Letter

This is a letter to you.

To you. The person I have hurt so much. The person who I expect to fill their pockets and shoes with my unhappiness and confusion. The person I always expect to be there. After. Before. In the midst of my fury. Sorry is not enough.

I pick up the messages. Days later. Weeks later. I can hear it in your voice. The fear underneath the strength. It is so confusing how we reached this place. Almost too big to understand and I am frightened of weaving the spiders web. Connecting what's inside to the outside. The me you have to carry.

Sorry can never be a big enough word. It is not even the right word any more. The right words are 'yes'. ' I will'. 'I want to'. ' I can.' I hope they are coming. I hope that when they arrive I fully believe in them and inhabit them until there is no other way of being. That we will move forward and away from this. Delete those messages and never hear them spoken again.

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And this is a letter to you. The person who has hurt me so much. Who never sees me. Touches me. Acknowledges the pain inside me. The pain on me. You are the one who has to read these words. These stories I have been collecting. The unhappiness. The anger within each syllable is aimed at you. Not in malice or anger but in love and betrayal. I loved you and you never loved me back. It makes me angry that I can't hate you and forget you. Move on as you have done. Forget. Forget. Repress. Deny. Abolish. But I am not as cold as that. Not like you. It is that warmth which makes me special. It is such a loss you fail to see what I have given you.

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And a ps to my SS friends - I am sorry if I can't reciprocate and read your entries as quickly as I might. I am still euphemisitcally in the 'teach hut' and only have 20 mins of PC time a day..home on Tuesday though..thanks for your visits.. Jae

Source

I am in a teach hut, not a beach hut.

The waves are stronglifting me up.

Soon I will feel the water on my feet

and the sun willmake me smile...

or at least those tiny little shells of compounds

will soak into my head

and raise my hair again

Away in the Head

Hello to all my Sunday Scribbling friends.. I feel a little lost without you but am unfortunately out of action due to some health problems..I hope to be up and typing as soon as my poor old head gets it together again..

Look forward to rejoining you all
Jae x

Me

When I arrived at midnight I said to her ‘I am not a bad person’. She replied, ‘I never thought you were. You are just lost.’

And so I stand at the counter piercing holes in the cellophane of my ready meal. It is now 4’O Clock on a different day. But the same day. It is always the same day. I am not hungry. I never am. Not for food. The noise stabs into the silence of this beige room. My fingers shake around the knife. Maybe this will be the last bite of reheated cauliflower. The last taste of dried carrot. If only the shop would stop selling these small boxes of sadness. I keep opening them up hoping to find something. But there is nothing. You will never leap out of a 10cm box.

I exist in this slow world. I look at the words I have attached to the fridge. A few black lines that tether me to something other than this beige food. A few reasons to go back to the shop. To keep on. But they hardly drown the silence. They can’t take away the crushing weight in my head. Sitting. Looking at my hands. So strange. A tangle of yesterdays and nothingness. Sheer nothingness eating at me. My lips make no noise as I try to call out. I grind my teeth over my nails to try and fill myself up.

I would like to make a sound. I try to summon it up as I walk. When I wear out another pair of shoes. Endlessly moving, trying to find the right words. Any words. The right pair of hands. Any pair of hands. The timer counts down on the oven. Twenty-five minutes. I watch the dial - Age going up. Time going down. But it is still too much. I cannot bear to wait. Why wait for something you do not want. I eat the food cold. It hardly matters. What is warmth? It is so hard to find amongst the aisles of a supermarket. Standing in a queue with strangers. Real people. Something I can never be. Replicant. Imposter. Bad, bad, bad.

I can barely swallow. I cannot taste because I know I will never be found. Me. The scraps of congealing potato tossed in the black bag. Lost. This is the way of me now. This is the way of me forever.