I am - imagining it to be the same smile he would give to an elderly person, or perhaps a poor little limp puppy.
I see all these sad faces. And wonder what all this is for.
I pass people on their way home, laden with heavy bags. Misery written upon their tired faces.
There must be another way. A way off the grid set out for us.
I feel this intense need to do something important - to make some kind of dent.
I get home. I swiftly eat through half a tub of Ben & Jerry's, and wish I had bought something more lasting.
I could have left the house today, I could have seen things, gone places...
Not let these four walls draw in upon me with their melancholy and accusation.
But for this tiredness that still creeps all over my skin.
I do not forgive myself the cold that pricks the back of my throat with every swallow,
"Compassion" I promised I would have compassion for myself.
But I have forgotten it already?
Tomorrow will be different.
I'll forgive myself for all my weak humanity then.

Friday, 16 January 2015

These Dark Places.

The thing about trying to protect yourself from other people is...that it simply leaves you more time to attack yourself. You would never distance yourself without reason.
Someone somewhere has been an arsehole. Most likely several people. Maybe even yourself...
And of all people. You are best for the job. You know just where it hurts.
What will break you. No...once you get as far as pulling away from others for any extended period of time.
You're fucked. Unless you labour against it...
The battle to love enough the shittiness of other order to love your own.
That's the aim. In my heart I keep on smashing.
Some days,...such as this one. I want to tear away the sinew, the marrow...the flesh, to try and rid myself of where the demons in me hide. But they are me. So I languish here, allowing feverish loneliness to stroke my cheek with lies. Telling me of the horrors that lie outside of my bed. Or this bathtub I sit in as I try and sweat it out.
Don't let it crush you. Don't embrace it. It wants you for a prize. To devour.
But the artistic masochist in me...knows how easy it is to create in the depths of my own destruction.
The dangerous precipices between catharsis, self knowledge, and total catatonia.
The line between so close I terrify myself. I can take myself there, but will I always bring myself back?
The child in me pushes. To find that boundary. To seek my limitations.
The stronger I build myself with each fall, the further I can take myself down the next time.
Like deep sea divers who wish to break records. I see how much I can break myself.
It's an addiction.
For what I discover in the depths has me mesmerised.
Like a lover who knows all the secrets you keep, and tells you how beautiful you are for all your darkness. Your god damned mystery.
The more you need people, the deeper into the shadows you must creep.
There is need to be lonely. It is good and pure with the gifts it bestows. For a time.
But make it a confidant, and it will eat your soul whole. Telling you all the while
"it's okay, it's don't belong out there, stay here. I'll keep you safe"
 It's a dick. It's all lies.
And you are not a coward, stop letting yourself be one. Romancing the night.
Playing a game with your own sanity.
This is not talent, which I find
In these dark places.
It's only all the ways a soul can break.
Borrowing beauty from the night.


Thursday, 15 January 2015

The Paradoxical.

I forget sometimes, what love can be. I remember now
And everything since has been ridiculous. Disrespectful of love. Cruel sometimes.
To honour him, he whose heart I shattered with my inability to let myself love and be loved.
I wait. For something as grand and beautiful as what he offered.
As what we had. Once upon a time. Until I killed it.
How could something with such depth be real, my frightened heart beat into me.
I felt unsafe for all its security. Everything ends. Everyone goes.
The grief at its death still lives inside my flesh.
(But then, how could it not, when I was its death?)
Seeping out into the hollows that form, when I allow those more shallow
To pierce through my naïve soul. To see what they do not deserve to see
Of my supposed imperfections. My heart should be kept,
Box within box within box...
To save it from it's own clumsy falls.
It loves too easy, falls too hard.
And I do not believe there is a human alive who would not
Disappoint it somehow. I disappoint it myself.
For I love too much, to be loved enough.
And so I love everything.
Every damn thing.
To save myself from the fear,
That to love this way
Ironically, means
I will be alone.
Allowing only myself,
To be the danger
To my own damned heart.

Wednesday, 14 January 2015

He Moves The Waves. He Sets The Tide.

I would swim out to meet you in the depths of a storm.
Never thinking to question, whether I'll return to the shore.
Did you know that I drown in your voice?
In your eloquent grandiosity.
One word, any word. My flesh quivers.
My heart skips.
On a whim?
For nostalgia?
You pulled me back to you.
Though I held pretence to the contrary,
I could not...persuade myself
Into letting you go.
After all that time.
All that nothingness.
The cycle begins again.
And I falter. because you are gone once more.
Maybe not even knowing your power.
"you have to stop loving him"
But I can't.
I crawl back to myself,
But part of me is left at the bottom of the sea.
Lost to me. I will never retrieve it.
I do not want to.


Sunday, 23 November 2014

The Night, Talks.

Bed before ten, I try to make up for lost hours of sleep. I wake at 3:30am with the sudden urge to cry. As though I had slipped out of some tragic dream I cannot remember. A tear rolls wrong ways down my cheek, drips into my ear. "it's exactly what you think it is"
That song. The song I can't listen to again. Some part of me wants to play it.
But I've dissected the lyrics enough already. Enough already. Let it go.
Stop torturing yourself by hoping the truth is not the truth.
The house is empty. My stomach grumbles about being fed. So I eat cereal in the dark as I write.
In loneliness you get lost. When it bites, you think it has no end. That alone is all you will ever be.
Yet of course. Everything has an end...And alone is not always loneliness.
But in the midst of the night. In darkness, with rain falling against my window.
It feels like the only thing that exists.
And it swallows me whole.

Monday, 17 November 2014


It is as though, I have turned around all of a sudden and become the woman- the grown up...I was always running from. Grown. At 32, more certain of all the things I want. Of the people who I love and of those ones who, regardless of how I love them - and no doubt will continue to, must be let go. I wonder what I have. This year...Ahh, this year has been, many things.
Hard ? I don't know that the word covers it - doesn't every year have hard parts for fucks sake?
...but this one, was hard in a way that cemented my adulthood firmly in place. So, this is what it is like? old we thought this age was when we were smaller. This age, was teachers, and suits, and grey seriousness...Fucking hell, I never realised how awesome being a grown up would be.(And I always did like a nice suit..) That "adults" are just children playing at being what they think grown ups should be most of the time...How sorry I feel for those who shut that child out of themselves completely, pretend that it never existed at all. Let themselves rot into taxes and waiting for some imminent death.
But I am meandering...Regret. So adult a feeling. "I regret to inform you..."
Regrets, that I have never before allowed myself. (the big regrets...not those tiny ones like...I wish I hadn't eaten that entire tub of ice-cream...)
Because, regrets are things that are done. A regret, well...

 "Never look back unless you are planning to go that way." - Thoreau

Somehow, I always believe that everything is as it should be - no matter the beauty or the pain...
Everything needs to happen, everything must exist as it does. We must make mistakes. We must break. We must marvel in all the terrible realness of the world we live in, of the humans we are.
Go forward, and keep going. No matter what. But this emptiness...
I have been so far into the darkness, but I never looked down to what was in the bottom of my own abyss. I have always been far too terrified of what I was capable of keeping hidden.
Honesty, real gut wrenching honesty. I am obsessed with "truth" yet I do not even allow myself into my most harmful of thoughts. I let them fester in my silence. Pretending I am untouchable.
"A September child..." Just like myself...
 Lately, I see children, and finally now- two months after I would have been, had I not...( this regret? or guilt? or can it be called another thing entirely? )
It hits me.
Winds me with such an incredible force. I could have been a Mother. (Wanting to be, or not...that is not the point here...)
You are not meant to think these things, not when you make certain choices. "for the best"
You are meant to just do them, and then go on as though nothing ever happened.
The pain in my gut, the fact I could find no good reason (Because I am not reason enough alone.)
...not even then. Regret ?
Guilt? I did a thing- the right thing? there are so many angles to look at it from.
A selfish choice. Not a wrong thing..But a harshly real thing. A thing I cannot seem to truly justify with a reason from anywhere inside of my self. A "thing"
...Hah! as much of a descriptive term as I allow myself...Honesty...Honesty...Honesty. What reason is there for being if not to be wholly yourself ?
Perhaps it is just comparison, and fear. I think of the age of my Mother when she became a parent.
I think of how different the culture of family...of the individual is now.
Everyone is out for themselves. Everyone thinks there is always something better on its way.
No matter how good what they may have, it's never enough.
We throw away amazing things, amazing people. Because we have ideals, and we are stupid.
We think everything we could ever dream of exists. (maybe it does, and maybe it can...I listen to myself speak- all the while thinking "you, you are not really this cynical... you are a romantic. a dreamer...)
We think, we learn...that we are all of us, made to be super in our own right. (maybe we are, maybe it is our idea of what is super that is the problem)
But it's bullshit.
All of it is bullshit.
I was afraid. That is the only real reason I can fathom.
I was petrified of a child. Myself.

And that fear made me adult.