true north means my hands find yours in the dark.

you are swimming through the walls of the chapel. I am cracking my knuckles in the quiet house. bubbles in the stained glass, you are breathing in the water. I am twisting my hair round my fingers. I am sitting in the dark. you are gasping and twitching on the floor of the last pew. it starts snowing when I hold my breath. the alter is a glass tank full of salt water. I am crawling up the stairs on bloody knees. there is only so much prayer. there is only so much song.

I am lost, floating / I am collapsing in on myself / in time I will turn cold

stop. somewhere there is fruit. somewhere there is life worth living. somewhere there is someone waiting for you. stop. you have to wade through the water sometimes. I don't mean pretend the flood isn't there, or that the water isn't swirling and dirty and trying to pull you down. I just mean if you quit walking you quit being alive. stop. the sun rose yesterday morning and it rose today and it will rise tomorrow. stop. somewhere the fruit is rotting. somewhere the life you wanted is falling apart. someone there is still someone waiting for you. stop. the grass is green beneath your feet and the sun is warm and yellow on your face. there are bees flocking to flowers in every field forever; as long as there are daisies children will be making daisy chains. stop. even if sharks are circling it doesn't mean you are in danger. stop. most species of shark have never harmed a human. stop. somewhere a fruit seed is germinating. somewhere the life you fought for is blooming. somewhere your lover is waiting for you and they are holding out their hand. start.

tonight im busy telling the man in my head to leave me alone. yesterday i had tea with the ghost of my friend and he told me everything he was sorry for. the list wasn’t nearly long enough. the man in my head is dancing around jupiter or maybe neptune or is it mars? whichever is most full of war and rage and longing for soft sunsets. my dead friend told me he used to love me and i had to smile like i didnt know that six years ago. like he didnt tell me. the man in my head is diving for pearls and destroying shells for their insides, and he does it recklessly like he does everything else. without thinking twice about the blood billowing out in the water. my friend, who maybe isnt dead but maybe is now, spins a story of mothers and geography teachers and snakes and weapons of mass destruction held in the hands of a shaking child. im trying really hard not to listen, to let the cricket sounds fill my head with their incessant rain and thunder. the man in my head is angry at me; canine teeth and sharp shards of bone dig into the flesh of my forearm. ive become a transmission tower for guilt. the ghost who haunts my daydreams is crying in my arms and i havent felt this electric in years. im not sure whos meant to be forgiving who anymore. 

im ill and im emotional and I haven't been able to sleep. I miss writing. I fear I have become uninspired and boring. my past reveals itself in everything I do and as much as I run from it, I cannot escape it entirely. I miss Clara. and being 14. there are pieces of myself left in every hardwood floor I have ever walked on, every friends sofa I have slept on, every tree climbed as a child. I dislike the idea of being constantly perceived and yet I am always performing. I like the length my hair is right now but I look forward to Sophie being able to plait it again. I miss my garden. I want to feel endless again, connected to the universe and the trees and the rain. I cannot be contained by this body alone. I am more than myself and I belong to more than myself. I miss not being ill, I always take breathing for granted. I want to sleep in the grass. 

but you were supposed to come and visit me here. sleep in my childhood home. I was going to take you to all of my secret places, let you into the town that raised me. maybe it's for the best you were never here at all. I can't miss an ache that never bruised. you would’ve poisoned all that is holy to me, my favourite graveyard, the chalk pits, the river. still I wanted to watch you talk to me knee deep in the grass. I wanted to listen to your voice as I dragged you through the woods by my house. I would have kissed you by my primary school church, in my kitchen, on the bridge with all the tourists. maybe its for the best

I’m standing in my kitchen hoping someone will wander into my life and fix something. It doesn't have to be a big thing. The bathroom tap has been dripping for weeks. Can anyone help me? The thing inside the water is now in my sink. It's in my house. It’s down the rabbit hole and it's in the dirt. The beach has caught on fire. The ground has caught on fire. The last of the snow has melted.

I spoke to the river on the phone for three hours this afternoon. she would answer back in splashes and bubbles and surprisingly solid life advice. “I bit clean through a fingernail and drew blood but in my dreams everyone has glow in the dark bones. you can go to a museum and see rows and rows of shark teeth lighting up the room”. the river found this all fascinating, I twirled the cord around my finger as she ebbed and flowed down the line. there's always something sharp shoved into my pocket and I pretend its for protection. “im hungry for something inedible, its making me insatiable. I woke up this morning with honey in my mouth”. the river nodded and crashed, eroding and abrasive. washing away sins. 

the quiet in your room at 3am lulls me to sleep more often then I want it to. if I am real why can't I fall asleep alone? I wake up when the light creeps in and watch your chest rise to make sure you're breathing. and ill keep asking you how you are and you will keep lying to me and we will both keep pretending everything is okay.