I’ve already chosen names for the children I may or may not ever get the chance to have. I hope they’d get my blue eyes and vintage ideals. I hope they’d grow up knowing love and respect and happiness. Eyes lit, constantly searching and learning. Lightly weighted minds, no burdens or responsibility as children, hearts full with hope and future and possibility.
But I’m not at a time in my life where children are apparent or even close to it. I’ve only crawled mercifully across the surface of this merciless planet for twenty one years. Though it’s been enough time to realise that no one really cares and most everything lies. That hurt is more familiar than safety and honesty is as rare as a goose lain golden egg.
Begging for someone real and just as broken as I am to hold through the long, dark nights and frolic carelessly with during the heat of summer. Teach each other new strokes to keep us afloat in the tidal pull of depressive thoughts when we’re drowning and show each other new highs when we catch the other smiling. I’ve grown wings because of you, now let me show you yours.
I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t require protection, just a safe place sometimes. I’ve got a collection of killer stilettos and the tightest skirts you’ve ever seen and it’s all a facade, a suit of armour. It’s me saying “fuck you, my ass looks great in this so how ’bout you bite the curb and try saying that one more time”, but really I’m this little, brown wren who wants to be a pink flamingo. Entirely submissive, eager to obey. I can be loud but I’m mostly quiet. I can be colourful but I look better in black. Wanna make you laugh but I don’t know if I’m funny.
I nestle amongst polyester blankets and flannelette sheets all tucked up in my bed wishing I were sharing it with someone I might get to marry but not being certain anyone is out there for me anymore. Hope is fading fast and I’m praying the best parts of my genetics don’t go to waste. Don’t want my favourite names to go un-given, don’t want my heart to go on beating without beating for someone else.
Rain taps on my windows and tickles my tin roof, I can hear it from my lonely bed. I can also hear ding, ding, ding; here is me versus myself, it’s the knock out round so one of me won’t leave here alive. First rule of fight yourself club is that you can’t win so give up! The catch is if you give up then you’re pathetic so in giving up you lose, too. There really won’t be a champion here tonight, folks so please don’t bother to place your bets and get ready for an entertaining show! I said I didn’t know if I am funny, but I guess I can be.
I’m drifting off, dozing. Talon like nails attached to svelte fingers playing the keyboard of my macbook naturally, it’s the only instrument I can convince sweet sound from. Even in a semi-conscious state I could type a novel. Might not be entirely coherent but I bet it would be grammatically dressed in an evening gown complete with dripping diamond earrings and fluffy, glass slip on’s. I think I’m dreaming; day and night. It’s all merging into one.
Atticus, Wolfgang or Casper; Wednesday, Max or Zero.