I haven’t thought about you
For the longest time
It used to be an
All-the-time thing
Now it's a
Not-really-at-all thing
Then I dreamt
About you
I dreamt
I went to your work
I don’t even know where that is
But in my dream
I do
So
I go in
On the pretence of having business
On the pretence of not seeing you
I pretend not to see you
Of course
I pretend
You look different
I think
But it's you
I like how you look
Now
As if I would ever
Not like you
I would always
Like you
I would
You pretend not to see me
So many glances
Out of the corners of eyes
Then I leave
I no longer have a reason to stay
To be
In the same place as you
Outside
I wait around
Outside the entrance
By the lift
Pretending the lift hasn’t come
I haven’t pushed the button
Not yet
Just in case
But
I pretend
And then you come out
I'm so hopeful
No I'm not
I pretend I'm not
You pretend you have reason to be there
Outside
Where I am
You pretend to suddenly notice me
And then
There are smiles
Creased faces
And teeth
Smiling faces
Smiling eyes
Eyes smiling
At each other
Not pretending
No more pretending
No more
Pretending
And I think
Really?
We go back inside
Sit down
Together
In the same place
You
And I
In the same place
And
I don’t want to feel
Excited
Hopeful
But slowly it creeps
Creeps inside
There is so much
There is
So much
Smiling
Then you reach for me
You
Reach
For me
Your hand closes around my wrist
And I remember your hands
My wrist so small
Your hand closes around my wrist
Tight
And you pull me towards you
I sit up in my bed
Awake
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
The Sad Hand
I really thought it was you
Stood by the bus stop
My bus stop
This morning
I didn't once consider that it would be bloody strange
For you to be there
At my bus stop
The heart doesn't work like that
The brain
Ruled by the heart
Doesn't think like that
And most certainly
Does not let the eyes see like that
So
I thought it was you
And my heart was in my throat
In my eyes
And then I didn't want to see
Couldn't see
Just in case
Panic
What will I do?
What will I say?
Will I smile?
Make conversation?
No
I look away and walk past you
Head turned
Looking for the bus
Where is the bus?
So you only get the back of my head
And inside I hurt
Because you don't recognise me
The back of my head
Because you don't say hi
And I wish so much that you would
And I'm back at square one
That feeling
That wishing
That hoping
That you would call
Message
Want to see me
Show you like me
Give a fuck whether I exist or not
The bus comes
Finally
Enough standing around
I walk to the door
I turn
I have to be sure
It's not you
Of course it isn't
As if it ever was
The levels of stupid I feel right now
Overwhelming
Kind of like what people washed away by a tsunami must feel
Just before they drown
I sit down on the bus
Look out the window
At the person that isn't you
And the sad hand wraps itself firmly around my heart
Again
Just when I think I've beaten it
Have perhaps run it out of me
Maybe I'm stronger than the sad hand now?
It comes back
And all it takes
Is a person who isn't even you
Stood by the bus stop
My bus stop
This morning
I didn't once consider that it would be bloody strange
For you to be there
At my bus stop
The heart doesn't work like that
The brain
Ruled by the heart
Doesn't think like that
And most certainly
Does not let the eyes see like that
So
I thought it was you
And my heart was in my throat
In my eyes
And then I didn't want to see
Couldn't see
Just in case
Panic
What will I do?
What will I say?
Will I smile?
Make conversation?
No
I look away and walk past you
Head turned
Looking for the bus
Where is the bus?
So you only get the back of my head
And inside I hurt
Because you don't recognise me
The back of my head
Because you don't say hi
And I wish so much that you would
And I'm back at square one
That feeling
That wishing
That hoping
That you would call
Message
Want to see me
Show you like me
Give a fuck whether I exist or not
The bus comes
Finally
Enough standing around
I walk to the door
I turn
I have to be sure
It's not you
Of course it isn't
As if it ever was
The levels of stupid I feel right now
Overwhelming
Kind of like what people washed away by a tsunami must feel
Just before they drown
I sit down on the bus
Look out the window
At the person that isn't you
And the sad hand wraps itself firmly around my heart
Again
Just when I think I've beaten it
Have perhaps run it out of me
Maybe I'm stronger than the sad hand now?
It comes back
And all it takes
Is a person who isn't even you
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Stupid Fucking Girl
Stupid fucking girl, she’s always trying
to open the same door. I can see her from here, standing outside the house. She
looks around to see if anyone is watching, but she can't see me, can't
feel my eyes burning a hole in her head from where I stand, staring, hidden by
the trees.
Of course she reaches for the handle
and tries to turn the knob. Of course it wont turn. It’s the wrong fucking house and the
wrong fucking door. Even if it were the right house, and even if the key had
fit, had turned the lock – click – it would still be the wrong door. It’s always the wrong door.
But watch her persist, time and time
again, constantly trying to open it. Stupid fucking girl. She never learns.
She’ll never learn. She’ll keep coming back to the house, putting in the
keys and grabbing at the doorknob. And she’ll always end up standing there, left to stare at the door that is wrong.
She’ll never see me, watching
everything, knowing the door is wrong. Never feel my
stare, never sense my loathing. She’ll die out there, outside that door, hoping and trying.
And I’ll see it all. Stupid fucking girl.
...
...
Spewing
It’s not your first time
And it’s not your last
It isn’t food poisoning
It isn’t coincidence
Half an hour after dinner
Halfway down the row of doors
This time
Every time
It’s so important
Perhaps it’s your silence that gives you away
Your silence in between the moments I am not supposed to share
The moments I am not supposed to know about
The moments I don’t know how to handle because they’re like a punch in
the throat
The moments that feel like claws on my bones
I’m gasping
No
I’m holding my breath
I know you’re waiting for me to leave
You know I’m in here
Halfway down the row from you
But you don’t know I’m listening
You don’t know
That I know
The air conditioning hums
I sit here and listen to the thing that isn’t happening
I bet you’re wondering what I’m doing
Why I haven't left yet
I know you heard me come in
Maybe you’re getting angry and frustrated
Waiting and hoping that I will leave
But I can’t now
Your need is getting stronger
I know what you’re dying to do
The walls close in on me
Get thicker and heavier
I wonder if they’re closing in on you
I wonder if you’re listening to me
Like I’m listening to you
I’ve been here so long now
Neither of us can pretend any longer
You can’t hold out
And I need to hear it
Need to hear you shove your fingers down your throat again
Need to hear you bring it up and get it out
You’re disgusted
By your need to do it
I’m disgusted
By my need to hear you
...
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Through and through
There is a hole inside of me
From front to back
Like a bullet wound
Maybe I was standing on the street one time
Alone
Minding my own business
And
Maybe someone drove by
In a “drive-by”
And shot me
Loaded the chamber
Finger on the trigger
Aimed
And shot
Me
Through and through
The bullet ripped open my front
Tore my skin, burnt, seared it
Smashed its way through me
Damaging everything in its path
Everything inside me
Exit
The back of me
I can’t see the marks but I know they’re there
I feel the blood dripping out
Fast
So I have this hole in me now
And I can’t fill it
Nothing can
Eventually I will bleed out
This is a given
It doesn’t even need to be said
Even if you don’t know it
I do.
....
From front to back
Like a bullet wound
Maybe I was standing on the street one time
Alone
Minding my own business
And
Maybe someone drove by
In a “drive-by”
And shot me
Loaded the chamber
Finger on the trigger
Aimed
And shot
Me
Through and through
The bullet ripped open my front
Tore my skin, burnt, seared it
Smashed its way through me
Damaging everything in its path
Everything inside me
Exit
The back of me
I can’t see the marks but I know they’re there
I feel the blood dripping out
Fast
So I have this hole in me now
And I can’t fill it
Nothing can
Eventually I will bleed out
This is a given
It doesn’t even need to be said
Even if you don’t know it
I do.
....
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Three rounds
Vomit drips down the bricks on the outside of his building. He doubles over again, his stomach cramping violently, his face red and contorted in pain. It passes for a moment and he takes a breath, panting and exhausted from the effort of regurgitating what he's sure must be inner organs by now. Then it starts again and he lurches back to the window, this time producing a speckled mixture, pink at first then followed by much darker spots of red. Blood. His eyes widen at the sight of it, pupils dilating, whites showing more prominently, a horse that has just been startled. He knows what this means.
The bell rings and the crowd goes silent. The fighters adjust their gloves and eyeball each other from opposing corners of the ring. There is real hate in their stares. They’re getting ready to start.
He looks out his window at the city that is already awake, it has been awake for hours now, and inhales the mess of noise created by people and vehicles below. Although the din penetrated his room hours ago, it didn’t wake him. He never slept to begin with. Instead he spent the night bent over the toilet, the sink, arriving finally at the window sill for this morning's final showdown. It wasn’t the first night spent like this. If he tries, he can’t even remember a night that wasn’t like this one. But he knows all too well that it could be the last.
The prancing around the ring is over; it’s on for real now. Their muscles warm and stretched, they assume their positions. Round One: Fight!
The walls in his room are not painted but consist of exposed bricks jutting out from what was once white plaster. Sometimes when he isn’t seeing things clearly, which is often, he thinks it looks almost like art. So many different colours, a veritable kaleidoscope - blood both fresh red and old brown, dried shit smears, vomit stains and pieces of old photos, some still in colour and others so faded it’s hard to fathom how they’ve survived the horrors that have taken place in here.
There isn't much furniture: a mattress on the floor covered in stains he dare not look at, broken in sections where the wire edges of inner springs stick out, springs that scratch his legs during the rare moments when he does sleep. He doesn’t need to think about the bacteria growing in there; the glare of infection from the swelling around his scratched legs, the blood and festering pus is more than enough.
The bathroom has a sink and a tub, both black in colour now with spots of green where mould thrives. Not that it bothers him. He doesn’t use either really, he hasn’t been able to bathe for a long time now. There’s the obligatory chair and table set, plastic and metal of the cheapest sort. The table littered with meal containers full of rotting food he knows he never ate, containers that are now home for cockroaches and maggots, crawling in the filth that to them is a kingdom of untold treasure.
Bruises are showing now, one fighter has a split lip and the other a cut above his left eye. But they’re panting and blood thirsty, ready for more. The bell rings. Round Two: Fight!
It seems that he has spent years here, lurching about, vomiting and spending days semi-comatose on his broken bed. In his broken body. With his broken mind.
Sometimes he finds himself staring into the mirror for hours on end. Just standing there, leaning on the sink with his hands, his emaciated frame screaming at him from the mirror. The sunken eyes and hollow gaze, the colourless skin that speaks only of death. He can stare into his eyes for hours on end, until he is trapped inside them, not seeing anything anymore. He wonders whether his eyes ever had any colour beyond the endless black of his pupils.
He feels calm now, his insides have settled and the pains have subsided. As he looks around the room, seeing nothing and knowing everything, he wonders whether it is over or whether this is the proverbial calm before the storm.
If there is a storm coming, he knows it won’t be a matter of rain and wind. There will be no putting out buckets and pots out to catch the leaks from the roof. It will be the storm to end all storms. He has nothing left to give, finally. After another round he won’t be standing anymore.
The bruised and battered fighters pull themselves upright and wipe the blood dripping from their injuries. It is no secret who will win this fight. Round Three: Fight!
...
The bell rings and the crowd goes silent. The fighters adjust their gloves and eyeball each other from opposing corners of the ring. There is real hate in their stares. They’re getting ready to start.
He looks out his window at the city that is already awake, it has been awake for hours now, and inhales the mess of noise created by people and vehicles below. Although the din penetrated his room hours ago, it didn’t wake him. He never slept to begin with. Instead he spent the night bent over the toilet, the sink, arriving finally at the window sill for this morning's final showdown. It wasn’t the first night spent like this. If he tries, he can’t even remember a night that wasn’t like this one. But he knows all too well that it could be the last.
The prancing around the ring is over; it’s on for real now. Their muscles warm and stretched, they assume their positions. Round One: Fight!
The walls in his room are not painted but consist of exposed bricks jutting out from what was once white plaster. Sometimes when he isn’t seeing things clearly, which is often, he thinks it looks almost like art. So many different colours, a veritable kaleidoscope - blood both fresh red and old brown, dried shit smears, vomit stains and pieces of old photos, some still in colour and others so faded it’s hard to fathom how they’ve survived the horrors that have taken place in here.
There isn't much furniture: a mattress on the floor covered in stains he dare not look at, broken in sections where the wire edges of inner springs stick out, springs that scratch his legs during the rare moments when he does sleep. He doesn’t need to think about the bacteria growing in there; the glare of infection from the swelling around his scratched legs, the blood and festering pus is more than enough.
The bathroom has a sink and a tub, both black in colour now with spots of green where mould thrives. Not that it bothers him. He doesn’t use either really, he hasn’t been able to bathe for a long time now. There’s the obligatory chair and table set, plastic and metal of the cheapest sort. The table littered with meal containers full of rotting food he knows he never ate, containers that are now home for cockroaches and maggots, crawling in the filth that to them is a kingdom of untold treasure.
Bruises are showing now, one fighter has a split lip and the other a cut above his left eye. But they’re panting and blood thirsty, ready for more. The bell rings. Round Two: Fight!
It seems that he has spent years here, lurching about, vomiting and spending days semi-comatose on his broken bed. In his broken body. With his broken mind.
Sometimes he finds himself staring into the mirror for hours on end. Just standing there, leaning on the sink with his hands, his emaciated frame screaming at him from the mirror. The sunken eyes and hollow gaze, the colourless skin that speaks only of death. He can stare into his eyes for hours on end, until he is trapped inside them, not seeing anything anymore. He wonders whether his eyes ever had any colour beyond the endless black of his pupils.
He feels calm now, his insides have settled and the pains have subsided. As he looks around the room, seeing nothing and knowing everything, he wonders whether it is over or whether this is the proverbial calm before the storm.
If there is a storm coming, he knows it won’t be a matter of rain and wind. There will be no putting out buckets and pots out to catch the leaks from the roof. It will be the storm to end all storms. He has nothing left to give, finally. After another round he won’t be standing anymore.
The bruised and battered fighters pull themselves upright and wipe the blood dripping from their injuries. It is no secret who will win this fight. Round Three: Fight!
...
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