Sum of your parts/words

Crying and praying

Eventually I figured out that tears can't make somebody who has died come alive again. Nor can they make somebody who doesn't love you anymore start to love you again. Praying is the same thing. People must waste so much of their lives praying to God and crying. The idea of the devil makes sense because it gives people someone to blame for their misdeeds. And the idea of God may make sense because people are afraid of these misdeeds, and if they believe in God and the devil there is this idea that both are playing a game of tug-of-war with them. They never know which side they are going to end up on, and that can explain how, even when people attempt to do something good, what they do turns out badly.

The OA

I made this because I think everyone should watch it. It was written and produced by the girl who plays the protagonist, and is pure imagination, pure beauty.

Birdsong blues

Lullabies are sung to me by the murmur
of autumn leaves in the trees
but my ears and heart are closed to them.
The night, twitching like a shadow,
is broken-winged with spindly legs
that crawl across my visual plane.
The birds used to be there, I heard them.
Now they are not, and all the time
spent writing poems, I am looking
for the end of a the tunnel.

Picture frames rattle as trains pass by.
Those travelers, so tired, I imagine,
look out of their windows at the blur
towards or away from home,
not knowing that they are heard,
hoping that someone, wherever they go,
is there waiting for them.

Once, there were words.
Now, there are none.
I meant it when I wrote 'lonely'.
And when I said 'some days'
I meant that it feels like
the whole world wants
my silence; my absence.

Missing

I still look for you, not as often as I used to,

but still, I do, mostly everywhere.

Don't worry, my heart only fractures -- 

   just the touch of a break -- 

half the time I cannot find you.

Once, a handful of years back now, 

I was troubled by the presence of absence.

Not only regarding the linguistic complications

dragged behind by that phrase. 

It was in the places where I could see --

  I could feel -- 

something was missing. 

Something that could exist but was not present,

an eternal secret, an unheard answer,

leaving behind a void, a pit in my stomach.

Now I feel the same blunt ache, less and less,

but time to time. I mourn her -- the girl 

I almost was. I mourn the life I could have lived 

that's nothing but nothing now.

But when it fit, it did so just right,

as if my body was built for your winters.

What good are hands if not for holding

and being there to keep us warm?

My head was pierced through, attempting

to recall the conclusion of a dream 

I almost had --

-- it's too late now. It's already tomorrow 

in all the places that count.

Scrappy words

Sharp Objects colour mood boards

Voices Without Faces

A pantoum

There will be voices that call themselves yours.
Without faces, they could belong to ghosts.
They may be your words; they may be an illusion.
I don’t know- language is my fortitude and fault.

They could be ghosts, whispering phantoms.
If I could ask them, I don’t think that I’d dare.
Because my language is faulty yet a fortune.
I spill all attempts to say something beautiful.

I don’t think I would dare ask who is speaking.
The quiet is a sort of kindness, anyway.
Spilling my attempts to say something beautiful
I would not want to hear. I do not want to hear.

Anyway, the quiet is a sort of kindness.
The words may be yours; you may be an illusion.
I do not want to hear. I do not want to hear them.
Voices without faces that call themselves mine.


Playlist // nostalgia

Love oddities

Only a few months ago my ivory-white skin was an atlas of bruises, a map marking the grip of something(someone) there to hurt me. I thought that I'd never trust a touch again. I'd never feel the warmth of leaning in for a kiss. Then you kissed me and all my bruises came undone, my purple-blue-yellow mottled skin turning from the darkest dust to the clearest dawn, still lilac but pale and dewy. I wonder how you managed to take so much away with your hands, inhale such pain with your kiss. How does one touch something and make it stop hurting- perhaps not completely, but far less than it used to? And why would you choose me to touch?

I should be out there thanking anyone who has ever loved me just for trying. I have been told that I am loved but that I'm just too much. Which is at odds with the all-vaulting feeling I've always had: that I've never been and never will be enough.

What a strange world

The world certainly is larger than one things,
and unfailingly split into sums of parts and parts of sums.
Plurality in the psychosphere. Sometimes,
do you wonder whether you are living in a dream?

Am I okay?

There is something about this darkness- it conceals the best of us and reveals the worst and maybe that’s why roads are always deserted during the little hours.

“Are you okay?“

Sometimes when I’m on the street my knees buckle, and my eyes start to loosen, and something is disturbing because strangers ask me if I need help.

Sometimes my breath gets caught in my throat for no reason other than because it doesn’t see the point in rising out of my lungs.

Sometimes I am making a point, talking about an issue I feel passionate about or want to debate, or am answering a question, until I realise I am living alone and I have been talking to empty spaces.

Sometimes I wonder if I were to swim far enough into the ocean, I would just let go and dream and get swept away by the waves.

Sometimes I am afraid to look at myself in any mirror or reflective surface, afraid to smile, afraid to be the girl I should be, surely.

Sometimes i stare at my hands and wonder about palm-reading, attempting to etch the lines in them- heart, love, life - but it’s all in the head, not the hands.

Sometimes I don’t know were I am or how I got there, what time or day it is, what the hell is going on, and whether I’m broken.

Sometimes it’s like the sky is scraping against my scalp and my fingers are rattling, meaning I’m nervous and over-tired, which is why I see glimpses of men in my peripheral vision, who were never there when I turn to look.

Sometimes there’s a ringing in my ears, the vestiges of some old argument, which makes me

wonder what I could have done.

Sometimes there’s just not enough. Sometimes there’s just too much.

Yet there’s something building, breaking and churning, roaring, shattering and collapsing,  tumbling amid the dust clouds rising, rising, rising, rising -

What did I do? What is defective in me and can I do anything about it and most importantly, will the people I care about worry too much or care too little? I don’t know, I can’t breathe, and oh god oh god oh god oh god what do i do what do i do what do -

“I'm fine, why do you ask?"

Honestly..

My imperfect scribbles are no more than that.
I am not talented. I only would like to be,
because the only way I can get by is finding
the right words, constructing the right sentence,
so that all the tangles in my mind finally loosen.
When I find a way to write it down, it is resolved.
I'm not a talented writer. It's just another need.

Poem written using strange associationss

The pavement and sky are cold, and my hands like birds.
Morning songs are more like the groan of a garbage truck.
Wheeling, wheeling, it all may be a rat race.
I never won a race. I never won anything.
Running breathlessly towards something old or new
And ripping holes through time and space
I realise I need it- my own time, my own space.
Nothing really belongs to me and I don’t belong to anyone
Or anything else. Possessions are sentiment incarnate.
Sentiment can bring me to my knees with tears.
There are bruises on my legs turning blue and purple.
Once in a blue moon, I’ll share the secret.
There's a dark side to everything. And a sea of tranquility.

A playlist of beautiul murmurs

The Act of Murmuring from daisy christabel on 8tracks Radio.

What I have....

I have a name.
I have a home.
I have a past.
I have hope.
I have been loved.
I have been resented.
I have been held.
I have been hurt.
I have believed.
I have belief still.

I have known those who do bad things.
I have known those who do good things.
I have been to boarding school.
I have cried in the shower to make it less painful.
I have seen the twin towers pierced by planes.
I have enjoyed examinations to keep my mind still.
I have never been resilient.
I have never been aggressive.
I have never spoken up for those I should have.

I have travelled to many faraway places.
I have taken a lot - too much- for granted.
I have cried at my mother’s wedding for joy.
I have cried at my mother’s words for shame.


I have spent months in hospitals, my families on holiday.
I have spent years recovering from what put me there.
I have scars that most likely will not ever fade on my wrists.
I have not have done that if I’d known the mess I’d make.
I have most likely done it anyway as I wanted to bleed.

I had someone who thought like me, who inspired me.
I have seen this person in a casket and read out a poem.
I have been refused the allowance to go anywhere alone to cry.
I have been beaten up by my larger yet younger sister.
I have also been slapped by her on that day.
I have wondered why grief could lead to violence.

I have grieved until my mind fell apart.
I have made assumptions, assumptions, etcetera.
I have fabricated a persona for myself.
I have torn that patchwork apart.
I have seen how little I know who I am.
I have questioned who I am, and if I am at all.
I have heard and seen non-existent enemies.
I have battled that which nobody can see exists.

I have won trophies before yet having won meant the world.
I have helped others until pieces of sanity were reassembled.
I said the wrong thing to the ‘right’ people.
I have said the perfect thing to the ‘wrong’ people.

I have shaken and stirred.
I have mended and made.
I have apologised countless times.
I have no idea whether I’ll truly be welcome.
I have a feeling that I am just like extra luggage.

I have no dissolution that this is not anyone’s fault but my own.