Letterhead #10



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Dear writer, reader, blogger,
I have a question.

When are you going to realise
That you aren't going to be saved?
By your parents
By Jesus
By faith and hope and love
By the system
By your blossoming future
By a girl
By a boy.

That you will wilt
And shrivel and wither
That you will die
Drown in your loneliness
In your despair.
That you can't rely on anyone else
Anything else.

Or, alternately
When are you going to realise that you can save yourself?

Possession

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it envelops her once more
tucking her up
neat and trapped
inside its suffocating fragile embrace
a frosted gaze
unnoticed glazed
look betrays her
as her heavy mind catches alight
dangerous rampant sparks
tease the blackening white
of her papery cage
the corners furl
forgotten smoke pressing on her
she reaches out
now she's burning those near
and fear takes hold
of her frayed reins
soon she'll have no control
she's running in and out of ways
to make this right
she'd try to warn
anyone who tries to stay
but she's lost hold
her mind's ablaze

you want the world

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you want too much

what if

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to be an existentialist would be such a despair-ridden and liberating thing

the time you slipped

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Looking back, you can see with a near-certain clarity that you jumped into a void. You may not have realised its depth, or the weight you were carrying, but you jumped nonetheless. And, as seems the way with these things, eventually someone realised you were falling. That you cannot jump from such a height without hurting yourself.
With time comes lucidity, and it is now grievingly obvious that you were going to land after all. That although nobody knew what was at the base, it would be painful, perhaps even more destructive than the initial leap. And yes, it was destructive, that reaching, loving leap.

Even if, at the time, you thought you were flying.

she said

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There is nothing more unforgivable than not living up to someone else's expectations

nights



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Moments flicker
twist
jump
into and out of one another
you are at a party
by the bonfire
at the sink
talking to bella
fallon
peter
on the phone
you are
refusing
giving in
failing to hold yesterday's convictions
by yourself
quiet
still laughing
looking in the mirror at someone else's life
buttery fingers try to hold on to awareness
it slips away again
in a car
walking
talking
trying to act
how you normally act
talking too quietly in an attempt
to ease suspicion
you are sneaking back in to your house
trying not to trip
you are in bed
trying to fall asleep
you are sneaking back in again
at the party again
looking at your blood-shot eyes again
wondering what you're doing, again.
You get the feeling
that you are skipping through moments that are grouped together
-moments that are happening always-
as you try and fail
to stay in the present.

Excerpt #7

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She hadn't eaten anything for breakfast. That's the first thing you need to know.
And she was sad, that's the second.
That morning she had looked into the speckled mirror. She had taken her eyeliner and -hypnotised- drawn a curved line beneath each eye. She had smudged them until they blended with the real shadows under her eyes, the soft ones. Until she looked as tired and as unwell as she felt. After that, she had smiled.

Later, she walked to the bus-stop. The air was cold, it slipped past her many layers, seeped into her chest. The wind streamed through her ribs, tore inside of her. She felt like she had no body. She felt insubstantial. She decided it was better than the other feelings.

After the novelty had worn off, she would tire of it. She always does.

with jack, with everybo(d)y

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"But with every word she was drawing

further and further

into herself,

so that he gave up,

and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away,

trying to touch what was no longer tangible,

struggling unhappily, undespairingly, towards that lost voice across the room."

-F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

tired

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I can't sleep.
I don't sleep anymore.
Instead,
I dream.
I dream myself in and out of reality
Weaving between fears
And Hopes.
I'm always tired,
My body may rest but I don't.
I never do anymore.