Woe is me
I am incapable of living life without
It’s detrimental to my
But it’s all okay
It’s all going to be okay
For the love I emit is pure and
sweet and I cannot breathe without feeling
the agony of it all
And I’m such a romantic
Woe is me
I have bared myself until I have haemorrhaged onto pages
with tear sodden script
Torn at my skin
to show you
we bleed just the same
just the same
just the same
But, unlike you, I have no fear
for what the future holds
for He blessed me with life
He graced me with words
He burdened me with impossible love
and a lack of disqiuetude
Woe is me
Perhaps I am a naive soul
Perhaps I took regard for reality
peered into its filthy little eyes
and laid my stiletto deep into its throat
Perhaps I am but a fool
a dazed, dim, deficient
I’m fucking sad.
I guess, I might not be here much
alternatively I could be here more….
True love is admitting things most raw and ugly
while simultaneously holding eye contact
even through tears
especially through embarrassment
It’s support in the face of reality
and support in the face of fantasy
It’s unwavering intimacy;
even in public
even in the rain
especially behind closed doors
It’s allowing one another to be small and vulnerable
picking up pieces
even the tiniest of fragments
especially when it doesn’t benefit you directly
It’s absolute trust and sheer faith
transparency when all you want to be is opaque
It’s a profound itch to conform to one another’s desires
even if they seem surface level insignificant
especially if they generate physical reaction
True love is being told it is so
True love is seeing a break and rather than mending it
it’s declaring its beauty
True love is depth, width and length
For without depth you can have neither width
But if I’m being honest,
what is the point of
When you close your eyes and hold your hands out to meet mine in this empty space between our bodies does your heart beat a little faster? Or when you smell my perfume on your pillow? Or when our voices intermingle in the air before us and we can practically see the vibrations kissing?
‘Cause we’re both sensitive and mine does.
Now close your eyes while my hands are held perfectly in yours, because we were made to fit together, darling. Imagine within you is a castle, absolutely palatial and exquisite. Walk me through it.
Let’s avoid the grandest most beautiful rooms for now.
Show me all your secret passageways and the rooms you’ve swallowed keys for. I know you’re suspiciously skilled at picking locks so you can’t stammer excuses and expect me to dance right by those big, iron padlocks but if you wanna leave them for later I’ll apply no pressure. I’m light and soft and I’ll do as you tell me.
Show me the rooms where the doors hang from their hinges and creak in the breeze of us, show me how many spiders you’ve collected in the depths of this place. Show me what you have become so fond of hiding.
Now, tell me why?
Introduce me to the memories of your ex girlfriends and how glamorous their suites are, show me who broke your heart and let me hold it tenderly to show you how it now beats. Allow me to dine with Depression, Anxiety, Loss and Fear for they are handsome emotions which need speaking with to understand.
Please, take me to your chapel. Show to me your stained glass windows, your tapestries and your crucifix. Where the floor is beginning to conform from all those years on your knees and see how mine fit perfectly within your very personal hollows?
Which is your favourite pew?
Now, tell me why?
I’m gonna muster all the sarcasm I can right now and just say it
I love how much I get to hurt and how many
tears I spill
how I dehydrate
until I look like a tanned hide
ready for working
before anything postive comes my way
I’m gonna be honest here
I know it is for the best
For the suffering and struggle of life
is where it is decided
DO YOU DESERVE GOOD?
Do you lay beneath miles of ocean
looking hopelessly up
where you think that perhaps you see a flicker of sunlight
but it is most likely only pressure
popping pockets of something in your brain
You’re looking hopelessly up but that doesn’t mean you aren’t moving
With every second of every moment you are reaching,
reaching and walking and striding
though still your body is stagnant
Premature rigor mortis
This is where you feel depression slink on over
She’s wearing a black, sequin gown
Painted on brows and this thick
glossy, red lip
Gloves; too long
Heels; too high
and she kisses your ear, runs her tongue over your jaw
She’s a temptress tempting you to give the fuck in
allow your drowned days to knit together
so that every waking moment feels like
Then your phone rings
you got the job
You can finally get home
I spent two nights housesitting for my old neighbours in Elsternwick last week, before the surgery. I miss them, you know, like how you miss a friend with far more wisdom or who’s done a lot more stupid shit than you.
They have children. Kid sitting for them one night made me realise just how much I want children. They’re the coolest parents.
Fuck it. They’re the coolest people.
I spent two nights in a house by myself with a greyhound and two cats. So, I guess that makes three cats it’s just that one is very big and nervous and takes walks with you.
I spent two nights wishing you were housesitting with me just so we could play house.
On Sunday I went for chai with a friend. He’s got this girlfriend who captivates his soul. The way he speaks about her is true love, I can see his eyes are always with her. Even when she’s not around and it’s beautiful.
After that I spent the night at my sisters house. Trying not to think about the surgery I just wanted to text you and feel closer. Like maybe when you talk to someone about love they can see your eyes are with me. They can feel part of your soul pitter pattering away into the darkness to find me.
And maybe when I’m finally by your side you’d show me off to them
“Look! Look how beautiful she is!
See how her dress swirls when I spin her?
See how kept she is?
See how she is mine?!”
I spent two nights housesitting dreaming of a time where just maybe the house is ours, we have our own silly animals and our very own children to shape and to watch grow.
Above all else:
we have each other
Strip me top to tail
take me for your own and
I’ll but nod
Only the word
will emerge from betwixt these studded lips
But throw me beneath the clinical lights of theatre
“Says your down for a hysteroscopy”
Watch my eyes close tight
Fear and anxiety envelop me
like the gentle folds of paper around the letter I wrote so carefully
and watched you burn as you looked into my eyes
It was a dreamscape
You’re crippling of me
It wasn’t real
But the surgeon
a subsiding reminder
that perhaps I don’t work in the same way that you work
perhaps it’s not quite right
and perhaps I’m broken
But I deserve love
l o v e
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.
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?
you’re dumb now.
You’re an emotion?
Not for me right now,
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.
Like senseless, wounding switchblade
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
Fuck, that hurt
Dunno if you realise you cut me
Wonder if you’ll notice the scar next time you undress me
while you’re teetering on the lace edge of