I barely found the words to say
only to find they weren’t worth saying
(They were just the right words,
said to the wrong person)
I can still feel the
bruises behind my eyes
Tag: spilled ink (Page 6 of 9)
Today I am very unconvincing.
Pretending to be happy is
too exhausting to contemplate
when I’ve spent all week being
put in my place.
It is too hard to answer questions like
what is left
who is left
I’m not so sure now.
I got it wrong somehow.
Sometimes when I’m trying to write about my experiences
I stop suddenly and smack myself on the forehead and
cover my face and just want to scream because
I can’t believe that this is me.
I have written this post for the writing contest: How Writing Has Positively Influenced My Life, hosted by Positive Writer. Click here for more info!
I’ve loved writing for as long as I can remember. It’s been the only constant thing that I have always wanted to do – thoughts of being a
teacher, a psychologist, and fleeting fantasies of being an actress or in a band, all came and went. But writing is the only thing that ever stuck, the one thing I’ve never doubted my ability to do.
I have been digging
so hard
dirt is all over my face
and my eyes are damp
from the strain of it all
but no-one else can see.
I have been digging it all up
heaving it out of the ground
and throwing it in piles
all over my garden.
The soil is soft and it’s easy.
I make it look easy,
should anyone be watching.
They’re not. I do it in the
dead of night. I’m good at hiding
it and not even on purpose.
It just comes naturally to me.
Dig it up. Turn over the soil.
Put it back. Plant marigolds
on top of it. Making a scene
ain’t my scene. Dig it up.
Rake over it. Water it with
whisky. Put it back to bed but
check on it in the night like
a parent checking in on their
children as they sleep. It only
pretends to be asleep.
people keep saying
how strong I am and
I’m slowly starting
to believe them.
jam
tuna
chicken kiev
meat paste
coke zero
massage @ 5:30pm
your voice in my head telling me
I did the right thing.
sharp,deep cuts
gentle grazes
bloodied by the sun
raised scabs crusting over
pale white scars
thinly streaking
splotches of purple bruises
fading to nothing but a memory
as night begins to fall
I remember feeling January approach
and wishing for a year so unlike the last,
a year to conquer all years,
a year to make up for everything.
But that put the world under too much
pressure; that was too much for it to
live up to.
I love to have nightmares because
they make me fall in love with reality –
whatever that reality may be.
If you can’t see it,
covering your eyes
won’t make it go away.
So what will?
