You have my word

One word can change your life.

Tag: blog

Fall asleep in the airwaves

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I don’t know if she’ll wake up. I keep my lips close to hers so she can take my air if hers is stolen. She takes my breath away. I give it freely to make space for the place she deserves in my chest.

Her chest heaves with the creaks of years weighted under worlds and wars. She has conquered them all. I lie next to her and wonder, at what cost? How many lives has she lost to find her way home – to sleep in this bed.

Rest now sweet warrior. Rest in peace but not in death. Let the armies carry your guns. Let the children pick flowers for your hair from branches higher than they can reach. Let other mothers lift up your hands. Let me kiss the top of your head.

You are one with my breath. I will watch over, walk with you. Will you let me catch you if you lose your ground? Let me hold you in the grip of your groans while the sky breathes heavy in the dark?

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Nobody puts baby in the corner

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Nobody puts baby in the corner. But he did. And it wasn’t the first time. And it wasn’t the last time. And it wasn’t the worst time – she’d been through hotter hells than this a thousand times before. He thought he could save her – pull her up by her hair – help her escape from the flames. So he buried her in water. A daily funeral where her blood became part of the rush into her lungs, her mouth, her emptiness. He could never fill her emptiness. No one could. No one can. No amount of pills or drugs or sex or rock and roll me another joint.

Get me off. (Get off me.) I need another hit. (Stop hitting me.) Let’s tie the knot. (Untie me please.) I love you. (Leave me.) Don’t make me beg for it. (I’m begging you not to.) You enrage me. (You rape me.)

She lives like this. She dies like this. Broken ribs. Bruised lips. Limbs out of sockets. Torn ligaments. No treats, only tricks. Stupid bitch folded into a paper bird and thrown from the sixth story. Someone else is writing her story. Bound ankles and wrists. Hoisted like a crucifix – her head bowed like a flag at half mast. A mourning that can’t be missed though she’ll hide it as best she can. Windows boarded up with black eyes and long sleeves. Trips to the store like he doesn’t treat her like a whore. Everything is fine. Everything is fine.

Everything is falling apart. A fine line between being teased and being tortured. Pins and needles thrust into skin – a sickly voodoo – threading through flesh he tries to stitch her up again. She doesn’t even flinch. Her skin knows needles like the back of her hand. The marks, the scars, the car going too fast to get away from here. Anywhere. If only she didn’t have to ask. He guards the keys like she’s the last prisoner to leave. He keeps her. He keeps her in cupboards and behind closed doors, in confined spaces of his clasp-grasp-gasp for air, love. If you fight it’ll only be worse. I don’t want to but I’ll force you to.

Do as you’re told. Let me hold your hand, waist, throat. Don’t you dare scream. If you open your mouth you won’t eat for days. For weeks. He will starve her soul from her stomach. He can’t fill her void but he can make it his own. Make a home in her spine. He will call himself a god – divine. He pulls the strings, the nerves, the ending. He stops the clock. Get up. Get up. Get up. Stop. Walk. Go. Come. Come. Come here. Get lost. She is lost. She belongs to him.

Will she ever win?

 

The places I have travelled, you

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You say: you are poetry.

I say: you have me undone in three words.

You say: I don’t know what to say.

I say: don’t say anything.

You say: I am in love with a writer.

I say: I am in love with the sunrise. I am awake.

Like a train frames the movement of a bride on her wedding day,

so the sun only sets to frame the trail you leave in the darkness for me to find my way.

Your eyes. Like fireflies. Vibrant. Alive. Bright.

On my bucket list there stands: see the Northern Lights. Aurora Borealis.

That was before there was an us.

I could look at you and feel like I’d seen the world – like I’d met everyone there was to meet, like I’d tasted India and walked Rome and surfed Fiji and climbed Everest and loved every land I let my feet shake hands with.

Your hands. Like oak tree branches. Strong. They know their place. Safe.

I’m that chocolate lad. Not sweet like you’d think; that was never me.

I am dark, through and through.

I am my darkest when I am with you.

Bitter to those who aren’t accustomed to the taste, but you have let me melt on your tongue,

you have let my tongue melt the creases of your waist, the small of your back…

relax into me. I will hold you safe.

I don’t have fancy words to make you stay.

I don’t have instructions for a bad day.

I don’t know any languages other than my eyes to ask you not to leave.

I’ve never even been overseas.

Right now in this instance, it feels like we’re oceans apart so maybe that counts for something?

So when people ask me where I’ve been and what I’ve seen?

I’ll simply tell them I’ve travelled your spine, and scaled your ribs and held handfuls of breast

that I’m sure even the monks would profess

the gods made just for me.

The magic of Maybe and falling in love

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I really have to stop falling in love with Maybe. When I was young I thought I’d never feel these things and now I can’t seem to stop. Stop. Stop? God. Don’t stop. Carry on. A little faster. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop me from falling. I only want to halt when I hit the bottom.

A beautiful, broken, bashful, bandaged, blundering fool of a boy who – despite having crashed from such great heights – still manages to feel like he has too many limbs attached and too many teeth that slow the words or simply stand close enough to remind his lips not to kiss you. Yet.

You’ll think it funny that at the bottom of Maybe I exist between a rock – your grace – and a hard place: this short, tempting and terrifying distance from your face. Maybe you noticed that when I startled and became aware of your eyes tracing my face, I was inexplicably and profoundly attuned to how lost my hands were.

Maybe all of me was lost, because for a good part of the next hour, most of my thoughts skirted the boundary of: “Why does it feel like I have hands for the first time? How do I use them? Do they even work?”

The bashful boy at the bottom of Maybe is quietly conscious of your hands. He wants to hold them just like you’d hold a pen. He wishes he were a pen – tangled in your fingers, chewed on occasionally and used when you needed him like some kind of magic.

I really have to stop falling in love with Maybe. But maybe I can’t. Maybe that’s ok. Maybe it’s my bashful boyish blessing to keep tumbling – fumbling with my hands, your skin (thin frame) at the mercy of this chaotic descent.

It’s not even dark and I can’t steady the shakes. Maybe I am here alone. Maybe I can love myself without the light.