New Year

There is no food in the shop. The lights are out. The windows steamy with breath. People fighting to get in. People fighting to get out. It’s hard to know which side of the glass is the best place to be on.

Do I want to spend my last few days fighting to eat coleslaw and Cheerios or should I just pace out the bottles of wine under the bed.

The thought of what to choose makes my head buckle.

As the sun disappears and the cold settles on my shoulders the only thought I have is to get in. As if being trapped in there with the steam from a stranger’s lungs is company enough. A hand to hold. A cry to share.

I drink. And I drink some more. I am not sure what I have to do. The man in the brown coat who I pass every day says he’s happy. His fingers are black. His gloves full of holes. He stops by the railing where I stand. I am so confused. He says he would like to hold my hand but I tell him I don’t like to be touched. He leans in anyway and I smell the cheap cider on his breath. His eyes are nowhere. Not in this crumbling town. Not anywhere.

Maybe not trying absolves you of the fear. Maybe it does make you happy.

I throw up at 2am. A volcano of red and stale bread.

I clean up with my eyes closed. Trying to evade this night. This new year. This moment in the story book.

I use up most of the water in the bath to wash the toilet. It is quite satisfying turning my world back to white even though I can't see it.

I walk back to my bed and can’t help but notice the creases you left behind on the sofa. The weight of you still with me; but not enough to fill the abandoned boots in the hallway.

This apocalypse has driven a wedge between us.

To get you back I have to get up tomorrow and try.

Manifesto

This is my manifesto.

Whenever I think of jumping
I will remember the smile on my face as we played on the swings.
The photos we took. My gloves. Your big furry boots. The sound of your steps like a slush-puppie machine.

This is my manifesto.

Whenever I think of slipping
I will remember you pulling my hand and making me skip. How it felt to move forward.

This is my manifesto.

Whenever I worship the railings
I will look up instead of down.
I will see a way over the bridge and think of how far we have come.

This is my manifesto.

Whenever I think the answer is to stop time
I will say to myself there is no time to spare.
Every second counts.

This is my manifesto.

I will eat those beans and not save them for the apocalypse.

This is my manifesto.

There will be a move inside.
There will be a chance to say ‘fuck’ and ‘fuck’ and ‘fuck’.
There will be films to watch.
Hair to blow dry.
Pets to be petted.
Journey’s to be made.
Skips to be skipped.
Late nights and sleepy mornings.

A little less pain.

This is my manifesto.

I am glad we have each other.
I am glad there are many more days.

What is mine

I object.

I object that nothing belongs to me.

Not the ridges and craters. The pink and the white. The full swoop of my time being lost.

I don’t think I will ever be able to utter the words.

To say
This is mine.
The one thing left I had to claim. The heat and singe. The prickles and bites.
That was. That is. Me.

I rush and fight. Spew out venom. Lies. All lies. The truth comes out when I lose my tongue. When I vacate the grey matter and fall into pure white. Slippery. Dangerous. Like ice.

Maybe I say what I say to educate you. Or liberate me. Whatever. It is forgotten. Neatly discharged. Sent home. Sent back. Never moved forward. Never remembered. Never honoured. Never believed.

I don’t know where I begin. Where my body is allowed to touch the world. Where every line is as trusted as the next line in a story you have read a hundred times. My story.

It is too much to try. Sometimes. Sometimes when all I want is every minute that is. That was. Mine.

I switch off the lights. Check out. Swallow. Breathe.
Roll over into the silence.
Silence that belongs to me.

December

Twelve days.

Twelve days left.
Such relief.

Twelve things lost.
Twelve things never found.

Soon I will fall back into you.

Twelve beautiful little shining pearls.
Twelve multiplied by a hundred of them.

Twelve cars passing overhead.
A lorry with the words on the side
‘Eat More Chips’

I never will.
A few potatoes are not enough.
Not hot. Not cold. Not sliced. Diced or rolled.

There will not be twelve people to line the room.

Nobody that counts.

You pass me in a white coat. A black coat.

None of this feels real. A slip on the floor. A bang on the head. A little gas and air.

It is twelve days ago.
Twelve years ago.

Never and when.
December.

Chemical Reaction

I dabble with chemicals. Mix them up in my ceramic pot and watch the reaction. With no words left to utter I lean silently over my creation and let the vapours burn inside my nose. The acid bites and soothes. I drift off. The sound of the pot moving in the sink breaks my silent prayer. Harsher than what is inside. It underlines the emptiness. The devotion to this ridiculous alchemy. My head nods and blood trickles out. My eyes dilate. I understand what I am losing. What I have lost. I am the poison and the anti-dote. I am clinging to this fucking pot as if it is the Holy Grail. I would understand it more if I was helpless. But all of this is a choice. An experiment. I took up this thankless quest and tell myself that I can’t stop until I find what I need.

My pulse picks up and I let the mixture run cold. A tear falls from my face and gets lost in the clump of dying crystals. I wash it all away. Place my hand on the plastic pipe and feel it groan under the demands I place upon it. No pipe can wash away this much feeling. In time it will crumble and leak. It will leave a stain and I will move house.

I close the door and take a walk. The air vacuums up the residual vapours. I remember school. What I learnt; ‘every action has a positive and negative reaction.’ I smile a little.

I go to the coffee shop. They look me in the eye and acknowledge me. That is worth the price of coffee every day. The woman in the smart coat. Gold rings. Neat hair. Takes the sugar from my table without asking. I follow her eyes. They give me nothing. I put on my duffle. Walk to her table. ‘Excuse me. It is polite to ask someone before you take something from them.’ It astounds me as much as it does her. I shake a little as I leave. I have a sugar pot full of words. And I can use them.

There’s not much behind that wizard’s curtain that can scare me. I do not need to fill my pot to find my courage. I just need to remember all the good things it has taught me.

Limits

I go to the railings for my morning embrace. The three metal bars hug my knees and chest as I lean over them. There are no cars in the car park today. Just pot holes and frozen puddles. I look at the lady trying to negotiate the ice and melting snow in her hooker shoes. I look at my own feet. Same size and shoes as an eleven year old boy. Stuck, stuck, stuck. I kind of wish I had the courage to step out in red, plastic stilettos. Maybe it would invite more flexible hugs.

It was another restless night. Awake in my bed at 2am. I heard voices in the car park. Something about finding a lone female. Voice in a walkie-talkie. There are lots of hiding places for heads that need rest in this complex. I wondered if they were looking for me. If anyone is looking for me. In my head I have already disappeared and there is no one left to find me. In total waking, I know my body will never get past the railings. They stop me. Hold me. Turn me away.

I am so scared of Monday. It is coming like a freight train and I don’t want it. I don’t want to be seen. I don’t want to be touched. I don’t want anyone cutting into my existence. I am happy in my darkness. I am happy drawing the curtains and lying on the floor treading time. It is a place of non-being. It keeps me safely tucked up within my limits.

I hurry home with food I shouldn’t eat. With books I will never read and paper I will never fill with pictures. I like to keep my arm close to the wall. My feet aligned to the inside of the kerb. Like doing a puzzle from A to B. The path of least resistance. I try and look at the things that make other people smile but my face contorts into a rictus and I feel even more exposed. How do words come so easily to them. Movement so effortless. Every muscle and thought grinds inside me and rubs me raw.

I pass the shoe shop. In the window the red shoes sparkle under the artificial lights.

'Curiouser and Curiouser'

I measure myself against you. Lie on the floor and occupy the little gaps in your flesh. It is hard to judge where I end and how much of you belongs to me. The warmth of your blood gives me safety. It is funny how we can lie like this yet never speak. You only allow me a moment of comfort. I am not sure if I could tolerate more. Maybe you know this. Or maybe you like to stand up and walk away. I would not be surprised if one day you failed to come. I leave a space for your shoes by the door. I have something ready to fill it should you disappear. A bag or a box. I steal bags from the shops. If you carry a bag as if you own it and it is full of your life – even just the phone numbers of friends - nobody looks twice as you walk through the ringing doors. The trick to being utterly invisible is to appear utterly visible. I would be as exposed as a broken bone if somebody looked in one of my bags. Open me up and there is nothing there. Just the blackness and emptiness of nightfall. Sometimes I wonder if you are even real. Or if I am just imagining how your body feels. How any body feels. I can’t imagine why you would want to lie there. What do I give you? No words. No kisses. No warmth. Maybe I make you feel real and you wonder if I exist. Maybe right now you are writing. ‘I measure myself against you. Lie on the floor and occupy the little gaps in your flesh.’ But there is only me here. There is only ever me. I am the one that swallows and spills the words. I take the blue pill and fall through the floor. I have the green one ready for morning when the sickness comes. I keep it at arms length otherwise my head will be forever cemented to my dreams. I ask you for more. But you do not bring them. Aah. That is where you are. Hidden in the blue. The warmth is inside there. Your body comes from within it and I hold onto this disappearing rabbit as if it is my own heart.

Blue Coat

I buy the same coat as you. Long. Blue. Wool. Mine has brown buttons. Yours blue.

It isn’t until I find you again that I realise I am wearing a memory to keep warm. Not a coat.

I see you outside the camera shop. Looking at posters of cameras. Something you can take pictures on that nobody will see. Only chance would find us lurking on a film. A shadow of something exchanged. A shared echo in time and place.

We move on knowing that we will slip through time. Our faces too invisible to be etched on waxy paper or passed through hands and lovingly creased with time. I look at your mouth for words but there are none. There are no letters left to exchange. Nothing to record.

I laugh silently as we pass the toy and chocolate shop. There is a game in the window called ‘Who Am I?’

We walk to the water. Not together. A little behind. A little in front. We switch places like dancers accepting and refusing centre stage. We do not need each other for guidance. At the railings we stop as one. Stand side by side. I feel you. I hope you feel me. We hold hands to keep warm. Stay connected for a while.

We take the next step together. No slips. No slides. No doubts. A matching pair of blue arms reaching for the sky.

The Boots

I feel my demise. As I lie down and force my eyes shut against the sickness. As I bandage my feet in order to put my boots on. Without bandages my feet wear away. There is so much pain. From face to feet. Little parts of me get ground down by the wind every day. I show no remorse. Yet I feel each slice of separation from myself. Each little loss. I wish for my footsteps to make a noise. For someone to hear me coming. Or going. But I am as hollow as the snow that falls. The only trail of evidence is the blood left behind on my socks. But nobody sees that. I wash them out silently at the sink. Trying not to catch my gaze in the frosted tiles.

The little girl in the Post Office grabbed her mummy’s coat sleeve and pointed at me. I wondered where the finger was headed and realised it was me. My feet shuffled in shame. I hung my head. Closed my eyes for a second to re-boot and disappear. How did I become this? The shear effort of inhabiting myself feels too great. I forget how many stamps I need. Even posting away my wishes is too much to accomplish these days.

They say wait another six months. Another year. Things will change. The words mean nothing. All I wish for is sleep. Six months. A year. It’s just more time to erode in. I know as well as they do that there is no chance of a revival. There is a point beyond which nothing can be repaired. A point at which you can no longer claim yourself back from the wind.

My head bounces restlessly on the pillow. I am aware enough to know that it is shutting down. The visions wake me up laughing. I am a little girl playing with paper dolls. That was happy. Two hours later I am crying. You tore them up. That was sad. It is all leaving me. I am emptying myself out. Draining every last memory so I can depart.

If I cannot sleep then I hope the departure is quick because my hands are too tired to stay at this sink for another six months. Another year. Silently washing out blood.