of being the same girl,
i want to fall from a skyscraper
listen to the hollow sound as i fall
and feel my life drain out of my fingertips
skip 80
the old man who stowed the bags
recognized my face
it embarrassed me
no chance to say i loved him
but he already knew
his face from the escalator
and at 8:45
the thumbprint of mascara
my panda eyes
he never mentioned it
even though it was on that side of my face
now i know why the travellers stared
and he did too
but for a different reason
time
and so i am here
doubled over
thinking of nothing
thinking of everything
searching
scouring
sulking for my half filled heart
pining for my half filled book
and for people that feel like home
all this clutter
and all these things
clementine peels
dried out ink cartridges
stray cutlery
unwashed clothes
the inside of my brain
where i just want to throw everything out the window
and start again
but the book was there
just where a book ought to be kept
beautiful people
i wanted to reach out and hold
the ones that feel like home
grasping at butterflies
slipping through the invisible fingers between my own fingers
sick; because my only acknowledgement of ever passing time
was the length of my hair
to acknowledge the burden that everything is temporary
and that everything is forever
maybe
maybe i will tell you.
maybe when the sunshine hits your face through the kitchen window in the morning. and you are sitting with your guitar on your lap, messing around with some chords. and i will be by the window with my green tea, and knees to my neck, and clutching that book we both know i will never reach the other cover of and i will look up and say,
‘i …. …’
and it would be over
and it would be as simple (and as complex) as that. and whatever came next, well that would be the hardest part. between that clicking that the clock refuses to stop and the lump in my throat that refuses to lie low.
maybe i would end up, organs down, face muffled by a pillow, refusing to allow any light to enter from the sides that think i forgot about them, that thought they could filter past my woven eyelashes. and you would place your hand in the valley between my shoulder blades and you would say,
‘am i just making it worse?’
or maybe
just maybe
you would look at me and say
‘i …. … …’
and I would sip my tea
and you would play your chords
and we would say nothing more
bleed on all the books you borrow
forget my freckles
forget my flaws
just
scribbles on skin
tiny smoke signals
penicillin for my wounded throat
pencils for my wounded head
lungs that quit
a heart that retreats
box
that one crooked wall
i’ve been losing sleep
living here too long
torn like a paper doll
night
the night falls
it is only me
and the rattling door
the salty water
rolling like a river
the smell of burnt out candle wax
like my hollowed out eyes
burnt out everything
the night falls
and it is only me
my burnt out memories
my dreams of ash
you and i
an imaginary pile of cinders
thread
the ribbon in my hair
the bow of my lips
the tying of my tongue
the rope round my neck
the knot in my stomach
the string round my finger
the cord that trips me up
101
brave with blood on knuckles
indian ink stained indian skin
castles instead of wedding bands
snow
It starts in the snow. In the middle of nowhere. Where the horizon spans for 360 degrees but the line is so blurred that the horizon doesn’t even matter. Each falls silently. One by one. One, after the other. Each dies alone. Each dies in unison. At least you thought it was silent anyway. Until the sea in your eardrum settles, until the calmness is impossible to ignore. And then you hear them. One by one. One, after the other. A finger tapping on a table. Then a hand. Then one million hands. Four million fingers. Suddenly each journey of descent is deafening. Each one a dizzying mix of circus freaks, flashing lights, car horns, screeching monkeys and bells on elephants. Too much percussion; you’d say. Pulsating in your veins and spilling out into your baited breath. Dialated pupils; black pools of everything and nothingness. Blood scrambles to the surface, frantic for an exit, searching, and finding nothing; except that layer of skin that you are so obsessive compulsive about keeping intact. As if one day it’d decide it had enough of you and your neuroses, and it would pack its bags, and never look back.
funny how
its funny how
we ended
all black and white
turning cards, starting anew
when you know
colors are my whole world
(or do i mean,
black and blue?)
walking, waiting
walking through the cemetery
waiting for you to wake up
it’s like a crowded auditorium
