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So much darkness

It’s undulating form

Swallows me back, to the very pit of its belly

Yours is a tight bodice

Cinching in at my lungs

And forcing me in this recumbent position

And it seems like we’re all just here to drink down merriment and swallow breaths back

To dissipate the fear of this darkness in your belly

I grapple with the whispers

Their sibilant selves wrapping around tightly around my throat

I will them to on, to expedite my demise

So the rest can carry on without the radio interference

Squeeze

Squeeze

So you can have your say

And peace can be bestowed

And sleep can be found

Broken Glass

No I won’t

Hear your words

They slide out of your mouth

And right into the palms of your hands

You offer them up

For me to chew and swallow

I don’t want their pleasing aroma

To trick me into indulging in the mirage of their existence

I scoop of shreds of broken glass

From alleyways and abandoned buildings,

The dirt they lie in a secondary bonus

We crush them between our teeth

Grinding their saltiness into my blood

Until we grind them into a fine powder

Half she takes, and I take mine

Together we scrub my face raw

Your words have soiled my insides

And I need to be cleansed

Something Different..

Walking in through the solid wood door, you entered into a small, dark hallway. The only light came from a frosted glass panel beside the wooden door m. On my left was a solid wood door, painted over white, that led into a small sitting room. At different times, there had been a sofa or two but for a few years before we left my dad had decided to buy 2 garden seats, wooden, to put in. My grandmas sofa had been there previously but I guess it was thrown out. I don’t remember why or when. I remember feeling embarrassed that we had garden furniture instead of real furniture. It wasn’t comfortable. My dad fancied himself a kind of DIY guy. Trurh be told, he had some good ideas but he wasn’t good at following through. Evidence of that was on the wall, a crudely put together wooden bookshelf, hanging unpainted on the wall. He also put in a counter top, the kind you’d usually see in a kitchen, under it. It was a great place for more junk to be piled.

The fireplace was redbrick, small and pokey. The small hearth was infamous for being the cause of an accident when I was younger. I tripped and fell and supposedly cracked my head, needing stitches. I always feel sad when I think of my younger self. I’m not sure if it’s real or just what I’ve pieced together from things said. I feel younger me was on my own a bit, trying to be small and not cause a fuss. Sorry for being alive, because I shouldn’t even be here.

There seemed to always be clutter on the fireplace too, some random photos and sometimes some figurines. My mom has always liked buying China kind figurines and there seemed to always be some on top. I especially liked when there was a fire on , just standing in front of the fireplace.

There was a silver stereo in the sitting room. I liked being there on my own, especially late at night when no one was around, just listening to the radio and dancing when by myself. I also liked to sit and write if a fire was on. The corner to the left of the fireplace was a small enclave that didn’t match the rest of the rooms decor, the wallpaper and paint not reaching there. Seemed to sum up everything else in the house, never fully finished; just given up, leave it as it is. There was one rectangular shaped window with a thick white net curtain, we used to look out when we were not supposed to open the door. People knocking at the door often meant us pretending we weren’t home, or at least waiting until the person went to leave so we could check who it was. It just seemed to be the way it was.

Coming out of the sitting room, I turn left to head into the kitchen. On my right, before entering the kitchen, was under the stairs… a place of shame in full sight. There was always a lot of stuff through in there. When I try to conjure up images of what’s in there, I can’t, it just all blurs into one big undefined mass of junk. The light timber frame acted as a kind of make-shift door. Only it didn’t close, it didn’t hide anything. Thinking about it and who might have seen that mess, and what they must have thought gives me anxiety, even now.

I enter into the kitchen. Right in front of me is part of the cabinet dad made. Unfortunately he wasn’t a cabinet maker. I remember crude bits of wood out together. To be fair to him, I think he did as best he could. But I also wonder why he was always taking on these ambitious projects, especially when none of them got finished. There is a thick granite (I think) counter top and it runs towards the sink. We must have got a bit of money because dad also bought a dishwasher at the same time as doing this “remodel” I seem to remember a washing machine bought at the same time. I remember being excited about dads plans. But they never materialized. Just like everything, it was left unfinished, incomplete. I feel frustrated even now, thinking about that.

The washing machine and dishwasher didn’t last long. They both stopped working. I don’t think it was the same time , but most have been. I guess perhaps because my dad moved the kitchen sink to a different place, which would have involved plumbing and, he not being a plumber, perhaps something stopped working. What ever the reason, the Dishwasher wasn’t useable. The sink dripped too. Under it was a kind of crude wooden support, kind of like the sort you might see in a roadside kitchen. Except it was our house. I feel sorry for my dad, writing this. I guess he was trying to break out of our way of living. But I’m also frustrated, why did he have to do so in such an overly complicated way, and in a way that made things worse.

The rest of the kitchen.. there were two windows, again, there were thick white net curtains. We did have a stove fireplace. The rare times that was lit , the house felt good, it was the kind of stove that made the whole house feel warm and alive.

The kitchen also had a hot press, a small kind of closet with a door and shelves where the hot water tank was and where people could keep their towels and bed clothes etc. I remember feeling envious of other people when I opened theirs, no clothes fell out, theirs was orderly and the smell of clean fresh linen. I don’t remember ever having that smell when I was younger-clean linen. There never seemed to be clean towels, especially the couple of years we didn’t have a washing machine. I remember using a bed sheet to dry myself , when I wanted to clean myself.

That hot press was another reason to feel shame, if you opened it, a cascade of clothes fell on you and it wasn’t easy to push them back in and get the door to successfully close. I feel sad looking around here, it’s supposed to be the hub of activity but it never felt like that. It wasn’t somewhere I’d find my mum or my family. I feel so alone thinking of me then, no one was there to give that home feeling. I wouldn’t find dinner cooking in a pot or schedules on the fridge, I wouldn’t find notes from mum or dad, it was just a shell of a home . I feel like that, a shell. Like I never got fleshed out

I look out into the backyard. It’s a nice sized yard but neglected and overgrown. I used to imagine what it would look like if I could control it . I’m we had a small shed, no door, full of junk. There seems to always be bags and bags of rubbish waiting to be taken to the dump. We never could afford to have a regular bin , my dad said it was better and cheaper to take it ourselves to the dump. But that always seemed to be irregular. The car smelled so bad after he did it. It makes me wonder if that’s why I still do some things much later now, it’s the pattern I learned. I feel frustrated and trapped when I write about this. Why was everything made so complicated. It could have been so much simpler. There were abandoned pots and stuff in the yard. Like my mum left it soaking and just abandoned it to the wind after. I feel mad at them both; my mom and dad – why were they doing things in such a overly complicated way. I just wanted order so badly, and in every way it was so far from that.

I leave the yard to go back through the kitchen and down the short hallway to go up the stairs.

A breath in, a breath out

Memories flood in,

But nothingness comes out

It’s too tangled

To be exhaled into the outside

Kalopsia

Your form lingers on my teeth

Arms lazily stretched out,

A force

With an unapologetic skin

That sticks thick and opaque

You casually drop in as you please

And I scramble at your feet, tripping over the words I set in concrete not an hour before

You came in your chariot, dear Kalopsia

And I fell hard and I fell clean

As my eyes were a-blinded by the way you wrapped yourself around me

Tapping out Freedom

Sadness, she drip drops

On to the ledge I stand on

She runs off uninhibited,

Not even a flicker of embarrassment at the nakedness she wears,

Bright and brazenly

Oh my tongue, how it salivates

At the nakedness of her freedom

And I reach closer

To try to catch just one of her drops

But it’s a race I’ve not prepared for

She outruns me every time

No matter how quickly I catch her drops,

I’m still stuck behind the rock I crouch behind

And the ledge where freedom beckons me

I want her to quench the thirst that sits inside, rock-hard

But she is unforgiving,

Lapping up all my amber prayers

Without a second to rethink my offering

And I just clutch a single flame

Between the palms of my hands

Its amber -coloured self so mesmerizing

As it blackens my flesh

A last ditch homage to you,

Who I want so much

To just notice me

So my sacrifice for you

Would be worth the space I take up

Shelves

Here you go,

The shelves are up

It’s up to you to stack yourselves up on top of them, it’s not on me anymore

It was always a thankless job anyway

But you, you don’t disperse and scatter without me there shouldering you, like I had imagined you would

Without missing a beat, you tie knots and make chains to pull and push

Until each and everyone is up, neatly stacked

Self-satisfied smiles burst out across your horizon

A brightness begins to light up over you

Sparking applause from within your smug selves, partnering itself alongside back-slapping and whoops of joy and glee

I wish I could say

I felt light to see your bouncing smiles

But instead

Rocks began to grow inside

And weighed down the muscles of my own mouth

No joy able to shine out

And the loneliness of being forgotten just weighed me to the spot

I knew you remembered me

But you’d forgotten so easily

How you were never supposed to hurt me this way

And that if you ever did, you weren’t supposed to ever forget

Such an unforgivable deed

But you’ve both forgotten and also you’re quite content

I want to take my shelves down and let you drop right down

And let your bodies hit concrete

Like my heart has

I want you to hurt

From being smashed open

And in no way possible

Being able to be put back to whole

But as That desire grows alongside my rocks

I feel more heavy and sad

To feel the antithesis

Of your being

And loneliness is wedged between me and these rocks inside

Enjoy your view from up there

I’ll just keep sipping this poison

That I had laid out for you originally

I’m getting more and more used to the taste

Cacti

Concrete walls lick me once-over

Grey and impersonal,

It’s just a perfunctory gesture

And it’s here that I hang,

Upside down

with nowhere to go

But back up from where I came

Cacti, they spring out from the walls,

A prickly invasion

Designed to throw me off

And yet I grit my teeth

And my fingers dig to find grooves and spaces so I can keep this momentum of movement

Because even as my skin is pricked and punctured,

blood pitter-patters down all over my consciousness,

I still must keep moving

Lest I stay here

Where all the blood would rush to my head,

The pressure of which would cause it and whole head to burst open

And rain down on unsuspecting pedestrians below us

No, that would be most uncouth

So let us continue, discomfort and all.

Brewing. Threading.

She’s a kind of acid

And I roll her between my fingers

To throw a lump on my eye

It catches and it sticks,

Hungrily eating up the trail of flesh that circles there

Trailing a skip and a jump of red sores behind her steps

She strips off, uninhibited

Her flesh shredding off in strips, easy flow

As she walks on wooden floors

That begin and end within my chest and it’s deep bottomed ocean

We thought she couldn’t reach us down here

But her appetite, it’s always prevailed

And she begins her second feast of the day

As the light from her watering saliva gleams and glistens

Trailing lazily on my tongue

I lie on the seabed,

Neither condoning nor condemning of her whole acidic self ,

But Just here,

Threading water

For all that it’s worth

Patience

Patience could be a virtue

If only I could reach far enough to catch her,

To bring her in with my net

But she is a slippery fish,

She likes the chase, she likes the chase

But she keeps slipping from my grasp, jumping straight back into the deep depths of below us

I’m so tired of your games,

Just pick a side and stop flicking between our different channels

It’s an island mentality

And one I’ve got no time to devote relaxing into

Just get straight to the part where you are within me ,

And I am you

And I don’t have to keep trying to chase your elusive self

Stockholm Syndrome

Can we surrender

Into your arms?

They seem so sturdy

And yet, I hesitate.

I’m still bruised from the last fall,

When I fell and kept falling, no one catching me , no one to break the fall

I remember;

My body as it plunged towards the wooden floor,

Followed by quick successions of a series of thuds

And how you giggled with a sadistic satisfaction at such sounds,

Music to your ears

Oh how even now, the bruises remain

And I’ve been left with some kind of Stockholm syndrome ,

Craving your terrible bedside manner.

Even now,

When a lull enters a space beside me

I look for your lies to coat me

Just the one coat even, a light colour of false optimism

It doesn’t even have to be a very good one

I just want a temporary fix

To colour in the holes and gloss over the bruises

All in an effort to pretend, pretend

That I’m whole

You’ve been always good with make-believe,

That I can rely on

So bring your game here, please

Pretty please.

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