My head is a pile of rotten trimmings, waiting to be defiled by dog’s piss.
I am a being of feeling, with unwanted thoughts that entice my body to communicate, to hum to the rhythm of a beat I don’t, can’t, won’t follow. Can’t I scream? Dance this out, wriggle from my suit so I’m just a wrinkled mess skulking into my home alone? Alas! It finds me. That fair thing that is so wanton to many, it maims me. I cannot rip it from me, it has caught me when I am most frail. This is no mortal wound; it is a hook scratching at my ribs for entry. I daren’t let it puncture me, I daren’t leave it space to see me. But it is so hard, the mind dressing up ideas making the skin quiver and the blood pulse with the vivacity of being caught on a high. I am all blushes, shrinking, falling. Now I am at the threshold, barely able to turn the knob. A lick at the lips, a shuddering breath, a tickle forward and-
The door opens; I am no longer the person I was. I drift in, arms shackled in rope. One is sanguine, the colour of passion, the other blue: woeful, bleak. This is it. A part in euphoria: Oh grand thoughts, satisfy my fancy. It is real! It is true! It must be so- this imagination ardent with love! Oh what a glorious feeling to feel! But oh how the change dispels the image- you are blind. You are a child. Remember this is your weakness! Don’t be duped by your own senselessness. Be the better woman!
Conjectures, denials, appraisals… it’s all a cluster. The shell, the one we lost, it returns little by little, but not before we deliver the final blow; deep within the hook remains, gnawing at the flesh. It is bile, bitter but caustic.
Feel me, it cries. Feed me, it squeals. Satisfy me, it wails.
But I can’t.
So piss off.
I am a division.
Sometimes it feels as if i’m straddling several worlds. My mind is a conflict of interests, a battle for an identity I have no power to control, not in a world where societal constructs fashion who I am. Who am I? I’m white. I’m a woman. I’m small. I’m a red head, ginger…or blonde…or neither depending on whose speaking (it’s been a matter of debate my whole life actually). Asides from this, I am a human with passions that define my values and beliefs. 8 years I’ve worked with horses; 6, supporting bands, traversing London and Birmingham meeting new people for the sake of seeing music artists; another 2 planning a career in music journalism only to say, no this isn’t for me; years spent being told I should be an artist, not a writer. Where am I now? Left to define myself in the concepts of fantasy and the macabre because these are what give me inspiration to go on. I drip into fantasy as it cascades over the earth, bringing zeal to its audiences. Yet I also turn into the shadows, waiting to be drowned by the murky abyss that no one is prepared to enter, so I must go alone and alone I shall be consumed. One is more universally favoured than the other. To admire fantasy is to enter adventure; to follow the macabre is to bare your organs and let your fears fondle your spine.
Am I a traveller for sharing in both worlds? Because I am ready to deal my cards against death? Because I am tasting the temptation of evil but staying rooted to the moral code? Or is it just because I am confronting human nature that I’m beginning to realise we are all travellers? It seems it’s a matter of being. We are all divided by the mind’s fancies. We all make that journey in pursuit of our identity. We are all cogs whirring forward in life, pushing evermore for an understanding of the human condition.
This is a dream; an illusion; an imitation of reality. It’s the rare moment when submission means more than a possession of the senses: it means fulfilling that basic human yearning not to be alone, without the fear of appearing vulnerable, without armour to dull the blow.
Staggering forward, tentative and wary of what feels, no, felt much more intimate and hidden than it truly was. Reaching closer, pulling closer in a nervous trepidation. Limping forward to kiss, taste…
No one can know. It’s a secret, all our own, and only we are aware of the admission to desire and want. What is it? This wanting to kiss, taste, to succumb to raw human emotion and get lost in a tangle of limbs with skin on skin rush like we’re scraping away at not just one another but ourselves, in an entanglement of our own intimacy, driving on a hesitation to shield ourselves from the world. Is this what it’s like everytime? Is this what it’s like with every person-endlessly the same because the lust is shouting more, more but somewhere surely there’s a voice that cries you feel, man, this is what it truly means to feel for God’s sake. But where is that voice now? Does it exist or is it blessed for the lucky few? The dream shatters, you fucked it up. Don’t ask questions.
How to write a fraction of that conflict!
I want to scratch away at the page with the letters bleeding from my lips but i can’t find the pen. I am pattering a fractured page, i am ripping at the vertebrae of my conscious trying to unbutton what i know in a belief that these things can be unpicked and simplified like life is this one encompassing system we can put into simple contexts, but we can’t. We’re constantly led astray-in a cycle- constant-churning- whirring-mechanical.
Just like that you have experienced erasure. Hours wear on; what did i say? What did i see? The fragments of echoes are merely that: echoes eroded by time, by the soft goodbye of things you can only imagine, the good that can never be reached.
crush against my
carving at the beating impulses
straining to fight the bridle
that reins in volatile emotions;
too tough to bite
and too easy to choke.