I am Pluto –
I have been told what I am
and what I am not.
But I am not Pluto –
My status is not dependent
on what other people think of me.
I am Pluto –
I could be big and mighty
but I’m made to feel small.
I am not Pluto –
I am not devoid of craters,
nor am I mountainous.
I am Pluto –
I can be difficult to understand,
and so far, far away.
But I am not Pluto –
There are no secrets here,
I am not a mystery to be solved.
I am a planet. I am not a planet.
I am Pluto. I am not Pluto.
We are the remnants
of our former selves.
We are the remains,
the leftovers.
To feel like you have been halved,
partially destroyed,
and to still have something
breaking you down bit by bit,
this is one of the hardest things.
How much of me will there be left?
There is something wrong with this.
There is something wrong with me.
I have survivor’s guilt
because while I feel traumatised
from what I’ve lived through
(and may yet live through still),
other people have actually died
and others still are grieving.
But I forget I am grieving too –
the loss of a self,
the loss of trust and confidence
the loss of untouched health.
and when I get wrapped up in this,
I forget to be grateful
and I feel guilty for a new reason.
too many feelings have formed
and now they all mesh together
in one big ball, creating
a new emotion that is
unidentifiable
and inescapable.
***
I am plagued by what
people assume I will be.
And I don’t want to accept it
and smile with you.
I’m not happy to be the picture
you have painted of me.
I will not stand and pose like a
mirror image of that portrait.
I don’t want you to frame me that way.
I just want to be seen as what I am
and the potential of what I could be.
Ghosts have found a home
wrapped around my throat
and I can’t breathe.
that’s where they’re most
comfortable; that’s where
I expect them to be.
it’s testing time;
these are testing times
if you are haunted like me.
I have made friends with
my ghosts and they understand
my thoughts. They float inside
my head. There are ghosts
resting on my chest,
juggling with my breath and
I can’t catch it.
They won’t let me near it.
I am playing piggy in the middle
with my ghosts and it makes me
too tired to be fired up,
too tired but still I am reaching out to
try to catch my breath; I am
reaching out for someone who is
haunted like me.
I realised today that sometimes I avoid talking about my body for fear of making other people feel awkward. Isn’t that a bit messed up?
It’s Friday night and I’m at home drinking whisky and watching my favourite TV show, The Last Leg. And I’m thinking about why I love it so much.
Last week I was lucky enough to have tickets to go and see the show being filmed live. My partner and I went along, and we had so much fun. I can’t wait until the next season opens up for applications so I can request tickets again – it’s the best thing I’ve done all summer, and considering I visited Sweden, the Canaries, and went on a hot air balloon ride, that makes The Last Leg pretty awesome.
When we were small
the days towered above us
and we couldn’t see past today
to worry about tomorrow.
Remember that, when the years were new?
Remember when time barely moved?
But now time is a knotted ball in my mind,
a tangled pair of headphones –
mangled experiences, shredded pictures,
a soundtrack distorted by groans.
Now all I can decipher is
those headphones still knotted in my head
a fear of the years flying too fast
and before too long, being dead.
I hold a deep love for October:
the beginning, the constant.
the cosy warmth swaddling us
against the fast-approaching winter.
October is orange in the trees, orange
falling to the ground, orange
lighting up the sky.
Carving out contentment in pumpkins
for the very first time. Singing and
dancing and carefree, slippers and
dressing gowns, excitement entangled
in comfort and certitude.
My chapbook is available with 25% off this weekend! Just use code GWW25 at the checkout.
Here’s the link: http://ow.ly/PfMEh
And an extract:
And a big, big hug for anyone who checks it out – you are awesome! <3
I left a piece of myself in Gothenburg,
and I couldn’t find it in the signs at Heathrow.
Nothing was written in beautiful Swedish,
just in the boring English I already know.
I tried to bring pieces of Gothenburg home –
a backpack full of Kex bars and Ballerina biscuits;
a blue and yellow t-shirt; socks declaring
‘I heart Sweden’; novelty fridge magnets.
But the soft toy moose on the refrigerator
reminds me that sometimes you’re not moving on
to bigger and better things – sometimes
you’re just plain old moving on.
Because there is nothing bigger and nothing better
than the places you adore,
your passions and the dreams you hold –
they’re what’s worth living for.
So one day I will visit again,
I’ll go back when I’m more fluent.
There’s still so much the city can teach me,
I’ll always be a willing student.
And that’s what I said to the wing of the plane
as I tried not to be sad about leaving,
watching the lush green city getting smaller,
trying so hard to clutch onto Sweden.
I got home from my trip to Gothenburg on Friday. I didn’t want to leave. Coming back to England felt so wrong, and far too early. But it was awesome, and if I were to dedicate this poem to anyone I would dedicate it to Pewdiepie, because his videos inspired me to learn Swedish, and to visit Sweden, and he gave me a whole new passion for learning a language and visiting a new country. I’m so grateful for that. <3 *brofist*
