Sunday, October 28, 2012

Masked Colours

I don't want to be your virgin martyr on the cross, dripping blood and tears as you dance around in loincloths, clutching spears.

One day you will look at me and you will fear because you will realise that all this time, you didn't know a thing. One day you will look and you will see a stranger.

For now, I will masquerade under a mask of visibility, pretending to bleed in colours my soul does not possess.

Saturday, October 27, 2012

Half Hearted Apology

I'm sorry. That's the beginning, and that's the end. I'm sorry. Two words which could mark different sides of the spectrum.

There's an invisible wall between us, pushing at my chest and forcing the air out of my lungs and the courage from my muscles. I can sit and wait and hope all day, but that won't mean that when the time comes, I'll shine; it means I'll probably crawl into shadows and cry myself to sleep.

This is what I get for being a child of spring with a soul of winter. I enjoy the bright colours and the tang of life, but I'm most at home once the trees have shaken off their leaves and strewn their fragmented selves across the ground, ready to wither and rot and fade into oblivion. I've not the hale of summer, nor the mirth of spring. I have the poetic soul of fall and the invisible nature of winter.

I'm sorry I cannot break free from the lines which melt around me and wrap me into the background. I'm sorry I could not come forth and speak the most simple words of simple words. I'm sorry I passed up an opportunity that I may never have again. But then, it was a tentative opportunity anyway, full of awkward potential. Perhaps it is better unrealised.

I'm sorry. I should not always be the one apologising.

Thursday, October 25, 2012


I want to lie in a room, with the light bleeding through the blinds, white and fresh and beckoning. I want to ignore it, and run my fingers up you body, over your navel, along your collarbone, and over the curve of your lips. I want your contented sigh brushing the palm of my hand, a promise of a happy life. I want the look in your eyes and the quirk of your mouth that silently exude a love and affection like I'd never thought possible.

Tuesday, October 23, 2012


We're hanging onto cobwebs, dripping from the sky. They might break at any second, and we'll come crashing to the ground, splattering across pavements and cars and roofs.

But as long as your blood is mixing with mine then I think I'll be happy for it to happen.

Monday, October 22, 2012

Is there any help?

What do you do when your thoughts threaten to overwhelm you?

Full Empty Spaces

I'm not sure what I'm supposed to feel, but I'm going to guess it isn't this. Whatever this is, it feels like delirium. I should be able to think of you without my chest hurting. I should be able to see you without my breath hitching, my heart thumping, my arms losing all muscle mass. I should be able to pass through a day without hoping to see you, even when the chances are impossible.

But it isn't so. What am I supposed to do? I feel like crawling into myself all the time, taking the corners of my skin and folding them in until I become nothing - an invisible spot on the horizon, something that would give you an excuse for why your eyes gloss over me.

This, I'm giving you honesty. It's too bad there's none of it in person; just words on a screen in a place you'll never see them. Ah, I suppose you don't care. But I wish you would. There is nothing in the world that I hope for more. Wildest dreams can wait. What's it going to take? I can't force you to love me. I can't force you to care. But I can hope.

There's that fucking word again: hope. It's a disease, I tell you. It stalks you in your sleep, and crawls on your back in the day, the little demon child whispering in your ear that things might turn out the way you want them to. But they're lies, trust me. So far nothing has come of that demon's promises.

Do you know what this is? This is a little girl curling up inside her head because there's nowhere else that'll have her. This is innocence reclaiming the child through terror. This is me.

And that is you. Over there, somewhere, indistinct, blurry around the edges; utterly beautiful.

I thought I was lonely before, and then I had the misfortune to find myself wanting you. You're sitting on my chest, crushing my ribs, forcing the air out of my lungs. You're killing me, you know that? Somehow I'm getting a pleasure out of it. Somehow I wouldn't want to die any other way. But that isn't to say that I wouldn't rather life. Trust me, there's nothing more that I want than you to get up of my chest and take me by my hand, pulling my ragged body to its feet, and having your breath blow some life back into me through the part of your perfect lips.

The demon child says it's possible. My brain fuzzes and my eyes transition in and out of focus and for a second I believe it's true. And then the circuits spit out their spark of interference and tell me to stop hanging onto someone who'll give nothing.

I guess nothing is what I'll get seeing as nothing is what I'm giving. Because I'm over here, and you're far away over there, and you don't know that I ache and buzz and shake and hope that our eyes will meet across the empty space filled with people. You won't know that this place has become a ghost town, because you won't know that you're the only one who shows signs of life. You won't know. You won't know. You won't know, and it's all my fault.

It's my fault my world revolves around 'what if's'  and 'ah, but no's'. It's my fault that my whole life has become a dedication to someone who's oblivious. What I wouldn't give to know whether you think of me every once in a while. No doubt I don't walk across your thoughts as often as you cross mine. This imbalance is unfair. But the adult me knows this; it's the child who cries out from the trauma of the delirium. It's the child who knew better, who loved better, who saw clearer, who gave more, asked for less, wanted for nothing but what could be made with patience and two hands. The adult has moved on to games of wordsmithery, and has found it leads to nothing but brick walls, especially when words are hoarded, kept inside and let to bleed. It's the adult who knows that walls are of your own making. It's the adult who's afraid to tear them down. And it's the child who's trapped inside.

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Beginnings and Roads

It always starts so well. Beginnings are the easiest part, despite what anyone says. It's the motivation to keep going which is the part which stops most people. How do you continue when the whole world is a trap, jaws open, razor sharp teeth clipping at your clothes and eating into your willpower?

Baby steps; they always make way for the larger steps, after all. But they're just as hard to take. I guess it's willpower. I guess it's two grams of willpower for a wealth of return. I guess it's consistency. I guess we'll see how long this road lasts.

Saturday, October 20, 2012

Some of Us

Some of us seem sturdy, but we're built on shifting sands.

Some of us seem solid, but we're hollow in the middle.

Some of us seem happy, but we're faking the smile for you.

Try distinguish us - you'll never get it right, we're too adept at pretending. You won't hear our screams in the night, you won't see our wounds in the day, You won't know that you're seeing one of us until we tell you.

Sorry to be the one to tell you that you're comfortable in your blindness.

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

Tired Minds

Ah, the things which slip from tired minds. We sleepwalk past deadlines and things we do out of habit. We bump into things and grope at walls. We stumble before steadying ourselves against doorposts. We nod, but slip into dreamlands.

Monday, October 15, 2012


And I'm putting on my pyjamas, but I really, I wish I were taking off my skin.

Sunday, October 14, 2012

Funny Things

It's funny that what you think you feel can be turned on its head so quickly - almost as quickly as you walked in and right back out, leaving a shaky me in your wake.

It's funny how determination fades and you can't remember your original reason for resistance.

It's funny how all of a sudden, you do.

It's not funny when the guilt bridges the gaps between your feelings, reminding you of the obligations you made yourself. Somehow there was a commitment without a commitment.

But the feelings haven't gone. But new ones have arisen.

It's funny how the heart can make space for two, but the mind forces us to believe that there's only space for one. Or maybe it's not the mind at all.

Saturday, October 13, 2012

Fuel and Fire

Just a little drop of disappointment, dripping down from my brain, and collecting in between my shoulder blades. It pools, oily black, unshakeable - the gasoline from which hope burns. But all fuel must finish. One day I won't have any hope left to light the way.

Friday, October 12, 2012


I am who I am now, who is not who I was then. And who I will be is shrouded in mystery, a blurry figure with an indescribable appearance, and who I will have been is just as big a puzzle. I am who I was, but I am not who I was.

Thursday, October 11, 2012

Blank Maps

You, me, a hand, a touch, a pull into some unknown direction. We'll walk through the mist, tethered to each other, and if we have nothing else, at least we'll have each other, fingers entwined, moving through uncharted territory.

But let us be honest; nothing between us could possibly be familiar. Each step we take will be new. We can't choose a direction, because right now, all we have to stare at are blank maps.

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

tú eres mía

It's gnawing at my lungs again, and sitting on my chest, this little black gargoyle which likes to stare me dolefully in the eye as it drains me of my will. It flashes me a sharp tooth grin before resuming its feast on my happiness.

I know I should shake it off, maybe stake it through the heart, but it's always a temporary death. Always it comes crawling back to my torso and settling with its claws dug into me. I look down but see no wounds on my flesh; isn't that the worst, knowing that something's slowly killing you, but never able to show others the signs?

So I look down again, see its greedy hunger, feel the ravenous tongue and possessive claws. The glint in its eye says "tú eres mía", and I'm struck my how that proclamation rings like a death knell.

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

Life on the Road

Ah, to have tyres chew the road and spit it out behind us. To chase a horizon that never comes any closer. To stop anywhere, which is nowhere, and down a bottle of water, basking in the silence of no other cars traversing a stretch of highway.

Sure, to sleep in bed bug ridden motels where the chill creeps up your back in the middle of the night. To have to learn to urinate in the tall grass otherwise untouched by humans. To eat cheap food which enters a war with your heart. To not shower for a week until the next motel stop.

That's the reality, yet it doesn't clash badly enough with the fantasy to make it undesirable. Because in the end, when it's us and the road and the never approachable horizon, it's laughter and a heart freed from its strings. It's buoyancy and random turns on the road to towns barely on the map. It's unfamiliar wilderness and untouched beaches. It's sunburn and fatigue and loneliness. But it's life.

Monday, October 8, 2012

Stolen Portraits

Fumble and stagger through the wretched landscape which is my heart; I'm sorry that it's so deformed. Shriek and cover your eyes and I'm apologising for all the horrible things you see there. Shudder, writhe, hug yourself tight; if I had a choice, I wouldn't show you the dark secrets and twisted truths which lurk in the dusty places where no one has ever set foot. What did you expect when you picked a trip into my dreams? There are no barriers where you've gone.

I'll take the camera out and point it in your direction while you're looking the other way. There's no way you'll make it back into reality unscarred, so I should steal a picture of you while I can. And it's selfish of me, but I like it when you venture into my nightmares, because I feel less alone, and at any moment, the door knob might turn and we might walk into Wonderland. If you leave even the gentlest brush of yourself on my battered psyche, my whole life will be better, and I'll cherish the memory forever.


I'll photograph away until you're quite faded.

Right Words to the Wrong Person

We laugh and talk and argue until he leans in and softly asks "can I love you?"

The question pierces my heart with a pin and devoids my chest of joy.

"I'm afraid I wouldn't love you back," I reply and the words shift on the breeze, rearranging the expression on his face, until we're tinged with a sad knowledge of the things that can never be.

Sunday, October 7, 2012


Who knows, when up is down and left is right, which direction to choose?

When there's only a spectrum splayed against glass, is there any way of knowing which colour is you?

They say that there are plenty of other fish in the sea, but let me tell you how the world actually works: we each are one of the billions of different colours, each of us our own unique shade, seeking for our perfect complementary partner. And let me tell you, it's not easy; there are some who will pretend, some whom you will think "yes! this is them!" but who only turn out to disappoint you. There are some who look a lot like the one you're looking for, only to become the most wrong person you could find. Indeed, everyone is wrong - let's not lie about that - except that one perfect complementary shade, drifting somewhere, a subtle nuance in the spectrum.

Saturday, October 6, 2012


And even when you're here I'm missing you because you're never close enough. What's fair about this? Me trailing along in your wake while you glide ahead, unperturbed. All I have left is a throbbing space in my chest where my heart used to sit and my pen to scribble useless words. You don't know this, but you have my heart tied to your finger with a string and you drag it along behind you, bruising it with every step. And you don't know this, but my useless words fill pages and pages, dense and black and with my soul staring out from between the lines, hoping that you come across the tattered pages that flew from my hand and were strewn along your path.

You don't know this because I'm too afraid to tell you.

I'm trapped in this cycle again; I sit, I stare, I bleed. I groan, and glance, and hope. I write these entries, doused in melancholia, ready to go up in flames at the slightest spark and thrown to the wind. I run out of words, though the feeling continues on, until I feel like bashing my head against the wall.

And the worst part isn't that you don't know you do this. The worst part is I don't know how you feel. If I could tread another person's thoughts, just for a day, an hour, a minute, I'd wind my way through yours; anything to find whether you're slowly being scarred as much as I am. Why is it we must be separated from those we wish most to know the best?

This is like walking a knife edge - one slip and I could end up falling off either side, either with you, or without you, cut and bleeding. But that's the thing about the razor edge of a knife - even as you walk on the narrow path, the blade sinks into your feet until you feel you cannot go on anymore. But I'll continue for a while yet, because eventually I'll either pull even with you and claim back my heart, or fall, half dead, into your arms.

Friday, October 5, 2012

For Me

I'm doing this for me, because I need the confidence to be me. No matter what anyone says, this time I'm not giving up. I'm tired of feeling not good enough and not proud enough of myself.

Thursday, October 4, 2012

Tell Me

When do you walk out of my daydreams and into my arms? Tell me that the time is coming soon, that all this impatient waiting was worth something. Tell me that I'm not wasting my time slowly falling in love with you. Tell me you're not going to be a hand's distance away from me forever, completely untouchable. Tell me at some point you reach out too. Tell me "I'm glad you waited. I'm going to be the girl who changes your life".

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

Work and Work and Work

How do you know what you want to do with your life, when you know your entire life depends on creation? What do you do when there's no such thing as originality? What happens when the world has sucked out all you have left?

Digging deeper and deeper, hollowing out all the areas beneath my translucent skin, finding fragments I didn't know existed, twisted, distorted, bleeding. And others, slivers of hope lodged in the most inconvenient of places, impossible to get out and throw away. Maybe someday this will all amount to something. At the end of the horizon, maybe I'll find the fabled pot of gold that wasn't at the bottom of the rainbow.

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

Here, There; Me, You

I hope that you do not think that I don't notice you, for there is little else which grabs my attention. If I look the other way, it is not because I don't care about you, but because I fear that you'll see that I care too much. The only thing I can do is veil myself, in fear that knowledge of how I feel will cause you to punch a hole through my gut, pulling viscera from my stomach's cavity and letting free all the butterflies which have taken up residence there since I first saw you. It might sound violent, but isn't that love?

Trust that I would turn and stare you in the eyes if I were more confident about where you stood in relation to me. I want you to be close, though I fear that you are farther than I would like, and this keeps my feelings locked behind the cage of my ribs, beating a steady rhythm in my heart.You're there, I am here, and one of us must surely be in the wrong place. I cannot help but feel that you are building your confidence as you are building mine. Perhaps we'll begin, not with a whimper but with a bang.

Monday, October 1, 2012


I'm floating in an inexhaustible well of tiredness, and I do not know whether I can ever make it out again. I don't think that I want to. Taking steps hurts, pushing on hurts, waiting and hoping and dreaming all hurt.

It isn't possible, but most of the time I wish I could exist without existing, like sleeping forever - here but not. It's a mental tiredness, an emotional tiredness, and a physical exhaustion which creeps into my bones and freezes them solid.

Today, tomorrow, ten years from now, it will be the same. You can't outgrow a mantle which grows with you.