The fertile moon groaned and sneezed trapped in earth’s fickle orbit and forced to work. Knee deep in the unruly grass, we ate dried fruit and poked at the heaped termite nests with a broomstick.
“what’s this life really about anyway?” I asked.
“it’s complicated,”she shrugged.
“then simplify it,” I suggested.
“one day, it’ll all make sense. All the 4am war stories and hot pink crossfires and the hair on your legs protruding from your skin like bone sharp spears. You’ll realise that you’ve always been more of a weapon than a woman.”
You asked if you could read my notebook. Instead of handing it to you, I laughed, shoved it under my thigh and made up some lame ass excuse. [Something about bad hand writing] Almost everything in it is about you and that would be pretty fucking awkward
To find treasure: in ancient playlists, in your backyard, in an old shoebox, in a quiet place with some hot tea.
5:59am: everyone else is asleep, only myself and god’s sky are awake. We eat ice cold mac and cheese together in the kitchen and watch each other suspiciously. She still doesn’t trust me in the early hours. I’m listening to Frank, but that sky, she only ever listens to the bulky clouds and the teetering birds and the soft buh-dum, buh-dum of the heartbeat of the earth.
I think it was the sun. [That’s a lie. I know it was.]
She feels like autumn orange peels and the unforgiving corrosive stars and I can’t help but think that this is what I’ve meant to feel my entire life. New love; old love; dead love. So new and old and dead that it took 17 years to shatter the dense clouds and illuminate the basement of my brain. I look up into Your heavens and I guess I wouldn’t mind if this was the last time I ever saw it.
Watch the leaves above, being swept in and out of their orbits: sometimes they sound like gunfire, sometimes they sound like applause.
If I was a wizard, born inside a star, bones composed of sawdust and big truths and real magic, I would compel the world to be a little less wicked, just for you. I would encase your body in invisible bubble wrap and make all those ceramic angels watch over you, especially when you’re alone and doing well. I’m sorry that your heart hurts like it does. I would swallow oceans for you if it meant that the remnants of your spirit would be found in some musty ocean basin. IN SUMMARY: [I’m not domestic in the slightest but I’d handpick all the eggshells out of the egg whites. Just for you.]
This is about powdery butterfly wings and stolen candles and pretty boys with eyeliner. It’s all about the dusty stars and cloud masses and Saturn’s black inky skies. It’s nearly mid-summer and all the older kids have started waltzing on roof ledges and wearing long sleeves. The overwhelming pressure of life’s flashlight exposes our pale elbows and holey cotton socks as we trudge through the /painful pit of life/ everything’s lined with barbed wire and punctuated by uncomfortable silences and it’s so fucking easy to feel lost; broken; invisible. This is hell and I don’t mean that hyperbolically.
it’s that time of night where all the sane people have gone to bed and all the troubled people have just put on the kettle and are too busy pondering the depth of this awful universe to sleep [a brain is far too small a place to conceptualise and process the sheer size and magnitude of the milky way. Of life. Of being. Of existence. Of simply taking part in something so fucking complicated. I am small. Miniscule. A spot of dirt under the combat boot of some high-powered god. This is the briefest yet longest moment of my life and I am ashamed to admit that I will forever exist in it. I am stuck in an instant in which the world has ended and yet is still being born. It’s so fucking big out here, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.]
This is about real raw skin and neon guts and managing that wicked sandstorm between your ears in the space where your brain should be
i. When you were young, you were impatient. The stray hummingbirds in your ribcage beat restlessness into your blood and menace into your footsteps. You were that kid, with the lawn mower split ends, a decent vocabulary and cool parents.
ii. You aged badly; grew angry, like long sleeves in summer and overused earphones. You’ve become the shadow of a wrecking ball, following destruction around like a second skin [maybe you should talk to somebody?]
iii. You visited a pet shop and traded the hummingbirds for a will to live. You’ve brushed shoulders with death twice now and you’ve had enough. You just wanna stop feeling like pulverised sugar and go to bed at a reasonable time.
iv.You hope that one day when you’re older and stronger; you’ll smile easier and breathe deeper and think clearer. But until then, the world will go on and so will you.