Thursday, June 20, 2013

Some Times and Some Days

Sometimes I'm lost, crawling through a heavy fog that dampens my senses and steals my sense of direction. Sometimes I run and wake up in the morning with bruises. Splotches of purple and blue and red, splattered across my skin, and I'm reminded of the time I spent with you. Before you went away.

Sometimes I scream. I turn the music up too loudly, letting it thrash the walls and burn my ears and cascade around me in broken fragments of melody. The neighbours don't hear anything but the beating drums and the guitar riffs that scratch the calm from the air. Eventually I lie down on the mattress on the floor, the place you wanted it to be, and try forget that my head throbs with words that remind me of you.

Someday it'll be gone, those last slivers of you. Someday I'll not lie in the dark and remember all the times you smiled at me, or the way it felt when your arms enclosed me. Someday I'll forget.

Monday, June 17, 2013

Intangible Losses

We all lose things along the way. Sometimes they're small things,  like toothbrushes and pens and socks that disappear without a trace. Sometimes they're larger, like car keys or credit cards. But the worst things to lose are the immaterial, the things that were almost palpable, but hovered just out of the reach of your fingers. Sometimes it's deliberate.

We shed, you see, the way snakes and cicadas shed their skin, leaving imprints of ourselves behind, even as we venture on, altered. Humans are volatile things, and sometimes will try rid themselves of things that aren't ready to be gone; those people are left with gashes through their flesh and thoughts that run around in circles.

But sometimes people will lose things they weren't aware they had, those intangible things that sit in the back of the mind, ghostly companions to the conscience. And those people have lost the most grave thing of all: themselves. But not all who are lost need to be rescued. Some just need time to reorient themselves.

Saturday, June 15, 2013

Tabula Rasa

It used to be there, hovering in the periphery of your mind, a blank shape in a squalid landscape. You used to trip and stumble and find glittering things in the grass and hold them up to the light to catch the colours. Now everything is being erased. Because that thing that used to hover is growing, rolling over the desolation and swallowing every blade of grass and every glint of silver and every hint of sky. It's washing away everything. You're turning into a blank slate.

Friday, June 14, 2013

Same Coin

Mistaken and Hoping are the two friends you wish you never made; one is a certainty you would rather not face, and one is the impossibility, waiting to happen.

Wednesday, June 12, 2013


An organic mess curled up in the dark, weeping tears of tar. Because nothing produces darkness like a fragile, broken soul. Held together by tape and weak glue, your soul's leaking out the edges and pooling around you on the frozen cement. You don't know what day it is anymore.

Sunday, June 9, 2013

Weekend Midnights

If I could sit outside in the freezing cold every weekend midnight, I would. And we could talk about books, literature, travel, the corners of coffee shops and the niches of ruins, the gibbons in the trees and the rivers you can kayak up in the Pacific.

But whatever you do, don't mistake it for something it's not.

Because while I'm sitting there, shivering in the cold and laughing and talking and theorising, I'm waiting for the morning, when I'll see her.

Saturday, June 8, 2013

Pretty Misery

She's the kind of girl you fall in love with, over and over again, until your heart is so full of it that your chest constricts and pain shoots through your lungs. And it's the kind of love that will slowly kill you, because you're a statue to her, a furnishing, not a person to be considered as a lover. Because you're you, steadfast and protective, and she's flighty, a butterfly that flits from beautiful thing to beautiful thing, and sometimes even to the bad things, so that sometimes she finds herself crawling back to you with broken wings. And you always heal them. Because you're in love with her and that's what you do; you heal her and you hope that she'll thank you in kisses one day instead of smiles.

And you hope that the restless soul in her finds what it's looking for, because she's down in her pretty misery and you can't lift her out of it, though you try and try and try, tugging at the ropes that she reluctantly allows to bind her to reality. But really, she's gone. Some days she doesn't come back. You worry that one day will be the last day you ever see of her. And you know this should carry you backwards, away, but it doesn't; you're drawn ever forward. Because you too are drowning in your pretty misery.

Monday, June 3, 2013

Straight On

You're just a mess that needs cleaning, a shriveled heart that needs watering. A ticking brain that needs winding. And an empty soul that needs illuminating.

But you walk down a road with weeds growing through the tarmac, and no one seems to get through. So you're alone in the middle of the highway, and you're not sure if the way you're going will lead you straight to hell, or to another dimension, but you know it's too late to veer off it now.