Writing always, always, always makes me feel a little better inside. Like I’m a little cleaner. A little more organised, and ready to try again.
I push my eyes in with the palms of my hands. The result is pleasing enough, my head feels more solid; I’m less squishy and fragile. Compact.
I guess you could say I’m in the coffin here, and you’ve nailed it shut. You don’t need to hold on to hope with me anymore, you’ve got somebody new. What was the word? Focus. You’ve got this rose red tunnel vision, and I’m in the sides, blocked by a blind spot. Forgotten.
I push my eyes in a little harder. Coloured stars sprinkle above the blackness. Red spots, blue spots. I should scream or something. Tell you that I was there when you needed somebody. Tell you that I want to push you away, miles and miles away so you can’t hear me asking for attention. Tell you that I am not so replaceable, and yet people keep managing to do it. Clever.
It’s all good, I nod. This movement wiggles my eye sockets. It hurts a little, but screaming is kind of a joke in this horror movie. I’m the frightened blonde girl, who cannot handle hearing a thump in the basement. Pathetic. Boring. Laughable. Emotional.
Pushing my eyes until my head aches, and the memory of any other pain is absent.
If you forget me, I’ll forget you too.
It feels pathetic
that every time
I call someone
a close friend
they go on and
leave. Not all at
once, but in bits.
Bits that I feel a
little helpless to
hold together on
my own. I always
end up feeling so
worthless, and too
tired to reach out
and say I’m hurt.
I know for a fact
that you haven’t
spared a thought
for me in weeks.
What’s the point
in trying or hoping?
I know you will just
forget me like she
I made some invisible friends
so they can hold my tongue when I get bitter.
I must admit, it’s too late in the night for me to think about the real things.
When things get hard, I always make up a world where things are whole and innocent. Like a romance film, keying in on the pivotal moments. No silent nights scrolling through images on a computer, taking notes from class notes. No dull, bored, nonsensical text posts.
No, no, no, only the lovely, gentle eyes gazing across a coffee cup. Fingertips grazing on an autumn walk through late night streets. Gentle, blossoming compassion, growing and filling the seams of loss.
The mind is not kind though, always relating ideas, always comparing. Remember when you kissed and tasted blood? No. I must keep focus, keep steering the boat in safe, still water. No. She does not shout words that I cannot focus on. She does not grab my throat. She does not watch me drown with pleasure.
Fantasised lips kiss my temple. They are warm, more real than the chair I sit in to dream them.
Sleep now, she says. Dream a life. Why wake up at all?
The sheets are warm in the sunrise.
Tea cup steaming beside last night’s crumpled clothes.
But nothing will make her stay.
She stretches her bare body across the bed, and her ribcage slides under her skin, up and expanded. There is an opening between her two lungs, where vines are growing up and out, across the mattress, spilling onto the floor and around my ankles.
I may as well stay the night.
vines on oneword.
Even if I was a victim, I would still not be yours.
I own my sadness, I own my misery.
What you did does not give you what is rightfully mine.
You cannot plant yourself in my pores, then expect me to kill the lovely green grass. I will not tame the mess that you’ve made me.
I’m just a little tired of this society of pretending.
‘WHAT’ she yells from across the hallway.
‘I brought you a chicken.’
‘First question,’ she shouts, ‘is it a live chicken? Second, bring it here.’
Georgina skipped in, the corners of her snuggie flapping behind her. A wide, elegantly arranged plate was balanced in her hands
‘Nope. Perfectly dead.’ She grins widely, holding it out for Nae to inspect.
The chicken in question is spread open at the sternum. Inside it is a thick coating of cheese, bacon and what looks like a bed of nuggets. The smell coming from it is angelic, but somehow, at 5.43AM it is mortifying.
‘What… how… why?!?’ Nae asks, grabbing Georgina’s arms. She gives her a brisk shake to assert the trauma of this presentation. However, instead of replying, Georgina laughs. Then she wiggles out of Nae’s grip and explodes into a pile of confetti on the floor.
The chicken lands politely in the doorway, unaffected, then after a brief pause Georgina comes strutting around the corner.
‘So, Nae, am I getting better at magic tricks yet?’