Monday, 27 March 2017

I read a poem

Poetry came to me when words made ugly sounds and gossip weighed me down and distorted my curly hair. Word melted me and shaped me into suffering too soon and I thought I would never look back on my childhood with a smile.
But poetry came to me and held me in its hands. Poetry sang lullabies and told me my hair was soft and brilliant like crushed velvet and my dark eyes were like two black olives of the ones that grow in the south next to the figs that coloured my hands sticky red.
Poetry came to me when I cried for the first time and it felt as if something had broken inside my eye and it would never be dry again, but poetry told me tears were precious diamonds in liquid form and one day they would light up a whole life.
Poetry fell on me like leafs from a cherry tree on a windy day in Autumn and it told me love was there, in that very moment. It told me love was beautiful and magical and pure.
Poetry, came to me too perfect, too good, too pretty. Poetry challenged me to love and be loved.

Thursday, 23 March 2017

Things we refuse to say

A frown focused on a screen and a thin line or two appear on his forehead like little ticks of approval. His face drawn towards the unnatural coloured brightness of a word document. I want to be looked at like he looks at that screen. I want him to look at me like he looks at that screen. So into it he might just jump into the world in his thoughts.
An unusual seriousness replaces his foolish smile. Thoughts journey through his face. Oh how jealous I am. Does he know my eyes are also, journeying through his face? 
A frown focused on a screen and vertigo. My heart falls over, like it's suddenly gained the same magnetic power as earth itself and earth is it's polar opposite. I can not lift myself up, I can not get detached from this new earth and I die, bit by bit. 
Thoughts roll over his face. I want to know them. 

Sunday, 19 March 2017


I tried to kill myself.
Once upon a time...
It felt like my bones were too fragile for this world and too strong for this being. The in-between that, that hurt.
It felt like, for every praise I received I was unworthy, and my fingers had never composed a good letter. It felt like I had never made another being happy and it must have all just been lies because, because other people were good and they didn't want to upset me.
It felt like I was weaker than most people my age that, I was strange and everything to do with me was wrong.
I still feel like that.
My brain aches, my heart, is shattered by the most simple events. I am emotional, I am messed up.
There's something wrong.
My vision goes dark from time to time and no pills ever seen in the surface of this world would ever make me feel better. Or at least stop me from feeling. Nothing, will ever work.
My stomach hurts like some invisible hand is knitting through it. My mind feels dizzy and my thoughts, they lack clarity as much as my life, as much as this piece.
I am not OK.
But at the same time, I am OK.
The last time I tried to kill myself was four years ago. The feelings never changed but I learned that I can call my best friend and tell him how I feel and he will call me at four am and tell me I'm beautiful.
No, I don't need to hear that I'm beautiful. I just need to hear a voice on the other side of the phone. And it keeps me alive.
No, the feelings still don't go away.
I've learned that I can eat. I've learned to taste, taste until my taste buds hurt, and appreciate the wonderful flavours of certain foods. Because, when you feel so awful that you want to die of natural and non - painful causes ASAP, you also learn that every little thing matters. You also learn that every little thing has to be appreciated. The bittersweet surrounding of appreciation.
I've learned that I can dance. I've learned that this town hides beautiful places. I've learned that I can sometimes, write something other people may like to read. I've learned that I can speak.
Most importantly, I've learned that I can love. Oh I knew I could love, I just never realised, that included myself.
I am confident now in my actions, but the feeling itself, it never left, it never will and I will always suffer from unspeakable guilt.

Wednesday, 15 March 2017

Lies and pills

My smile is a lie. 
Because I go to the toilet often and I cry when I'm alone. My smile is a lie. 
Because I have a knife in my stomach that cuts deeper some days and I feel pain in my womb that started a year ago and never stopped. 
My smile is a lie. Because I am anxious and slightly tortured and I am scared that someone will realise. 
And I am scared that nobody will. 
My smile is a lie, because this crippling pain comes and goes and it comes in the worst moments and I crumble under endless bottles of pills I do not know. 
But my smile is also the truth. 
Because pain is easier when a pretty face distracts your nerdy brain and pain is made easier by the butterflies in your stomach. 
My smile is true because laughing feels good and I forget for a moment about the knife and the needles and the pills and the awful hospital smell. 
My smile is the truth because I'm proud of the effort I make everyday to get up at nine am when I embrace the pain with the new day and you might find, I have a very strong will.
It's all true. It's all real. 

Tuesday, 28 February 2017

Requiem in the vineyard

He left.
He took with him bottles of tears that had grown old and fine like wine and he would have not enjoyed it a glass at a time but rather bottle by bottle until he got drunk on the tears and he would have given himself a pat on the shoulder because aged tears taste so nice and he was a man of fine wine.
He would have rested his large back on a soft cushion in a hotel room and purred in pleasure as he remembered pressing people like grapes to collect those tears of different varieties and keep them for years in expensive oak barrels.
Expensive oak barrels. He was charming like that.
He was a fine wine and steak man. He would chew up steak the same way he would chew up your dreams and swallow them whole into his round belly and he would laugh and he would sleep a lot and he would press, and press, and turn you into food and wine.
He left.
Her cheeks were dry for a long time and her dreams grew big like ancient trees and she must have hoped he would never come back, but memory, oh memory is in the grapes and the glass of blood red wine she has from time to time. Memory runs in the veins and a taste of fine wine colouring the sides of a glass that has been cleaned too many times.
Where does he sleep now?
She wanders as her feet get wet and cold. It is time to water the vineyard again.
Where does he sleep now?
Maybe he rests his head on grapes that have fallen too early, maybe he rests with grapes that have been sickened by bees out there on cold earth, pressed somewhere under the roots of vines.
She would cry for him if she could, but at the moment opening another bottle seems quite enough.
After all, he was a man of fine wine.

Monday, 20 February 2017

Like sunshine

You have a right to be loved my friend. You have a right to be sheltered into someone's chest and kept away from bad tongues and wild creatures.
The sun wants to kiss your skin, lovely, the sun wants to kiss your eyelids and make you feel warm inside. You have a heart like springtime, my friend. Your smile is a flower in full bloom, it has grown from damp, dark earth. Your smile is rose scented like my favourite perfume. Your sunshine smile.
You deserve love my friend.
Of the kind that wants you whole, the kind that drinks you like a glass of cold water in a hot working day. The kind that wouldn't share.
You deserve love my friend, slow, old fashioned love of the kind that takes you to dinner in a jazz bar by the beach and walks at sunrise. Love for which, the sun never sets. My dear, you deserve nothing less, than beautiful things.
The way you play with the light, sunny thing, was made to be deeply admired by eyes that are nothing less than sincere. Please, don't stop laughing and playing like a child, don't stop wondering. Your excitement corrupts hearts.
You were made to be loved, so be loved.

Monday, 13 February 2017

Broken hearts can't be sealed.

The first time you looked at me your nose blushed and your eyes became even darker.
There is a gentle light in your dark eyes and the way your smile forms shyly when you lay on your back, arm wrapped around me. Your lips barely moving but your face lights up. I'm an achievement unlocked.
The first time you looked at me you undressed me from my insecurities and we started something of a dance. One step forward, one step back. Two steps back.
My love, my love, the way you look at me when we are alone, is not everything.
The world will not let us sleep for longer than we need. My essay won't write itself, my best friend is waiting for me, you never liked each other.
The world will not let us wake up at our own pace. You have to leave before 9am and listen to a lecture on lights and angles that have nothing to do with the sparkle in your eyes.
My love, the way you want me when we are alone is not all of me.
Your friends will laugh with you about last night, they might tell you off. They think I am messed up and you should just stay away, love, stay away.
I'm not an achievement anymore.
Your door is always locked my dear, we whisper secrets in the dark.
I shouldn't be here, I must not.
My love, we cannot always be alone.
I am not just the girl, not the girl I am when we're alone.
But had you taken the time to read my poems, or see the tears you placed in my eyes...

Oh dear, you must have known, I was never your girl.