the moment love has passed
i could have done more. i could have done more, i should have, and then we could have been brilliant. instead i dallied, i dawdled, i daydreamed and now. now you're cold and I'm shivering. i didn't think this would happen, because i didn't ever think. i thought there would be battle, that there would be war. i never thought that maybe it'd all be my fault. that the bruises we sported would have been my handwork. christ, how was i so childish about something so important?
and now you're dressed in white and i'm curled in the churchyard, my gut cramping and my heart spinning.
look what i've done. everything we said we stood for, i ruined. i lied and i betrayed you. i turned traitor the way i draw breath - involuntarily. you thought it was a joke, that i was cloaking myself in the stereotype of troubled little girl. i thought it was a joke, that i was robbing the darkness. now though, now surely you must see that i was a lie from the beginning.
the discourses i vomited on religion, on faith, on fear, did they have any merit? please tell me that i've left something in your mind, a constant question that will make you work harder, make your trust tougher to earn. tell me that i've improved you, by hurting you. in this modern morbid world, you were always too tender.
when it kicks like a sleep twitch
five days. five days since. well. it's easier to say five days since i've slept. i could tell you about the physical effects - how the past two days have seen me throw up any food i try to put in my body, how people think i've been punched. but you aren't interested in that. you want to know what happened. i could lie, tell you something pretty, tell you that global warming has got me scared. tell you i'm on contract, waiting for destiny. but i've lied so often that it's gotten boring. the truth feels like cold water now - y'know, when you drink it too fast and your chest seizes up. like a vice. it's refreshing, in it's own way, i guess. different to the numbness on the back of my tongue lying brings. sorry, i said i wasn't going to talk about the physical. i can't help it. my world's based on the physicality of things, so that i don't have to deal with the emotional bullshit talking things. deconstructing stuff. i'm not very good at talking about that. i'm not very good at talking, now that i've been awake for five days. this morning i found myself incapable of focusing on the newspaper; the headlines rearranging themselves to form satanic messages of grief. four days ago i felt my mind turn to lead. an hour ago i felt weightlessness consume me. i can't give you any excuses. none that you'll believe. but it's been five days, and i'm awake. it hurts, it must hurt the way being a god does, where i can feel everything and it hurts. i can't wait until this is over, i'll sleep in gutters, on trains, in libraries, on supermarket floors. when this is over, i'll sleep like the dead.
every little piece
the first time someone forgot my name. the second time someone acted like we'd slept together. the third time someone attacked me for being a burglar. with a teapot. they missed, but when the teapot hit the wall, the spout shattered and left my cheek scarred. the fourth fifth sixth seventh eighth ninth billionth time all blend together, and now i'm used to it. i must have one of those faces, one of those personalities that just aren't very memorable. it's weird, because my clothes are bright and i make a point of making eye contact - the old "make them watch one hand while you're robbing them with the other". people ought to remember me. but they don't. and because they don't remember me, they don't really care about me. it's not their fault, don't get righteous on my part. there's clearly nothing for them to remember. and that's where the humour and the hurt come in. it;s hysterical, because people make such bizarre assumptions - that i'm a witch, a vagrant. but the hurt, when someone thinks i'm a long lost sister, a dead mother - it's a wall of grief because i'm not that person, and we all want me to be. because if i was, then i'd be remembered and loved. as it is i'm just a continual disappointment. so i've learnt to hide in the shadows, i've learnt to look at my feet more than people's faces. and then you come along with your wretched shining armour knight complex, and look at me, and its a guttural sound trying to claw it's way through my body, it's more than grief, it's desolation. you won't remember me in the morning. and in a week, i won't remember you. you'll blend in, number three hundred and seventy eight billion.