Delicious

The taste on his lips was delicious. The empty glass lay on the table. The rim was still warm from his mouth. He looked at her. His eyes wide and hungry. She tried to smile. She fingered the ends of her jumper nervously. She wanted to ask him what it was like. If it was as brilliant as they had planned. She had hardly expected the day to come. When they would be sat here. Side by side in the kitchen. Sun streaming in through the windows. Bouncing off the tainted pots and pans drying out on the side of the sink. An ordinary day outside. Extraordinary perhaps in here. Though she doubted what they were doing would change anyone's world but theirs.

He did not speak but she could see the liquid moving down his throat as his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. Her eyes flicked from his neck to his eyes but he was as unreadable as ever. She looked for signs from him. Reassurances maybe. But he let nothing away. His eyes glistened. He blinked every few seconds. Otherwise his body was still. Calm. Resolute. Perhaps that was more comforting than a smile. Perhaps he was all she needed. She feathered out the threads that had pulled away from her jumper. Drummed her fingers on her knee. Looked up into his face and smiled at him.

On the table lay a second glass. Full and waiting for her.

Dare

There are black circles on the ceiling. Damp spots where my breath has gathered. Old. Used oxygen going stale in the room around me. I lie in bed looking at them. How many days have they been gathering. Getting bigger. I wonder if I will stay until my tired breath paints the whole ceiling or if I will figure out a way to clean it up. I wiggle my toes. It is light outside but I don't want to get up. All failures begin with leaving the bed. I can't believe that I am still here. It feels as if it is against my will. My better judgement. It is part of the punishment. My life has stopped but time continues. I find it hard to understand that. That whilst the mould was growing people I knew got married, produced children, bought houses. Left. And I am stuck. Walking around this place in circles. It makes my head burst in anger. But I stuff down the screams that would help move me on. I smile at people. I am fine. All part of the punishment. Of not being real. I would do anything to make it stop. Just stop. The delivery trucks become tempting. A way out of the circle. A change in the pattern. But I think of the driver. Of how he would stare at his ceiling in the middle of the night. I know where each electricity pole is too. I glance at the yellow sign. I wonder how. There are streams hidden by fences and trees that my unhappiness could just disappear in. Hills. Sea. There is always a place where this can end. Perhaps knowing there is a choice helps me get out of bed. Takes me to the supermarket. Keeps adding to those circles on the ceiling. Proves my existence. I think of Eli. I must go and live or stay and die. What do I dare?

Brave

My steps are soft. I aways walk on my toes but tonight my feet need to be even quieter. It is dark. I am worried that if I make too much noise light will fall on me and catch me out like a thief in the spotlight. I waited for the early hours. Stayed still in my bed until I knew no-one could hear me and ruin my escape. Make me doubt. I daren't even turn the lights on. As if the spark of the switch would wake them up. The groping, spying neighbours who press their ears against the walls trying to figure out every movement I make. They saw me once. The real me. The terrifying me. Now I know when their breath stops and they lean into my world. Constantly there behind the flimsy partitions. Nothing protects me from them. Not even screaming to scare them away.

But this is a special moment. My departure. I use the street lamps that shine through the hallway windows to navigate my way around the damp flat that has held me prisoner for three years. There is not one corner of this world that I want to remember. That I want to take with me. I will leave with nothing. Standing here in my jeans and sturdy boots, knowing that is all I will own from now on, I have a feeling of completeness. I can become anything. Build myself up from scratch. Create a new world. A place without walls. Where I can tread as heavily as I want and fart and scream and laugh and cry. I can be me. I can be real again.

I always thought it cowardly to walk away. But this is the bravest thing I have ever done.

Weird

I wait for you. I watch for you. I walk by the streets where I have seen you in the past. That is the shape of my day. Hoping for you to come. Hoping for you to change everything. Or just a tiny piece of my being. I know little pieces of your life. I gather them up like breadcrumbs. Give them weight in my hand. The car you drive. The supermarket you shop at every Saturday. I know more than you can imagine. I create you from mere glimpses and cursory exchanges. And in creating you I remain blank. Waiting for you to write on me. Write the lines where our stories co-exist and you provide me with the script. Nothing else is real. There is no one. No place where the world is concrete. Where I can be. There is only this space that you fill now. Where others have filled in the past. I will follow you. You will become something to me. You have to become something to me.

That is what makes me different. From the three women in the waiting room huddled in their misery. Waiting for strangers to help. I know you will help because you come from me. This story I create. The hope that you will come to me by the shear force of language. That gives me breath. That is the brilliance of being different. Weird.

Game

The lights from the Iceland store shone like a beacon in the night. Darren sat huddled on the park bench. Trying to keep warm in his nylon parka. A couple of kids were fooling around on the bench opposite. He watched them. He could hear cars on the road behind him. Voices and footsteps. People going places. Being something. The game was to become so obsolete no one thought you peculiar any more. The pattern on his jacket was camouflage. He mulled it over. Fisherman’s’ pie and peas or cottage pie and peas. It was weakness anyway. To feel hunger. Nothing that cost 99 pence could really fill you up. But the shop was warm. He liked to walk down the aisles and look at the signs. Chips. Meat. Pies. Ice cream. Gateaux. The meal would only make sense if you walked North to South from entrance to exit. Everything was so carefully planned. Darren’s life was so carefully planned. No one ever found Darren because he made plans. He was clever. Nothing remarkable like a man buying his dinner after work. The kids got up. Darren’s fingers caressed the blade in his pocket. They didn’t notice him behind them.

Beauty

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder so they say. He looked at her. She was small. But strangely clumsy in the space she took up. He was tanned and tall with confident, strong hands. Neat, clean nails. They first met in that corridor at work. Her colleagues had sent her to ask him for something. She was new and they dispatched her with a laugh and the message that she had to be more assertive. And so she went to him. Nervous. Asked for the item. Told him what they had said - 'they sent me because they think I need to be more forthright.' He had smiled and replied 'you don't need to change. You're fine the way you are.' This had unbalanced her. She had expected him to be one of them. The ones who thought she was nothing. She stayed in the job. For as long as he was there. She did anything to meet up with him. Tested out his resolve. Made sure he was real. She knew his routine from the timetable they kept printed on the wall. However much she tested, his smile and soft laugh never faltered. She oftened wondered if anyone second guessed her actions. His actions towards her. But they were too busy laughing and joking. And she was so quiet. So passive. Or so they thought. They did not remember sending her to him that first time. She was sure of that. It had been a long forgotten joke. Send the most unattractive woman to the alpha male. Watch her squirm. Laugh as she returned pink-faced. A throw-away moment for them. Except she never returned pink faced. She remembered every time that she met him after that first exchange. She remembered every soft word of encouragement and smile he threw at her. She would never throw that away. He had made her feel special. She kept that to herself like the item they never really needed. She kept that because he had given it to her. It carried his message. I find you beautiful.

Oracle

She stood on top of the hill. Her hair billowing in the wind like a mast behind her. She could see the tops of the trees blowing in the field below. The rain whipping up off the grass like electric sparks. Being so high it was almost as if she was looking down on the storm. No longer within it. Her clothes were wet from walking so far but she no longer felt cold. She thought she was crying out in pleasure but her words were lost in the gale. The force of the gusts knocked her knees backwards and she stumbled slightly but never lost her footing. The storm had been blowing overnight and showed no signs of slowing. For a brief moment she thought the energy inside of her was feeding it. She could not sleep therefore the wind could not sleep. But she dismissed this. She had been awake too when the dark sky was still and the stars barely flickered. Eventually rest comes. Eventually the storm fades. She returned her arms to her side and began to walk back. She would take this knowledge down the hill. Like an oracle.

Interview

The day of the interview. She tied her laces in the hallway. Stood up straight. Wiped the hair from her eyes and quickly checked her clothes in the mirror. It had been so long since she had gone further than the corner shop. Today she would have to catch the bus. Then the train. Then navigate from the station to the building using the little hand drawn map the secretary had mailed her. She was nervous. Sick. Milk bile rose in her throat. She regretted drinking the tea and wished she'd just had her customary breakfast cigarette. She looked at her watch. 9.10. She was on schedule. Of course. She began her series of checks. The oven. Off. Off. Off. A hundred times. The electric kettle. Off. Off. Off. A hundred times. The boiler. Off. Off. Off. A hundred times. Around and around the tiny flat she went in her peculiar little dance. She kept the curtains permanently closed so people walking past the windows wouldn't spy her bowing and praying towards her own personal demons. Up and down on her knees she went. Joints clicking. So tired of all of this. 9.30. She straightened herself and took a deep breath. Her hand hovered on the front door handle. She looked at the cat. Nodded good bye. The cat blinked at her. A diffident little nod of approval. She opened the door and walked out into the hazy sun. The door clicked behind her. Resolutely. Her feet felt uneasy on the pavement. They rocked a little. She was finding it hard to keep her balance because her heart thumped so harshly. She kept her head down. Counted out the steps. One two. One two. I will make it to the bus stop. I will get there today. The bus came and picked her up. Took her to the train station. She had rehearsed this in her head. She knew which platform she had to get to and so marched through the station doors to her waiting train without time to worry or doubt. She found a seat away from the little clusters of people drinking coffee and rustling papers. 10.20. She was on the train. Almost despite herself. For a small moment she allowed a smile to cross her lips. Being on this train. Being here in this moment was so far removed from the flat. So much better. So much bigger. She allowed her body to flow with the forward movement of the carriage and was almost disappointed when it stopped and she had to get off. She gave the map a quick glance. But she knew where she was going. Her feet bounced along the imaginary lines that had been drawn for her and she arrived at the building with ten minutes to spare. 11.20. How many years had it been since she had been out for so long? She introduced herself at the front entrance and sat in the reception waiting for her interviewer to arrive. Her hands relaxed around the papers she had prepared. A tall man. Middle aged, full of energy, strode out and extended a hand to her. 'I am so glad you made it Ms Rose. And after all this time. Don't worry, I think you'll find it was quite worth the journey.'

Adventure

She said it would be an adventure. We packed our bags and headed out for the train station. The tiny wheels grinding against the sticky morning pavement. We had it all planned. Our big departure. We would go to a hotel. We would be sisters. Alice and Emily Rose. That way nobody would know. We debated over whether or not to take bags. We wouldn't really need anything except that one important container. And the vodka we would buy from the Tesco Express on the corner. She said it would look weird if we checked in without bags. That maybe we'd get turned away at the door. I doubted anybody would really notice us. Nobody tended to. But I agreed it would be a good idea to have some clean clothes. That was the ritual anyway. Shower. Wash our hair in flavoured shampoo because we knew it would lay unbrushed on a pillow for three days straight. Spit and sleep dust rolling onto our fringes. We had always done it at home before. Gone out in the morning. We are doing fine. We shop. We drink coffee. We look at the cake we bought. Smug that we resisted plunging our forks into the frosting. Not like those fat ladies on the table opposite. With their children. Their talk of parties. School things. So loud. We do not want to hear. Home on the bus. Letting our hands fall on our laps. Fingers brushing. It was exciting. To know. To want to do it so badly.

The front door slammed behind us with a resolute thud. We hoped it waked the neighbours up. The neighbours who had infected our lives for three years with their ugly hollering voices. Their nosey fingers bending the corners of our post. Trying to work us out. All they knew was that now and then we would disappear. But we had always come back. In the past.

On the train we looked into each others eyes. Running over the schedule. Smiling every now and again. Half way along the line we drank some water and I rested my head against the window. She laid her head against my shoulder. We would do this. I could now she was here. Not like twenty years ago when I rode the same train. Up and down. Away from here. Back again. Always trying to find somewhere to belong.

We laid our little bags on the strange hotel bed. Washed and changed our clothes. I didn't like the harsh feel of the sheets against my cheek. For a moment I wanted to go back. I saw one rigid body in a £25 hotel room. I tried to speak. To make it stop. But she whispered silently in my ear 'now you belong' and her invisible lips kissed my closing eyes.

Shame

I look in the mirror. It is not my face looking back at me. These cheeks. Traced with lines I don't remember placing there. These eyes. Wide. Placeless. Older than I imagined but still five years old. Swirling around a playground. Running so fast no one guessed you had no friends to return to. The dirty clothes. The shoes made for boys. Except you were a little girl. They made you cut your hair. When they didn't cut it you held your head over the sink and did it yourself. Cut so much hair off all that was left for the scissors to nip was my finger tips. Now it is long. It hangs there. I don't know quite what to do with it. It gets stuck sometimes. In the little pockets of skin around my temples. The sticky, healing flesh. I have to push it away with my thick fingers. Sweaty. Nervous. If I push it away they might glimpse what's behind the curtains. Don't look. Keep running. Still no friends to come home to. What do people think? They look. They create the story. But it is not me. I use a pocket torch to cast a light up under my chin. I can't stand in front of the mirror with the main light on. I like how the individual beams of light create a different set of shadows. A different me. One for outside. One for in. In some lights I am defiant. This is my face. Look at it. Look at it. See what you have done. Then my hand drops. The light spills. I can't face my own eyes. Look at you. Look at what you have done. I slide my thumb over the torch switch. Unable yet to face my shame.

Junk

I crave it like breath. I sit in his office. Screaming. Don't take it away. It is my life. I will die without it. As I scream for it I know it also kills me. Stops me dead. In everybody's eyes it is my problem. If I stopped needing it, the junk, I would be different. Renewed. Alive again. But the shiny little disc is not the problem. Taking it away will not make me different. There will be something else to replace it with. Maybe then it gives me life? Something worth screaming for. What would I fight for otherwise? There is nothing worth more to me than that little half moon of compounds. As evil as that sounds. I don't swallow it all anyway. That makes me smile. You all think I am screaming for it. But I am only screaming for the possession of it. You have taken the rest away. My need to scream becomes justified. You have turned me into nothing more than a problem that needs to be fixed. Everybody will be much happier if you just stop this junk. This rubbish. This shit. Your life. You have to fix you. You have to fix everybody. So heavy that weight in my hand. Far lighter is the little pill.

A Bump in the Night

She awoke with a bump in the night. The bed hard under her hands. It took her a while to catch her breath. Looked around the half-dark room. The curtains made little waves in the draft. The outline of her clothes on the chair. Shoes by the door. She breathed in slowly. Remembered the day. How she got here. Being stopped outside the fish and chip shop. 'You have to come with us.' She knew they would be there. Waiting outside the house. Lights on the car. Radios on their chests. She wasn't an idiot. It had happened before. It would happen again. She heard noises in the corridor. Heavy feet. No hiding in the confusion of her thoughts. She hated being in this place. The doors that could always be opened by one of them. That swang outwards only. The everyday things subverted. She didn't want to leave the bed. Eventhough it was hard and squeaked everytime she moved. She wanted to linger in the night. The protection of the dark. She wanted to be removed from herself. From this moment. She wanted to go back.

First Kiss

His lips were rough. Tinged with old food and vomit. She hated them rubbing up and down her skin. She flinched hoping it would stop. As if he would pay attention to what her body tried to say for her. But his head tucked down into the folds of her soft belly. He worked away with determination. He would enjoy this. When her young skin was brushed with red lines - little blood brush marks from his beard, he lifted himself up and looked at her like a painter admiring his work. Leaving his mark. He would stop. Just before. Just before she felt nineteen. Stuck in a Glasgow council flat with this stranger she'd driven half the country with. Half excited. Half dead.

Cheese

Ted opened his eyes, stretched his legs in front of him and waited for her to come.

Everyday around one o'clock he would hear J's voice calling to him.

'Okay, time for lunch. Did you have a good night?'

Ted would yawn and blink his eyes in agreement. Too sleepy to try and say much more to J. For him, it felt like the middle of the night but he didn't complain. He liked J coming to him. Caressing his fragile body. Holding his feet in her hands. He liked the kisses and her gentle commentary. It made him feel special. Loved. More than he was.

And he was more to J. Much more. He was her life. She would take a bullet for him. She would do anything to make Ted happy and keep him well.

So every lunch time she prepared his food. Chopped up the little bits and pieces and dropped it in a bowl. She would sing to herself as she did. Content. Warm inside. She liked to care for him. It made her feel special too.

She flicked the locks to Ted's room and put the food on the floor. Ted moved to meet her hand. Sniffed out the yellow lumps in the bowl. J put her fingers on his head as he began to chew enthusiastically. The same as every day. J smiled watching him.

Ted loved J so much that he could never let her know that hamsters don't like cheese.

Hungry

I looked at my plate. She had left it out for me. I had spent most of the night walking in the rain.

My shoes were wet. Squeaking. I liked the sound and ground my toes on the rubber. Made my feet laugh.

I had stood outside the front door waiting for her to let me in. There was no doorbell. No knocker. She had sensed I was there. I heard her soft, bare feet coming down the grimy carpet to the hallway.

We no longer needed to switch on the lights. We have done this all before. It is a fine, exhausting dance of two empty people rattling through the early hours.

I walked in darkness to the plate. To the dining room table with the silent radio and pile of lists. I wondered what it would be like to eat in the light. In the daytime. When the rest of the world was awake. I wondered what it was like to eat at all.

I sat there for half an hour. Drying out. Nodding my head towards the food. I thought it polite. One last shred of my humanity to sit and look at what she'd given me.

When I thought she was no longer listening I stood and left the food untouched. Left my belly as empty as my head. I sat on the floor near her bed and waited for morning.

Tattoo

Wes hunched over my ankle inking in the blues and blacks of the butterfly.

At first my leg flew away from his hands with every bite of the needle.

Adrenaline he said.

After a while each small puncture was like a soft kiss. Soothing, beautiful.

Wes's spare hand relaxed its hold and he carefully wiped up the spill of colours with a paper towel.

As the butterfly filled I felt warmer inside than ever before.

Key

The key is already there.

It's the door you have to find.

Poetry

Words gather like flies around my lips
Drawn to the cold,
Puffed away by the reluctant warmth.
Still driving, pushing.

To write.
To be on paper
Is to live
To breathe
To be.

Little Shiny Pear

Sitting hard in the fruit bowl. I curse you. Autumn is here.

Today I just might....

Wake up and realise it is ok not go back

Adulthood

Adulthood is waking up and realising you can never go back.