Intermittent wails
Sirens sing a shrill warning –
Baby police car.
Tag: spilled ink (Page 2 of 9)
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.
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.
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what if I never break?
what if I walk forever undamaged
never dying
never meeting an
end
what if
I never
see
what kills me
so greatly
that would be the
best thing
so we’re going down this route?
let’s pretend this is fiction.
I
can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t
there’s
too much of it
there’s
just too much of it
when
will it end
when
will it go away
I
just can’t I’m sorry
I can’t go anywhere without it
It’s
been a bad week.
It’s
not like I’m holding onto it
I
just can’t let it go – it’s holding onto me
so
what am I supposed to do?
I
can only apologise to myself
again
it’s
been five years since I found out what was going to happen
five
years since that photo was taken
when
I forced a smile for the flash
when
I had something to say but just couldn’t
when
I was silent
when
you didn’t fucking notice
when
I was in shock and it felt sort of like
no
big deal
when
I didn’t cry
I
am worse now
I
am feeling now
I
am five years late
it’s
been a cancerous week, alright?
and
I don’t mean that like how the
songs
and the sayings bandy it around
not
“I’m as serious as cancer
when
I say rhythm is a dancer”
but
actual cancer in forums, songs, tv
where
I don’t expect it – cancer creeping
up
on me, thrown around everywhere
and
I have to deal with it
and
I fucking can’t
I
just fucking can’t
it’s
Friday and I’m drinking and
there
is probably something wrong with this
and
no I’m not sorry
but
there is no need for you to worry
only
me
and
it’s only me
let
me deal with this
I’ll
take care of it
somehow
in
the morning things will be
better
or worse
I’m
not sure
I’d
love to share this but I can’t
I’d
fucking love to share this but I can’t
I’m just trying to keep afloat today.
There is a reason why the number twelve
is at the top of the clock face.
It’s because each hour is an aspiration,
every day completion an accomplishment.
but this is
mouth-numbingly painful
