t.g

each bark from my dog comes with a flinch,

the breeze makes me shiver,

and often times i can't help but feel a lone tear slip.

there's something about the way lonliness eats into your bones.

in less than three months this will become all I will know.

I'll wake up in the morning and my father will not have been wandering around our house for the preceding hours,

the kettle will not yet have been boiled for a brew of half stale moccona,

the footprints on the floors will be washed away and forgotten.

I'll be eating half cold, day old enchiladas for years to come because they come in a packet of two but there will only be me,

the rain will sputter and fall and I'll be twenty hours too far to reach my mother for one last hug.

it breaks my heart, more than a little bit.

the intricate smears of ink and of passion,

losing myself in the crevices of my brain that hold capture on all the versions of me I thought long lost.

I was here and I felt, deeply and terribly, and it seems I could not bring myself to do anything else,

so, if that is all my potential is to amount to - carelessly strewn words conjured through an insomnia ridden headache, or the broken heart of a child - I suppose that will be enough.

But the tradies are playing along to the games on the radio, laughing and grinning.

It's just gone 8; and it's cold, and I can't quite feel my fingers,

But the sun's on its way to shining, and the birds are singing their approval while the plants around them dance.

And suddenly, we're still here to realise there's still people to care,

little flickering embers in the carcass of a flame.

Now we're the ones to laugh and to grin;

we're in good hands and we'll make it through.

And we're halfway to winning,

there's nothing else we can do.

We'll wait out the months,

filling our stomachs with hope till we're floating and blue,

drowning out the despair and its god-awful hue

so I protest and crouch, tucking myself deep inside the confies of my organs,

(quiet and grim)

promising to build a home far nicer than I'll ever have here.

there'll be candles and light,

perpetual warmth and gentle nights.

and everytime I remember, just how feeble I am,

I'll add another room, another floor, another window,

I'll tuck myself away until I find a little bit more might - until I'm soft and kind and not drowning in fright.

but my leg will give away my nerves,

with all its shakes and jumps.

the whole world's looking at me and not seeing a thing.

but still, I'll move in time with you.

It's 7:36, and for all my quiet quivering, there's not a place I'd rather be.

pulling them as if you were the force that pulls the trains from the station.

so, now, I'm left laying here,

with this gaping hole I wish to fill,

wrapping the bloodied yarn around my fingers,

hoping that its presence will be the phantom fix to you and your piling violence.

these hollow shells that have been dredged from the back of my throat.

the fruit you've picked has rotted itself inside out,

the carcasses droop and wilt as the days pass.

not even the sun in all her grace

can bring back what's been left.

we'll be okay

your world is young

not yet prepared for such decay.

focus on the wind there

the way it tumbles and calls

not that busy little head

not that heavy little heart.

hold steady.

so I can remind myself that, at one point or another, I was to exist and to experience

so when it's just gone 3 & I can't remember which way is up, or I can't work out if this breathing carcass of mine remembers how to function

I can stumble blindly through my shelves & discover all the little pieces I have left for myself in a trail of miserable little bread crumbs

tucking myself back away just to dig myself back up.

all consuming in a way that makes you feel so small,

knowing you won't be good enough to appease it,

fighting against it in a never-ending brawl.

don't mistake it for all that I can be,

my dear I promise I'm more than what you see,

I won't always be drowning in red,

I'll fix it & give you a safe place to rest that wary little head.

clouding those baby blues,

shielding the novelty and innocence

and bathing us all in your tainted hue.

flitting in and out

never to be seen again

seen & felt

but never held

but summer's still marched on

& the skies have not willed themselves away.

maybe we'll be alright,

my old acquaintances & I.

my anxiety lies heavily against my sternum,

a constant ache, an immoveable weight.

it sinks to my stomach and expands,

like a disease that will only grow & spread.

it travels to my fingertips,

where it will buzz & cause my hands to become home to ceaseless tremors.

it grows against the planes of my thighs,

making everything sensitive, dense, useless.

I can't feel these things in one part of myself; can't stop it from consuming me

(how do I prevent myself from becoming what is taking over ?)

to be the ghost flittering through your corridors and walls,

brushing the dust of the portraits,

cleaning the dishes littering the sink,

but going unnoticed.

that way I can go about my silent life;

fitting in seamlessly as I please,

not worrying about how you see me,

leaving me content in this little life.

yet the weather has not turned;

the plants still shudder under shaky breaths

and the light has not learnt how to last.

tea cups tend to burn my hands,

twinkle lights sputter and seize.

in a time intended for joy and for love,

all it seems I can do is grieve.