I’m grateful to the world for spinning while I was away. Grateful to the road for still being here with its lines and holes. It’s nice to see that that street light has remained steadfast in its incapacity and that the sign it doesn’t illuminate is still bent and dented.
If I could thank the sun I might think about it; it shines on them and that and me and my petty little bullshit problems. Iced coffee still exists and so does the fact that it’s not decaf, like I asked. It’s nice to know that while I was away in my hole surrounded by my own evils the air above it all still flowed and saved just enough for me to come back to.
I suppose there are reasons. Excuses, maybe to buy more time to fix all that’s gone wrong. To be fair what’s wrong now were all merely hopes and pipe dreams from a while ago. That distance that seems so short is probably, most likely, miles from where you started.
It’s not about finding reasons for the future because you could just get hit by a bus tomorrow and it would all be for nothing.
I think it’s more about finding reasons for now even if they’re tiny, even if the only reason is to stick around to spite the feeling of leaving. Gather your nerve as small and quiet as it may be. Retreat if you must and conceal if you need. It’s not healthy, no but it’s healthier than jumping off a bridge.
Sometimes it’s better to take it from the left to the right left, right, left and so on without considering the place where we stop. Put your head down and refuse to look up if you must, ignore each shoe that passes by if you need to. It’s a bit rude, yes but it’s kinder than jumping off a bridge.
Maybe it’s about value and not for the sake of finding a value but for what you value most now, maybe? Existence is a scam and they all profit from the con, clutch your pennies if you need to. It’s expensive, but expensive is expansive and given that economy, I suppose it’s cheaper than jumping off a bridge.
Whether behind me or aside me to bind to me or arise to my eyes to remind me of the past with me, or the path with me that neither of we, of us took, I notice your lack of head on approach. How you sneak now to my periphery when my head on is hazy or a little dilated you suddenly appear because maybe now is the best time for you to tell me, when my guard is down and my dosage is up, now that I’m docile enough for you to gain the audacity to show your face again. In my window, the window that I cleaned and re-framed and resealed and re-locked and gave new curtains and I drew them for a moment to look out again and there you are. On your 12 foot ladder face pressed.
Well to you at my back or you up above or you at my left but never at my right fuck you. And you. And you. Here I am at peace in one piece for one night and feeling the feelings that you, or you never gave me but you certainly did I condemn you to a life and afterwards of the same curse you left with me. Feeling each of someone else’s wrongs in your own throat.
You know what would be great? If we didn’t, we just didn’t play this game of truth or dare you to say anything other than that which they’ll spin the bottle around to have it face you again before they pin the tale on the fucking donkey that was stupid enough to open up in the first place.
She started screaming today. She’s normally so quiet and she sits at the back but today she made a run for it. She burst the windows open and grabbing at the ledge she let me have it into my bones with a guttural roar I felt in my own throat as she ran her nails in between my ribs and filled up my lungs with the air she’d been saving up all this time.
I didn’t know how fed up she was. Being a possible contingency dressed as an ideal and kept in the back pocket in case what I say isn’t good enough. But she really wants out now. She’s tired of crying for two, eating for none of anyone’s goals and praying for sun that’s bad for our skin but she doesn’t care. We’ll get wrinkles either way.
The bargaining is over now. She’s better than me and it’s fine. Her gentle suggestions have become golden rule, she’s made for the world that’s ahead and I’m tired. For sanity is saved by raising an eye, by looking around and pulling up from a sodden ground and even one handed to heave your whole weight is better than crawling any further.
It seems that I end each day as I start it. In preparation. In front of this mirror I paint my face to prepare for whatever war I trip into that day and late at night I wash it all off to allow it to breathe. As if I’ve not taken a gasp all day I wipe and wash and scrub to atone for suffocating myself for the sake of going outside. For vanity, maybe? Maybe but what is vanity really. And what’s so bad about it? If vanity lifts my chin and chest and makes me grin and blessed then I shamelessly paint with each and every brush so that I may stand at my post for those hours. Unapproached. Unbothered. Untested. I suppose we like knowing that we could, if we needed to but we don’t, so we won’t. That mirror holds a face hung on a soul which eludes. I beg for them to like me, to praise me and love me, not in love’s own definition of love but in the love you always wanted but knew never existed. Fake film love that emulsifies soul intertwining and sonnets in the rain with groaning and writhing in obsessive sweet pain. The love where you love it just so and so it goes to sit there, untouched and unaltered because simply you love it as it sits. It need do nothing else than breathe. Which I may only do after washing my face.
There’s comfort in knowing that I know your words. And I do hear you from time to time but now, now your voice is often coming through my own vibration. I suppose that’s what happens when it’s been a little while. I’ll go the rest of my hopefully longish or long enough life reciting your gems and boasting your wisdoms and I’ll sound just like the others that ramble on about someone no one else knows. I can’t amble with those others who lie to save my youth when you talked the truth at me. Whether I wanted it or not. The chats about the days and the ways that the days don’t mean much when you’re old. Your walls were worlds where shame fell like biscuit crumbs. I miss the bus change and Tesco shops.
Not home, it’s not home. My home doesn’t exist but even what little part does is not the part I am in. This is not it, the arena is not mine nor is this armour. Currently as it is, I’m less a home and owed one I think but not sure from whom. This scene is seen from a dream that I refuse to stop having. I’ve never felt more at home then looking through that screen.
My own doors are keyless and keys are less that I would beg for. They are enshrined in ivy and stone and surrounded by riddle and I don’t know the answer. Less a home and more a house. Dismissed at first viewing, not enough charm, too much work. Damp. I suppose I should rebuild and make my own.
I want more friends. But I don’t want people. People are tricky and trickless am I or at least my bag isn’t as big as theirs.
I feel I should have more friends to say hello to. To say hello back. But I can only care about so many hellos and I fear I’ll reach my limit.
I don’t want their small talks and their large lives with their leashed up husbands and their caged up wives. I want frank talks frank nights with frankly weak, pathetic fights over who paid last.
I want to smack talk men and call them prats and dirty looks like we sound like cats of witches cackling over a can or few but I’ll never get that if I don’t say hello.
If I say hello, then so will they and I’m no good with after (unless I’m paid) I’ll overshare and undersell and come off like some stuck up foreign bitch. Like always. I think it’s best if I use this time to be with myself in case I can’t later on.