Static In The Margins

The first time I laid eyes on him was

unexpected;

a surprise that took my breath away.

He was perfect:

same eyes,

same hair,

same smile,

but different in a way no one else had seen.

Second time his smile grew;

morphed into an unknown beauty.

Eyes shining with tears –

happy ones for a change.

Unknown but still familiar.

Different enough.

For now.

Third time he stayed longer than planned.

Days.

Alone.

Just him.

There was a pandemic after all…

Then he vanished for a year or so.

Hidden away.

Out of sight.

Out of mind.

But the door had been opened.

The world had changed…

so had he.

He grew brave.

Learned to be free.

Now I thank the universe for letting me see

or whiskey.

By hand.

In pencil.

And it was good…

mostly.

Now I’ve switched

to tea

that tastes like dessert.

A drop of rum

to loosen the hinges

when creativity’s caged.

Tapping keys and cursing printers:

Devil’s spawn.

I wrote better with wine and whiskey.

Faster.

Prettier.

Pages filled with words that hummed.

It’s truer now.

No lies.

No hiding.

Just me and

I died again recently.

For days,

I was a corpse –

it was necessary. Essential.

I rotted some too.

Just enough.

To delay

the next

inevitable

demise.

The tomb: a self-constructed,

airless vault;

delaying re animation.

Drawing out numbness.

On the surface,

I haven’t changed –

camouflage-smiles.

Furled. alone. purgatory. limbo?

Nighttime: a looping hellscape.

Daytime: fashionably late.

Shadows creeping, twitches uncontrolled.

Overstimulating silence compounding chaos.

The balance doesn't fit.

Questioning words: turning themselves upside down.

Glaring at the phone like it's the enemy.

How do I find a balance that fits?

Solace found unexpectedly in numbers –

they don't lie, can't deceive.

Honest confusion – no games – truth.

Venturing into the world: no longer needed.

Ignoring friends. Safer for them – and me.

It's the only way to find my balance.

Monstrous white pills to keep the monsters away.

Mist turns to fog and darkness – can't think.

Never finding balance – not really.

Furled and waiting for the pendulum to swing—

bring me into the light.

TW: retelling of child abuse, no detail, representative of trauma processing, possible dissociation.

She was beautiful –

on the outside.

She was a victim.

And I was hers.

Her laugh was magical…

But scary.

Her hair was perfect.

Devilish red with a hint of grey.

He was tall, young and handsome.

A loud brute.

He listened to music.

When it was safe.

He had trauma –

he paid it forward.

She was worshipped,

by a child who knew no better.

He was feared.

By everyone who knew him well…enough.

She was smart –

except with him.

He was stupid.

That’s what people thought.

My life was happy.

On occasion.

My life was normal.

a lie I refuse to give up.

My life was hell.

There’s an open door

I refuse to close.

Just in case…

We’ll revisit.

It’s been agreed.

Love was enough,

wasn’t it?

Nope.

That was wrong.

In this moment

anyway.

Distance became the enemy.

So did love.

And work.

And time.

And life.

Home felt like a cage:

Too small.

Too far.

Too empty.

Love made me lonely.

How does that work?

I missed his smell.

His touch.

His voice.

His smile.

Love is still there –

clinging to us both.

Is this purgatory?

An open door

that I refuse

What does mental health mean to you?

For me it's the happy days.

The sad days –

the days I wish I wasn't.

It's every day, every minute, every micro second.

Looking at the clutter building.

Hearing my voice change.

Seeing people look at me different…

With concern.

My bath being delayed… for days.

Organising everything: books, clothes, cupboards.

Cleaning carpets every week.

Writing becomes ritual – escapism.

Jobs half started before distraction

then dropped for something new

Thinking the world is against me

Or everyone in it loves me

Forgetting to eat

Eating too much

Sleeping

Watching people live their lives

Being cautious

Suddenly silent

Can't trust

Can't sleep

Mental health for me is never knowing.

Jars of screws

floating

under shelves

of tools.

Forks and spades

hanging

neatly on a

wall.

Books.

Stacked.

Tall.

On.

Every.

Surface.

Polo wrappers

scat-

terd

amongst the

clutter.

A desk

so clean

it looks

Worse than night terrors

Rumination each long night

I take Sharpie to skin:

writing,

doodling,

making notes.

Adding to his ink.

He watches

smiling

laughing –

saying sorry

when I’m nudged.

His fingers

Run though my hair:

soft,

gentle,

comforting.

We call them annotations.

Scribbles about the day.

How it felt.

What was done.

What wasn’t?

Today was good –

mostly…

I watch him breathe.

Watch him flinch –

he’s sensitive there.

I smile.

He replies.

Nonsense added

to skin.

Secrets shared –

but safe.

They’ll be hidden.

Then washed away.

Cleansed from my mind.

Cleansed from his body.

Cleansed from the world.