Dear Lydia, 

I miss you, it feels stupid even writing that down, like what i’m feeling can be written the same way a postcard begins, the way an email to someone off sick begins. It’s like i’m crushing weeks of crying and ranting and panic attacks, disassociating and throwing up and more crying, into three little words, the same way I used to stuff weeks worth of clothes into my tiny suitcase, except this time I don’t have you to sit on top so I can fit the zip around, instead it’s just all forcing it’s way out. I don’t just miss you, I feel like i’m missing you, the same way someone can be missing an eye or an arm. Something has been ripped out and it’s left me raw and bleeding like an lamb chop. 

It didn’t feel real for so long, everything felt like it was underwater, I felt totally numb, kept turning around to look for you until i realised you weren’t ever going to be there and it was like that empty space you’d left behind was suddenly so invasive, begging for attention in the corner of every glance and i’d just end up staring at it in school with people throwing around words like “nervous” and “breakdown”. School is surreal, everyone pretending at how well they knew you, even Fiona, and i’m pretty sure she was the one who told everyone you gave your cousin herpes. 

We had a day off after your accident and it’s all anyone been talking about since. You’ve become some kind of romantic figurehead to angsty teens everywhere, who’ve suddenly realised that when they say they want to die, they might not be being totally sarcastic. You’re the girl who died, the ‘tragic’ accident. They say that a lot in the news at the moment, how tragic it all is, like it’s a play or something, a performance and everyone is either watching all the drama unfold like vultures or trying desperately to become a part of it. You should see all the year eights, they leave through the carpark now because that’s where the TV van’s stationed and their 'inside knowledge’ is getting more and more out of hand, things about axe murderers, about you 'getting your comeuppance’ (whatever that means), I wanted to hit them, they sound so, I don’t know, giddy. I guess the truth isn’t exciting enough, this stupid, pointless, dumb, painful waste of life has to be spun somehow, channel five are currently using you as an example to push the 'dangers of teen drinking’ angle and i wish you were here to defend yourself.

I just want you to come back and hug me and tell me it’s all going to be okay but i have to tell myself you’re in a better place now, pretend that that wasn’t with me to help me sleep. I have to tell myself you weren’t meant for Earth, for this tiny insignificant corner of suburbia; you were meant for something astronomical, one of those people who seem less human, more closely related to the stars than everyone else. Growing up and old just wasn’t for you and this way you’ll always be preserved how you were supposed to be, like something from the Big Bang, and you went out of life the way you lived it, like an explosion. But then, i’ll just remember how much better the world was just because you were in it.

It’s the day of your funeral today, a 'small’, 'quiet’, 'modest’ affair,only a few close friends and family. No reporters or camera crews or 'fake’ mourners. You’d hate it. Your mum just thought it would be inappropriate to do it your way; the party playlist, the huge guest list, the fancy dress code… But don’t be annoyed with her, she’s just trying to do what’s best. I dressed in my old Elmo costume, even if it is two sizes to small, it used to make you laugh so much but it’s definitely not a hit with the funeral procession. I did manage to persuade your mum to play 'Reach’ by S Club 7 because it’s your favourite and I don’t know why but I think this is the closest thing to happy I’ve felt since you died, I feel like you might actually be watching me and laughing at this stupid costume and dancing to your favourite song. 

So, i’m not going to put this letter in the coffin with the rest, i’m sending it up to you, that’s just your body down there, you don’t belong in the ground, after this funeral I’m going to the shopping centre, buying one of those huge, expensive balloons from that man that stands by Matalan, the ones with helium in and tie this letter to it, I figure it’ll get to Heaven somehow. I know you never believed in God but I think He’ll have to let you in anyway, you were the closest thing to a miracle I ever encountered and I bet you look great in a pair of wings.

You better recognise me when i come up to join you, no matter how old and wrinkly and pruney I am, I know I’ll always be able to spot you from a mile away with my eyes half shut. Keep practising our handshake, I’ll see you soon.

Know that, one day my shattered soul will mend,

Defy the cracks that let the darkness in,

I swear it will be okay in the end.

And although my path has come to a bend

With grief coming round it, he will not win;

Know that, one day my shattered soul will mend.

I am alone and to myself i tend,

Time has taught me to take it on the chin,

I swear it will be okay in the end.

Myself, I wont into sadness descend;

For it’s cold breath to seep into my skin,

Know that, one day my shattered soul will mend.

I am strong and on myself i depend

And soon I will rise above all this din

I swear it will be okay in the end.

Yes, life is hard, there’s no use to pretend,

But I am made for this, and I can win

Know that, one day my shattered soul will mend,

I write because it’s powerful. Writing is one of the most powerful things a human being can do, words can have huge effects on people, on civilisation, and they can be preserved for centuries, effecting people long after you’re gone. That’s one of the reasons i write, knowing that what you write could be read by someone long after you’re gone and they can immediately have an insight into what you were thinking, what you were feeling right at this second, it’s like time travel. Through writing we can be truly immortal.

I write because I have to, it helps me to realise what I’m actually thinking, by writing my thoughts and feelings down I can understand what the jumbled collection of things in my brain really mean. It brims over on to the paper and it feel like something I’m not consciously in control of, more like an impulse, like the subconscious.

I write because I love words, what they mean, how they look, the sound they make, the way 26 shapes can form so many different patterns, how they can be used to communicate. Our ability to form words is what makes us human, what makes us able to be an intelligent species, what makes us able to understand each other. I’ve loved words ever since I could read, and ever since I could read I’ve wanted to write my own words down, create stories that could transport me to my own world and allow me to create whatever I wanted, to escape from anything I needed to. Or to just savour them as individuals; how the word celestial sounds like wind chimes, the way the word freckle makes me feel warm and happy, how satisfying it is to say plug…

it creeps up on you, controlling the tide

of crimson cheek, which washes over

and you feel so hot your face might ignite

it smells acrid, like bile worming up your throat

like the stench of piss and sweat from

the last time you wet yourself in nursery

it’s there in the places you go to escape,

blocking the way out, the corridors at parties,

the bathroom, the garden shed

it doesn’t hold your hand or stroke your hair, it points

and laughs, while you wait for the cackling to die down

it desperately wants to be felt, prodding and intruding

the dark cloud following, the unwanted reminder,

that you aren’t what you pretend to be, 

its the problem relative, everyone tries to forget, 

clawing it’s way back up from under the rug,

bruised drunk and yelling at every family reunion

in the early hours of the morning,

when you’re on the verge of sleep, it visits

unexpectedly, the skeleton crawls out of the closet,

ever nostalgic in the alarm clock light

filling your head with ‘remember whens’

it’s the sting of soap and shower water filling

eyes and mouth, after you tried in vain

to wash those shuddering memories away,

Your name I always say into the dark,

Shaped from my lips it forms a question mark

It shudders, shifts against my bedroom wall,

Said skyward in hope you’ll answer my call

Celestial vowels, consonants plummeting,

Sharklike, staring into blank space, watching                                     

The moving shapes of your name form, unform, 

Till bitter wind rips in and they are torn

Maybe one day I’ll say my name like that,

Not rolled around like felt until it’s flat

But writ in tongues I cannot understand, 

I fear my name, a strangers in my hand 

A spell I cannot cast, I feel it mock,

the bath plug, black rubber stopper

around the edge, remnants of soap

and shampoo crusted

morning white

baths are a rare ritual, circled in candlelight,

melting wax, angel glow

magic oils dripped in blunt water, one for healing, one for rest

scented steam dancing in and out of pores,

sitting lotus style in the centre of your chest

worship your body with your eyes closed

the bath plug holding that moment

in stasis, a stillness,

lifted, floating, suspended in warm, foamy water

in the womb of the world

for a minute, for an hour

a doorway to drainpipe spiders

to rotting nests of hair  

guarding from what’s underneath 

until you’re ready to face the outside

when your tailbone chinks against the tub

 you have to stop before you go too deep

and the scum on the top is all you can see

the bath plug is a blocked pore and

avoid it as you might, there comes a time when

you have to pull it out and cleanse those thoughts

the metal beads you ran between your

monkey toes to remind yourself you were still alive

your lifeline, your anchor between this world and the next

with the tug of that silver chain 

the doorway pops free

and there’s no longer a bath plug

but a wormhole of cheap lather and grey tinged water 

chasing one another down the plug hole 

carrying your understanding and your escape with them 

until you cant remember what it felt like to know yourself anymore 

but the interview you gave is etched in a ring round the side

although its been scrubbed away by the time your hair is dry

and you only remember when you take that first step onto tiled floor

It creeps up on you, controlling the tide                                                   of crimson cheek which washes over                                                     and you feel so hot your face might ignite

It smells acrid, the bile creeping up your throat                                   the stench of piss and palm sweat from                                                 the last time you wet yourself in nursery

It’s there in the places you go to escape;                                             the corridors at parties, the bathroom, the garden shed                         holds your hand and strokes your hair while you                               wait for the cackling to die down 

It wants you to acknowledge it, the dark reminder                               following, the scarlet letter                                                                       the problem relative everyone tries to forget                                           but is there, bruised drunk and yelling, at every reunion

In the early hours of the morning                                                             when you’re on the verge of sleep                                                           it visits unexpectedly, ever nostalgic in the alarm clock light                   filling your head mockingly with “remember when”

She’s fallen asleep last again

cheap plastic hairbrush halfway down hair

thwarted at the final hurdle 

tangled headphones still jammed in

the soft pink shell of her ears

clothes that smell of fresh air and wet pavements 

crumpled on the floor, hansel and gretel trailed

door to bed, in the order they were removed 

her jacket pocket, £2.80 in silver 

a travel card eleven days from expiration

a fluffy piece of chewing gum

foldout bedside table, still missing three screws

with scrunched tissues that occasionally 

fall and drift soundlessly to the carpet 

like paper snowflakes 

on the edge, the verge, the precipice

a half empty bottle of water

a half finished notebook of scrawl 

a half burned stick of incense 

most things fallen between the cracks;

under the dresser, in the space between the mattress and

the headboard, at the bottom of that drawer,

the lost things

pink plastic lighter, polaroids and paper clips bent out of shape 

worry dolls, cough sweet wrappers, a biro running out 

sequins and buttons and a mood ring stuck on blue 

a small box full of baby teeth, porcelain fragile, baby bird delicate

handle with care

funny things take priority here, in pride of place,

a mantlepiece jam jar, housing a bunch of flowers,

dead as anything, dry as anything

stolen as something from the table of a stranger’s wedding