Friday, 17 January 2014
Whilst trying to be a productive human...
The coffee was a great idea, she said, twirling her baubles
Sunday, 5 January 2014
Wednesday, 1 January 2014
Lament/Torment (My best dreams)
My head, my heart, they are no longer in accord.
All because of you.
We don’t speak. I dare not even utter a hello, for fear it might upset that gentle balance that seems to have been constructed.
I barely hear from you, of you, about you.
And yet still,
I can’t give up that hope. When I’m walking alone or there’s a chill in the room all I can think is how wonderful it would be to be near you again.
The terror that I might see you.
On the bus.
On the street.
On the tube.
Consumes a trip to the centre of town. Makes me quiet, but not calm. With a twitch in my neck to see who is around.
The marvel and anticipation of you at a party held by a mutual friend.
All because of you.
We don’t speak. I dare not even utter a hello, for fear it might upset that gentle balance that seems to have been constructed.
I barely hear from you, of you, about you.
And yet still,
I can’t give up that hope. When I’m walking alone or there’s a chill in the room all I can think is how wonderful it would be to be near you again.
The terror that I might see you.
On the bus.
On the street.
On the tube.
Consumes a trip to the centre of town. Makes me quiet, but not calm. With a twitch in my neck to see who is around.
The marvel and anticipation of you at a party held by a mutual friend.
Maybe we’ll mend that bridge
Maybe we’ll fight, rip out each others hair like we’ve already ripped out each others hearts, but we’ll feel better for it.
Maybe we’ll just exchange greetings, like the adults we’re pretending to be.
Because my best dreams are of you forgiving me, feeling your wirey, sure arms around me, the soft heat of your cheek and maybe, maybe if I’m lucky, if I’m good, then I’ll catch sight of that smile.
I don’t think I ever did justice to that smile.
Maybe we’ll fight, rip out each others hair like we’ve already ripped out each others hearts, but we’ll feel better for it.
Maybe we’ll just exchange greetings, like the adults we’re pretending to be.
Because my best dreams are of you forgiving me, feeling your wirey, sure arms around me, the soft heat of your cheek and maybe, maybe if I’m lucky, if I’m good, then I’ll catch sight of that smile.
I don’t think I ever did justice to that smile.
The party happened. We saw each other.
We were mature.
I think.
Maturity is a strange concept to me these days.
The sight of you holds such splendid pain and yet still just sitting next to you holds an instinctive comfort. I’m sorry it’s not the same way for you. I resolve to be better, better than ever, because I’m still in disbelief at what I have done.
But my better is never going to be right for you.
Just look at you.
You’re flourishing without me. Had I been holding you back all this time? When you were so sad, so worried, so much in need of help that I disgustingly didn’t give, was I at the source all along?
You tell me about how you felt before seeing me.
Crushing small objects,
ripping your thumbs.
I hope to whatever powers that be that I never tell you my side. You don’t want to hear what my heart has to say to you now.
You’re healing.
Keep on with it. Keep going forwards and upwards and for Pete’s sake be happy.
Be happy
be happy
be happy
be happy
be happy
be happy because at least if you’re happy then that part of me that still, still punishes me for what I have done will let me get to sleep at night.
Because it’s not peaches and sunshine over here, my dear. There are so many strands of different lives I’m trying to lead going round and round and round in my head that I’ve lost the ability to shove them together into some semblance of being me. I’m losing my memory and my words and my willpower and my loyalty and my ability to think of the other people in the room without stopping still in order to do so. So much of my time is taken up with things that just fill the time until I can respectably try to sleep and escape into that dream again.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop saying:
I’m sorry.
We were mature.
I think.
Maturity is a strange concept to me these days.
The sight of you holds such splendid pain and yet still just sitting next to you holds an instinctive comfort. I’m sorry it’s not the same way for you. I resolve to be better, better than ever, because I’m still in disbelief at what I have done.
But my better is never going to be right for you.
Just look at you.
You’re flourishing without me. Had I been holding you back all this time? When you were so sad, so worried, so much in need of help that I disgustingly didn’t give, was I at the source all along?
You tell me about how you felt before seeing me.
Crushing small objects,
ripping your thumbs.
I hope to whatever powers that be that I never tell you my side. You don’t want to hear what my heart has to say to you now.
You’re healing.
Keep on with it. Keep going forwards and upwards and for Pete’s sake be happy.
Be happy
be happy
be happy
be happy
be happy
be happy because at least if you’re happy then that part of me that still, still punishes me for what I have done will let me get to sleep at night.
Because it’s not peaches and sunshine over here, my dear. There are so many strands of different lives I’m trying to lead going round and round and round in my head that I’ve lost the ability to shove them together into some semblance of being me. I’m losing my memory and my words and my willpower and my loyalty and my ability to think of the other people in the room without stopping still in order to do so. So much of my time is taken up with things that just fill the time until I can respectably try to sleep and escape into that dream again.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop saying:
I’m sorry.
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