my heart is gold and my hands are cold

There was a person in me – a piece of me – however you want to describe it – so damaged that she was prepared to see me dead to find peace… My violent rages, my destructive behaviour, my own need to destroy love and trust, just as love and trust had been destroyed for me… The fact that I did not value myself. I was always ready to jump off the roof of my own life. Didn’t that have a romance to it? Wasn’t that the creative spirit unbounded? No. Creativity is on the side of health – it isn’t the thing that drives us mad; it is the capacity in us that tries to save us from madness. The lost furious vicious child living alone in the bottom bog wasn’t the creative – she was the war casualty. She was the sacrifice. She hated me. She hated life.

““Whenever you smile, the sun seems to light up behind you and all I want to do it bathe in the warmth” - Unknown”

“You love so quietly, baby. Sometimes, I forget you’re even there. Whispers pressed against skin in the cold of night. Nose to nose, I wonder if our freckles align like constellations that fell to tell stories of forgotten space. I wonder if they shattered the wall between us and somewhere else, expecting to one day rebuild, but they never got around to it. Which left a hole, gaping and empty; a constant reminder of what was once there, and now, is not.”