You again, damnit

I keep thinking about how I want to write something but I’m so lacking words. Nothing seems powerful enough to convey how I feel and do it justice. I don’t even just want to write; I need to. 

I can’t wrangle these words right even with relative perspective. Even when I imagine you were sitting beside me reading your favourite prose, I can’t think straight. I can’t even think bent right now. 

Perhaps I just can’t cope with the idea of disrespecting words on a page, whatever kind of page they land on. Stringing a sentence that doesn’t make sense to be immortalised in text format makes me sick. Even if this text is just buzzing around some quiet corner of the internet, minding its own business. 

But I need to write. 

I think I’m scared that I’ll write you too much. The more I re-read myself the more I see you in my work and it feels like confirmation; heartache. Love. 

I’d want to marry a poet. 

Imagine our vows. They’d be enough to make you gag. 

I’d want to marry a creative, an expressive soul brimming with emotion and words and sound. Let them paint every room in my heart with colour and with notes. I’d want to marry a man of some faith or connection, wholehearted spirit. 

At this time I feel dark. Dark and heavy and somber. Every day I hurt to some degree. Some days are far worse, so much so that I can’t leave my bed for I am stricken with heartache. It’s missing you, I always miss you. 

I miss you serenading me with love songs in my studio. I miss you laying atop me with your ear between my breasts, hearing my rhythm, my fingers in your hair. Fully clothed, just laying. 

I suppose I just have to remember that if you see a light in the dark and blink real quick whilst making semi-convincing sound effects then any light in the dark can seem like a firework.

I’d want to marry you.  

Epiphanies only hit you AFTER you’ve been fucked over

Sometimes I have these types of ‘flashes’ of realisation and sometimes I hate those fucking moments ’cause they burst bubbles or whatever. Then, on the other end of the scale, sometimes those instances bring such pure joy and enlightenment. 
I get mad because it feels so good but I had to step in dog shit like, what? Six times? Before I even had the ability to see it’s silhouette let alone its stupid face. 

Oh yeah, that’s definitely something I do. 

I call things ‘dumb’ or ‘stupid’ when really I know full well they’re not. It’s just that sometimes I am and for some reason I feel like I have to project that onto all of the things. 

You’re an inanimate object?

Nahhhh,

you’re dumb now. 

You’re an emotion?

Not for me right now,

you’re stupid. 

And I guess if I were to sit down and process that entirely I’d come to the conclusion that it’s my child self attempting to preserve my adult self. I guess that’s the only way it knows how. 
My adult self is nurturing and loves children so it’s like “awwwh thank you, sweetie” while the noose of depression let’s out a textured sigh as it slips through itself and around my neck. 

“Isn’t this book wonderful?”

Help her to turn her back to me while the pressure mounts my throat. I’m losing colour quickly, oxygen feels like yesterday’s luxury when…. 

one of those realisations jumps into frame. 

So, now I guess I’ve stepped in dog shit about sixty thousand times AND felt the rough love of a veteran rope whispering its sweet nothings through the knot of my hair into the knot of my brain. What I’m trying to work out next is how to encourage the reality before I’ve fallen over. Otherwise, I guess, I could make grazed knees Springs new fashion trend. 

I guess some scars look like stretchmarks

Like dagger
Like senseless, wounding switchblade
click
gold; chrome’s not enough
You wield words sometimes teetering on sharp edges
sometimes blindfolded, too, ’cause baby,
I know you’re one for a thrill
Arms up,
screaming,
running
Fuck, that hurt
Dunno if you realise you cut me
Wonder if you’ll notice the scar next time you undress me
eyes wide
while you’re teetering on the lace edge of
my lingerie

Roll the r on romance

I think I’m a serial romancer. 

Not in the way that I frequently romance anyone but in the way that I romanticise. 

Think about dying. About being dead. About how once you are dead dying doesn’t matter anymore, it’s no longer a fear or anxiety. Think about being pronounced dead and being buried with a string tied to your finger leading to the surface with a bell attached. The most beautiful bell you have ever seen and the ribbon is blue, gentle, sweet, imitating the shadow shade. Imagine it is night in the cemetery and your bell is still and glinting in the moonlight. It’s a just-in-case bell, it’s a ring-if-you-need-me bell. Think about how even if it rang no one would hear because these are times and traditions lost on modern society. 
Romantic. 

I’ve forgotten how to breathe through my lungs. I was fourteen and took singing lessons from a world class opera singer. She taught me to breathe from my diaphragm; “it’s all about control, Camille”. Now breathing where you watch my chest rise and fall only happens when I’m with you. 

It’s lack of control. It’s fucking romantic. 

Think about the Victorian era where it took several women to dress a single woman. The intimacy of sliding those lush fabrics over her delicate skin. Think about the lacing of her corset. Think about the crushing of her organs. Ahhh, imagine being dressed like that. A booted foot on your derrière as the strings pull tight about your marionette body, breath shortened with every tug but my oh my your waist looks divine, darling. 
Romantic. 

Asphyxiation. Pressure. Submission. Think about being all used up at the mere whim of another. Think about lazily strolling through the only place on earth that takes your breath right from you lungs and then laughs at your suffocation. Imagine it’s late November, it’s cold, you’re wrapped in a mink coat. Leather gloves and a long skirt but you weren’t allowed undergarments and at the time you didn’t know why, you didn’t know where you were going. Think about laying a picnic blanket down, taking a cup of hot chai to your mouth and tonguing the rim. Think about taking that first mouthful with your eyes closed because you want your senses acutely tuned and feeling a sudden pressure on your throat accompanied by a string of demands. 
Romantic. 

Think about the number seven. Feel it slick through your teeth, subtle on your tongue and notice how you bite your bottom lip upon overpronouncing the number. Imagine this number was significant in so many multiple ways specifically to you, to your life. Think about how often it occurs in the choicest of moments. It’s stupid but it means something monumental. 
Romantic. 

Candlelit anything. Dinner, bath, shower, candlelit lounging lax in nothing. Music to slow our heartbeats and kisses to fasten the pace. Dancing shadows on our bodies, we watch and trace and pupils widen in the dimness of it all. The romance is obscenely present. Chokingly so. The fitting and unfitting, touching and tickling, it’s all so enchanting. 

I’m a neo-traditionalist. I have a dream where I’m your housewife. Dinner on the table at half seven ’cause that’s just when you like it. House is perfectly clean with clutter, I fuss over you but not too much. I wear my nightgown into the morning, until you’re done with breakfast and you’ve showered first. 

Think about me rolling r’s with you. Think about me in your kitchen. Imagine you open your eyes every morning and it’s my face, my stupid face that makes you all happy every time. 
Think about when you can’t sleep under the weight of it all and then think about your little bird curled around you in bed, stroking your hair and singing Ella Fitzgerald or Billie Holiday just specially for you. Imagine waking from a nightmare and being soothed in an instant. 

Think about all the strangest things, the most taboo. Imagine being in my head, they are romanticised beyond belief. 

E Dale

We stood bare foot with painted nails on the stoop of my studio
where once we first stepped timidly
together
heel, toe
heel
toe
And you carried my bags
Even though they weighed something like forty-four pounds
and I said not to worry about it
Thunder spoke through the walls and we listened, ushered outside
It stormed around us
With my arms crossed behind your neck I leant on you
cheek on your shoulder
pressed tight against your back,
doused in the smell of a summer storm in The Springs
rain playfully polka dotting our tee-shirts
I was scared that you would forget me
You sang to me,
in blue and white sheets you sang
You were quietly nervous, I think
I wore peach vintage nylon and lace and no makeup
You watched every move I made sensitively
ready to catch me as I stumbled over unfamiliar terrain
stop me from stepping into traffic because the cars are on the wrong side of the road here
You opened doors for me
the car door and
every door I ever dared dream of; there you were
standing beside
with your shirt unbuttoned almost one button too many
pushing up your aviators and killing me with that smile
Holding the door to my home wide open
You paced beside the bed in heeled boots and spoke to me avidly
Told me your stories
hushed when you recalled hurt
and I watched your mouth curl when you spoke of happiness
I saw your eyes as you heard me say
“I love you”
It was the night before I left
they flickered, you might have been trying not to cry and I kissed you
I think you heard my soul while you held me
tracing patterns over the garden of my back
giving me valleys and peaks and my very own rose bed
On borrowed time I was your little bird
and I am
and I always will be

Here and now

Everything is getting on my nerves 

All my gears have been ground 

All these sounds are too loud

Everyone is obnoxiously human and 

I have approximately sixty wits end’s right now 

they’ve all peaked 

My brain has reached maximum capacity

it’s starting to feel underqualified

overestimated 

Everything is encroaching where it shouldn’t be

There is no space for me 

here

I’ll be home soon

In seven days I fell absolutely in love with you
not that I didn’t already love you
I always had
You looked me in the eye with all your friends behind us
at the antique mall
and you said 

you’re so pretty

We were spoilt amongst the most beautiful things 
and I didn’t know what to say so I giggled and looked at my feet, 
red hot flush on my cheeks
Obvious but I don’t think anyone knew

At my studio you kissed me and when I asked how it felt you said 
I was sating a parched mans thirst 
You set a fire alight inside of me, all my extremities warmed for the very first time
I showered as you laid in my bed
I sang for you from behind my water wall with the bathroom door open
used it to keep me from embarrassment, keep my shy at bay 
And when I finally laid beside you 
wrapped in vintage nylon and lace 
you gifted me your voice, parcelled in ribbon 
Each night you left me in that studio
and I knew it was my fault
You couldn’t stay because I wasn’t staying
But, my dear
I’ll be home soon
where mountains grow tall into the sky
where the streets are wide and welcoming
where I can sip on a chai latte surrounded by my family crying tears of laughter
where you stand with open arms
and we 
just 
fit 

I will be home 

soon