bird

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lightly feathered, you lie
sprawled.
desperately clutching and releasing
a thousand tender
capsules of air
inside your tiny lungs

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.

early days

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into

smitten

infatuated

obsessed

a crush 

adore

taken by

keen on

besotted

charmed

hooked

fond of

dazzled

intoxicated

wild about

enamoured

sweet on

mesmerised

but not

in love 

with

I may be kidding myself

photo.   

“I began to realize how important it was to be an enthusiast in life. He taught me that if you are interested in something, no matter what it is, go at it full speed ahead. Embrace it with both arms, hug it, love it and above all become passionate about it. Lukewarm is no good. Hot is no good either. White hot and passionate is the only thing to be.”

—	Roald Dahl

Confession

Today,
you asked a question
I have not contemplated
for years.

Did I think my depression was glamourous?
Initially? Certainly,
when you don't care if you live or die
and you are at a party
with friends and acquaintances
getting too drunk on cheap vodka from cheap flasks
and smoking spliffs in darkened back-yards
it is easy to romanticise the sadness,
to compare it to your favourite tv character.

But after a few months,
I hated it.
Because most of the time
I wasn't dolled up and misunderstood
most of the time I was pathetic and miserable.

I was trying to understand how and why
I had ever been happy.
I was embarrassed that I felt this way for no good reason.
And I was afraid that I was going to feel this way forever.
I spent two years trying and failing to remember the person I was
and wondering if i would always be this way.
Most of the time,
I was fucking terrified
and hopeless
and exhausted
and anxious
and just very, very sad.

This is my best explanation.

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You are a breath of fresh air.
My lungs have never tasted so sweet.

relax into yourself

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at the end
when it all washes away
all the pretence
and jealousy
and the grains of other people
that grip to your skin like sand
you are left with yourself
find her
remember her
learn to love her

The Beginning of the End

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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. 

Letterhead #17

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Dear Jack,

I am so, so sorry I fell out of love with you.

If it means anything, I didn't want to fall out of love.

But I just…I felt so far away from myself.

I tried so much to make it work. And I did for a while. 

And we were happy.

I was the perfect girlfriend. But I wasn't me.

I fell out of love with you when I fell in love with myself.

And that's when I stopped wanting to try.

It's not your fault and it's not mine.

We both changed until we stopped suiting each other.

Thank-you for being the perfect first love.

I hope we can still stay friends.

With love,

shy

photo.  

Happiness doesn't start anywhere.
It lingers in your soul even when its breathing is so quiet you mistake it for the ocean on the other side of the world, it is there.