Lace me up, darling

Would it mean something if I were to cinch a tourniquet tight
around my waist?
Until I felt my organs kissing for the very first time
like long lost lovers tied to railroad tracks
It would be adrenaline filled but with
no struggle or hesitation
Just that singular explosive moment before the big blackout and
death greets you on the doorstep of your pitch dark mind

Do you ever think
y’ know, the world just isn’t for me
as you ask your mortal enemy to pull tighter on the strap
And so they do
your organs really buddy up, start sticking pins in one another playfully
Eyes close as if ordered
pressing on the pain with two gnarled fingers
I guess,
we are all just dolls being stuck with pins playfully

The envelope

Imagine an envelope addressed in the most exquisite
gilt hand
Close your tired eyes, my love,
and imagine it stuffed with letters and photographs
So many pieces of folded paper that it’s tearing at the edges
All those carefully curated words are penned softly in smooth, black ink
and all by my shaking, aching hand
No two letters read alike
Though all are titled:
to my dearest love,
Though all are signed:
yours faithfully, forever and for always—
This is my version of love actualised
The worn envelope
it reads but your name

A list of things I do not understand

Why humanity has become unsightly,
when did people lose their pride?

My front porch remains inviting this time of year, though it is well into autumn the ornamental bench is dry beneath an awning and this is where I perch. It’s nighttime, my time, and the light pollution of the city is on full display. Still eighteen degrees I wrap myself in harem trousers and a fluffy sweater.

Sans bra,

sans panties.

It’s about half ten post meridiem, my neighbours lights are mostly out. The front door to the house opposite mine is partially frosted glass, tacky and supposedly modern. It tells me the inhabitants must be watching television in the dark, changing colours but not a sweet, slow shift. More an abrupt series of transitions.

Why people don’t speak up when they feel hurt or angry,
when did they lose their vigour face to face?

Learning the lyrics to a song that once made me cry I am frustrated at the unhinged timing of the track. It makes my bones feel like they could be scraping, but perhaps not. In another dimension these words would lay in a different tune.

Why life skills are not valued,
when did people lose their regard for tradition?

My skin feels lonely though it is routinely cared for, if not for a few depressive blips. Cleansed of makeup, toned and moisturised it yearns for love and not product to hide my ugliness. My hands do their best to treat it but I fear mine own are not enough.
The soft night air feathers its way over my nose, in and out of my mouth like a great snake using me as costume.

Why love is not cherished,
when did humanity lose their loyalty and replace it with the putrid stench of hate?

I hear a door open and close inside the house, a familiar sound but it stirs some resentment inside of me. I wonder what it is like to hear doors open and close in another house. They must not sound fragile and splintery like mine, they must latch closed when ushered, mustn’t they?


You pushed me from the sixty-second floor balcony and caught me on the ground

The weather feels more like it did when we got back in contact. Sporadic and exciting, I love when the blue sky rolls into heavy cloud cover and look! In the distance a storm is brewing but for now the sun still warms my black on black on black attire, the leather of my handbag is malleable with warmth.
It was a nexus of emotion that enveloped me the day you messaged out of the blue, it was just the right timing. Just like you to catch me at a crossroads with no map or compass.

My heart thud harder than it had in years. I’d just finished break at trade school and was waiting for the elevator to arrive on my floor. I felt alone surrounded by all these ditzy blondes with Kardashian contour, chattering like a flock of sheep waiting for the shepard. It was just like highschool, everything a competition and I was still the odd one out with her head down just to get through the day.

I couldn’t hear them, the ringing in my ears was more like chaos than chaos I had ever known.

Opening your message with a tremor that began in my bones and resonated through my entire body I blinked hard to see straight. You sounded curious, you sounded doubtful and all the memories I had of being a smitten sixteen year old smacked me hard in the cheek.

Every morning I still wake hoping to hit the home button on my iPhone and see your name somewhere, anywhere. Sometimes it’s a vacant, fruitless dream but a dream nonetheless. Other times my eyes are unfocused but seeking and find you written on the screen, I can barely make out the letters and entirely relying on muscle memory to unlock and type back.
Strings of days go by without your name until a vibration brings you hurtling back to me.
You always show up just in the nick of time. Always when I am begrudgingly dragging my beat up shoes down some nowhere road and I lost my direction weeks ago when a storm blew through, my map got soaked. I watched as the ink ran off the paper in an effort to take shelter on the back side of my hands, only to fall in hesitant tears to the parched earth.

Always when hope evades me like the sunshine you bottle as a child, thinking when winter comes you can open the jar in your bedroom and it’ll be summer again.

Moon swings

Of all the nights I have lived through this has felt the lowest. I have no suicidal inclinations where I once did, I have typical levels of anxiety but the weight of depression hangs from all my limbs and moving parts.
I don’t feel mechanised like I used to, I feel limber and I feel strained.
My eyelids are heavy and pleading to close but I am not ready for sleep yet. My neck feels as though my head has ballooned to contain a tonne of feathers and my feet drag along beneath me saying,
“Please no, please no more of this stepping. We are small. We are not mighty.”
Footfalls aren’t effortless in this moment, nothing is and I’m slipping under.

It’s the kind of night I imagine every other person in the world to be crawling amongst covers and limbs of their lovers. Where I am in solitude and cannot but warm my own hands.
I have bad circulation and odd proportions.
I am the goddess of structure and certainty.

Tears are careening down these solemn cheeks like bad hitmen down a highway and I am angry for being so weak, breaking so fast.
Inside my skull are dreams and desertion. All sickly sweet crème brulée but when you crack that torched surface your spoon dives deep into sticky black tar and what follows your spoon is your hand, then your arm, your shoulders, neck and torso next.
Before you know it you’ve been sucked into that ramekin and looking up the world seems pointless through the rim.

Tonight the world has fallen apart and I see nothing beyond my hands.

Tomorrow these hands will tear life apart.

In the business of psychological self-harm

I feel the studded iron ball of a flail growing heavy inside of me
a pregnancy of sorts
It was conceived of doubt in January
only to fatten as it guzzled on all my insecurities
I know a bit about conception
I know a bit about gestation
I dread the nine month wait to birth this venomous weight
Perhaps the tetravalent emotion
won’t take quite so long to mature
and when the migraine reaches its peak
I find the carbon in my gut
has become a diamond
All my diffidence compacts and
I see the beauty of myself
for myself

Subtitles on aeroplanes

I started thinking about how all I ever wanted to do was up and leave, skidaddle, scram. You know, just do like they do on the silver screen and start afresh.
The new gal in town; foreign, strange, striking with a soft gooey centre. All glossy eyed and skin illuminated with the joys of life, excitement with no fear. Epinephrine and oxytocin rushing and kissing and screaming through my system.

I began dreaming with no if’s or but’s, entire imaginary freedom.
No fucking boundaries or neigh sayer’s.

I wake up one morning in the hazy summer light with the air so much drier than I was used to. The pillows are strewn about the mattress in some kind of maddened fashion and there is a body sized trench amongst the ocean of fabric next to me. My ears are blocked and I could have sworn it was supposed to be wintertime in Australia.
I sit up with a pounding headache and stare at my feet. They seem shrunken, small as they are. I look at my hands and they seem kinder than before, the taper to my waist seems sweeter and the curve of my hips more feminine.
I’m in a queen sized bed with a dimpled, linen headboard when my bed is a single on a wooden frame. I’m in a sheet when it’s four degrees celsius outside and I haven’t any kind of heating in the house but this isn’t my bed and this isn’t my house, this is ludicrous.
It’s so bright and warmly lit in here when it’s a miserable, dreary day. Nothing but grey outside. I’m no moron, I checked the weather report sixteen times yesterday and it basically said it’s gonna be cold.
Wrapped in an oversized, tartan button-down I found on the floor I slink open the curtains to reveal gold and red and blue, slink them open and find an alien outlook. A new outlook. A new people with new accents who have to form new opinions on me and I find I am finally free.

I stopped dreaming right where my mind stood gazing up at an edwardian terrace, on the stoop of this lovelorn reverie. Stopped right where my bare soles met floorboards in that studio apartment, where I swung the windows open and the curtains billowed wistfully beside me.

Me, standing in my own imagination with everything I imagined about you standing right behind me.