6 things I should tell you but haven't

1. You are giving me growing pains. I have stretch marks showing up, on my hips, lips, thighs. I never knew I could be this much.

2. I'm sorry for all my past and future mistakes. I am still getting the hang of this. I want to be better.

3. Sometimes my stomach hurts when you kiss me. Being with you scares me. You are miles away from my comfort zone.

4. Last night you told me you loved me for the first time, during a drunken fight. You're an idiot. I love you. I've loved you for weeks. I can't remember what it's like not to love you.

5. I write and rewrite texts to you. It has been months and I still can't control myself. I will not stop trying for you.

6. You still leave me speechless. I can't remember how to string words together because all I can think of is your lips. I have tried writing two dozen poems about you. None did you justice.

Mother

I have never been good at returning gifts.
In year five, mother, you gave me a pink, plastic iron,
for my dolls clothes, you said.
I didn't have the heart to tell you
that my doll had been lying in the shadows of my room
for the last year
and that every time I'd held her, it felt empty.
I smiled, I thanked you.
My doll didn't leave my arms for weeks,
so you would think I had meant it.
Then there were the watches,
you've given me three.
I wore each for years.
Until they inevitably paused, shuddered and died.
There was the too-bright beach towel.
There were the winter pyjamas and the bookmarks.

And to your credit,
you always offer to swap or return or resize
yet every time, I shake my head and swear I adore it
all pearly whites and whiter lies.
I have never wanted to disappoint you.
Mother, you raised a polite daughter, but not a truthful one.

So when you asked,
so tenderly,
if I had ever wanted to hurt myself.
I should have told you.
No, I have never wanted to hurt myself,
but when I was twelve I sat in the car on a lonely day and
sliced my hand with your pocket knife
while i waited for you to come out of the furniture shop.
I should have said,
no, I have never wanted to hurt
but sometimes I think there is a vampire living inside my head and he's eternally thirsty.
I should have said to you,
no, I have never wanted to
but sometimes i imagine stabbing myself in the throat with a carving knife
and it calms me down.
I should have said no,
I have never wanted to hurt myself because that would hurt you
but sometimes it feels like I'm craving something
there isn't a fix for.

I never wanted to kill myself
more than a drowning cat would want to be shot.
It was an option.
It was plan B.
It was meant to be release.

But mother, I could not tell you that,
anymore than I could tell you that I didn't like the first watch you gave me.

Because I don't know about God or religion,
but I know that you gave me my perfect arms,
and throat and beating heart.
And I could not bear to say: yes, Mother, I want return the first gift you gave me.

I know you did not want this for me.

The Beginning of the End

photo.   

The fluorescent light from the bathroom presses greys and blues into the shadows of the darkened room. I'm lacing our fingers under the duvet.
"Maybe two weeks." He says.
"You're kidding!" I react, "Please- tell me that you're kidding!"
"I'm joking," he laughs, "maybe three months- maybe more."
I smile at him. "I can't imagine sleeping with anyone else."
"Me neither."
I kiss his hand.
"I don't want to break up yet." His last word dominates the sentence. My stomach hurts.
"Me neither."
As we lie against one another I contemplate the shift that has occurred between us. For the first time in a long time I can feel the edges of myself. For the first time in my memory, I feel lonely.
"I love you." He says, it sounds different. For reasons I don't fully understand I want to cry. I can't see his face in the dark but I can feel his gaze, he's waiting.
"I love you, too."Is it me or does it sound lighter?
My cunt is still wet with his saliva.



In six months I will break up with you. And I will wait two weeks.  It will mean something. 

A different Anna (a story).

The last time Anna’s hands had touched this wood she had been sitting beside her Grandmother ten years ago.


Eight year-old Anna had been scraping into the top layer of the curiously soft wood, only halting to flick out the remains from underneath her fingernails. Her mind had wandered as the monotonous voice of Murwillumbah’s parish priest filled the air, punctuated by his hoarse cough, like a bark, Anna had thought. Every time he coughed like this, her Grandmother’s eyes would flit to Anna’ busily working fingers and she would perse her lips in annoyance. Anna was sullen with frustration and boredom as her blank gaze drifted from her handiwork to the priest in response to her Grandmother’s disapproving eyes. More than anything Anna had wanted to be back at home in Sydney with her friends.

Anna sighs, she had been such a brat when she was young. She pulls back her legs to make room for her Auntie’s boisterous figure as she bustles past her to sit next to her Dad and the strong scent of gardenias fills the air. Anna twists in her seat to peer at all those who have come. There are plenty of people, most of whom Anna doesn’t recognise; some aged with years of rough laughter and crinkled smiles, others’ skin still smooth and sombre. As the organ starts up, Anna turns back to the front in time to stand with everyone else. But the faces linger in her mind, they are friendly faces, she thinks.

Twelve year-old Anna had been tugging absent-mindedly at her lower lip with her left hand, while her right arranged and rearranged the seven lettered tiles in front of her. GF IAYLM. MAY.YAM. LAY. MAIL. GAILY. FAIL. Anna frowned at the last option as her eyes flicked towards the score board; she was coming fourth...

“Come on, Anna.” Her Grandmother’s words awoke her from her reverie,

“I’ll just be a minute,” she had muttered; discouraged by the impatience and her own low score. She glanced at the tattered paper again before scoping the cramped board for spaces.

“Well, I should hope so. At this rate we’ll be here ‘til Christmas.” Anna looked up at her Grandmother for this snide remark, but it was softened by her smile, as she leaned in to offer Anna some advice, her hands deftly moved the pieces. FAMILY. “If you place it here, you can get 22 points.” she whispered discreetly, as Anna’s Dad came back from the toilet and her brother walked back with a wooden bowl of Smith’s Crisps.

It had taken her another four years until she had finally won a game of scrabble without any help, Anna muses. The priest’s voice is ringing out through the church and Anna keeps catching phrases, “you may not grieve as others do who have no hope…The word of the Lord”. She nibbles her lip as she fails yet again, to join in on the congregation’s response: “Thanks be to God” they murmur, unified.

Fourteen year-old Anna had been lying with her left cheek against the itchy carpet of her Grandmother’s flat against her left cheek, as she gazed blankly at the television screen which had been playing cricket for the last four hours. She sighed heavily and her grandmother had taken pity on her and suggested she read a book. After much persuasion Anna had unenthusiastically began reading Pride and Prejudice. But by the end of the week, Anna had clutched the faded copy (now her very own) to her chest as she had finished reading the Darcy’s letter. A new fervour could be found in her eyes.

As the organ and congregation wobble into Psalm 23,Anna’s mind returns to the present and her hands, sticky in the north-coast humidity, gripped the bench’s edge; she can hardly believe what she saw on the back of the pew. It is still there…the furtive and wicked ‘A’ she had carved there ten years ago. Anna surprises herself by suppressing a smirk that quickly evaporates as her eyes are drawn once more to the mahogany coffin on her left. Anna thinks about her Grandma and Murwillumbah and a part of her feels like if she leaves the town tomorrow afternoon, she will have finally lost her grandmother. As the priest’s parting words ring out through Saint Patrick’s, Anna’s hand finds her mum’s.

Afterwards, Anna once again sits down at the empty pew, her fingers trace the rivets and she leaves, feeling satisfied. But only after carving her grandma’s initial beside her own.

Excerpt #10

There is anger in her.

The kind that's been held for too long, and it is now spilling out of her.
There she is, kneeling on the wooden floor of her bedroom, rifling through a dark, wooden box. She keeps opening pieces of paper, reading them and then tearing them into confetti. Occasionally she burns things. One time she does both. She's trying to rid herself of all the things that have been destroying her.
Photos, quotes, poems, writing, ideas, plans and pills, bandaids, lyrics, memories.
She has a soundtrack playing loudly so she doesn't need to think. She keeps going until there are only three things left in the box. A neatly folded piece of paper. A photo. And a now-blank notepad.
She puts everything else into a glass jar. The jar is filled with paper and water and ash and ink. She thinks she is free.

In a few days she'll realise the jar is still in her room, she'll want to get rid of it, but she won't.

photos.

I don't know what happens next.

i can relate

photo.  



You would hate it.
There are good days, and bad days,
and you never know which it's going to be,
until it is.
Or, on those rare, unlucky occassions
when you realise the night before
that tomorrow is going to be a terrible,
terrible day
and you can't do anything about it,
except know.

Letterhead #10.5

Dear Bella
Last night
(at the mexican fiesta)
there was a moment,
when i looked at you and thought
"why is she doing this?"
and the only thing i could think was
-i know why i'm doing it.
but i didnt think you were unhappy.
what aren't you telling us?
are you okay?

Letterhead #9

Dear Peta,
I'm sorry I'm a shitty friend.
That I don't feel like seeing you a lot of the time
and that I can behave so bipolar.
I'm sorry that I take a lot,
I'm sorry I want you to be someone you aren't.
I'm sorry that sometimes I love you but not always.
I'm sorry I don't normally like hugs.
I'm sorry that your mum died,
I tried to make it better, but I'm sorry I couldn't.
I'm sorry I don't have the courage to say this to your face.
With love,

Dear Peta,
You remember that time I said I didn't think we would stay friends for much longer?
(But you've never listened to me) I was being honest.
I still believe it.
Sorry I forced you to believe it, too.
Stay good.

utopia

warm and safe,
like a pea in a pod
a bug in a rug
a yolk in its shell,
protected.
Never lonely because
you're never alone.
Mummmmm.
a constant word
hums like time.
my lullaby,
-our lullaby-
Her presence can't be erased.
we're forever bound by the first hug.

words swim toward me
enveloped in silence
her murmurings.
Then suddenly, louder
frantic
pain, stretching, tearing,
never-ending
it slips into my lungs 
white hot air stabbing my insides
screams, ours.
we scream together
as we are torn apart
oxygen and air and lungs
                                      and pain




cold and vulnerable
the egg has cracked.

This is it

photo.   

every time the feelings creep back
(aren't they like rats)
i look at the proof
my fingertips tracing the memory

like a medal
i remember the triumph
and the feelings are dimmed once more

letterhead #4

Dear future me,
I'm sorry I didn't study
for bio (and probably all the others)
I just hate this. I hate what's happening
and how little control i have over it.
I hate how I had control but I gave it up.
I hate how it makes me feel.
I hate how I told Bella, but she brushed it off, so I did too ( i hate how that didn't work).
I hate how when I think of the future I only feel despair,
how it seems so close to being too hard.
And now I'm choking on my own tears.

It's just hard, you know? Just
hold on till your play
it'll be good then.
With love,

this is what it felt like

photo.

it's a web
and there's no escape
i keep repeating the words
there's always a choice
and there is,
but i don't like any of the options.