Category Archives: Chapters

My Broken Column

The Broken Column

The Broken Column by Frida Kahlo

The simultaneous love and hatred of life
The beauty of melancholy
The ownership of low self esteem because trying is too difficult
The disorientation of a passing moment
The will to begin again
The terror of depression
The quickening of time
The knowledge of the past and its shadow over tomorrow
The don’t look back
The draining of all creativity
My broken column

Mary (mother of misery)

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Your miserable hanging face. Just want to hook a bag on your mouth to show how much you drain me, make me angry and disgusted with life. Like, cheer up for fuck’s sake… Can’t believe he ever loved you. Can’t imagine how distressing that climax must have been staring into your weeping eyes. How distressing it was for me even imagining it when I was forced to look at you. Looking away. Running away. Getting away from your morbidity. The stench of death. All over my whole fucking relationship. What a waste.

Blood on Me

No words. You took my first words. I remember that, can’t forget that. Blood on the leaves. Murder of the Springtime. No more nursery rhymes for me. Blood on the sheets. Wounds of history. An unnatural inheritance through your bloodline to me. Blood on the car seat. Stolen jewellery and things like that, like choice and dignity and myself. Blood from you. ‘All stabbed up’. Blood on me. I don’t want your blood on me. I don’t want your blood on me.

I DON’T WANT YOUR BLOOD ON ME.

Alley Talk

IMG_3536 I said, ‘I walk this alley every morning amongst the dead mice and the butterflies’. And he said, ‘I walk this alley every night when the mice are skittering and the butterflies are nowhere to be found….and I’ve never seen you’.

Before I was there or wasn’t there and now I’m Everywhere

I used to wonder, late nights wondering about my children. Now I wander through your thoughts freely. I am the reunited part that was parted from you at birth. Naked as the day you were created, there is no need for hiding nor explaining. I have no ears to hear nor eyes to see; I simply am the spirit that is you. I know you’re thinking about all the things you could have said, well you couldn’t. Human lips. Human time. Human flesh. I used to think of all the things I should have said. Human lips. Human time. Human flesh. Remember when we tried to look at each other and only caught glances. Hot tears that burnt with longing and missing and misunderstanding. Remember when you held my hand and it wasn’t long enough. There will never come a time now when time is not enough. I never feared death because leaving was only returning to my beloveds. Before I was there or wasn’t there and now I’m everywhere.

Dedicated to Andre and Hayley and all the other children of eternal mothers.

For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known. 1 Corinthians 13: 12

Cold

Cold isn’t winter. Cold isn’t that freezer that holds your meat. Cold isn’t the man that had his heart chilled as a child and never melted again.

Cold is her body that they all want to fuck as she walks down the road, and her thoughts that taste bitter to the air that surrounds her.

She is the ice at the mountain point that breaks midnight. Nothing darker. Nothing colder. Nothing more relentless against the warmth of daybreak.

Give her a crown and a torch. And let her be.

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27 Club

(message from a survivor).

Like Shula, I think about cutting the ribbon sometimes. I imagine the oppression of life and then I remember that it’s real, that it’s really happening to me. Maybe the world wouldn’t be better off without me, but maybe I would be better off without the world. I thought it would get better but that is the deceit of hoping. I believe I deserve better and everybody tells me I do, but it never happens. There has never been a day when I haven’t been trying and yet I have attained nothing.

I don’t blame individuals anymore. They are characters in one great story of brokenness and pain. Now that I’m 27, I wonder if it is worth continuing. I couldn’t write anything better than the tale that has already been told about me. I’d like to rest please. What I am is no surprise – I was always destined for disappointment. It’s in my nature to want a certain thing that I would never be able to achieve. It was in my childhood and my abuse and the deaths. It was already laid out: and now I’m just lost in the unfolding. I’d rather be a shell, brain dead, deceased, anywhere frankly, but here, trapped in this body, in this world, with this mind and heart and all the passion. It is impossible. I am entirely impossible here. And I have no hope anymore, not a drop.

Take my money. Take my brain. Take my spirit. Take my connections. Take anything of any value to me, for it is worthless to me where I long to be.

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Estrangement

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Estranged dad
Estranged lovers
Estranged memories
Estranged God

I don’t think you’d know yourself even if yourself turned up at the door.

‘But, Grandad’, I said, ‘we’re all lonely old men’.

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Dear Life…

Dear Life,

I have been all things. I have kept my body pure; I have opened it to all debauchery. I have employed wisdom; I have been foolish. I have chosen love; I have chosen hate. I have given generously and I have kept to myself. I have watched a man who smoked and drank and swore and lost his temper live to 100 and I have seen a baby die. I have been all things and seen all things and known all things, and I can say that there is no justice. Nevertheless, I have made it my purpose to win.

Thanks for everything and nothing,
Cx

A Painting

Lost in subliminal messages you can’t see you’re sending. A figment of your perception. A conclusion you’ve drawn. A woman blocked out by your ego. A wanted person. A haunted house. A length and distance. A traumatic event. A shadow. A mood. A painting.

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Male Privilege

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Please forgive me, I’m a man.
Please understand me, I’m a man.
Please respect me, I’m a man.
Please defer to me, I’m a man.
Please don’t challenge me, I’m a man.
Please don’t try to control me, I’m a man.
Please oh, I’m a man.

What Have We Become?

imageWhat have we become? When the sun no longer shines on these parts.
Empty and vacant are the inner thighs, dark from waiting.
Where were you when I needed you, tomorrow?
There used to be somebody beside me.
Now you are the hole, the something missing.
My throat dries and the vacancy hurts my stomach.
You make me sick to think of, so I don’t.
I don’t know what it all is anymore.
You have thrown me,
And now we are not what we are.

Remember When We Were Unborn…

Remember when we were unborn and we thought about all the ways we were going to break the cycles of our parents? We were unflinching. We were going to transform the world out there. Even if bad shit happened to us, we were going to take a bath and look ahead. Being tangled up physically in somebody else’s body, isn’t the same as being mentally controlled by someone else’s thoughts and actions. Yeah. We were more than foetus'; we were the future. Stronger than what had gone before, better DNA than our predecessors.

Remember when we came out and they looked at us and they were like: ‘she looks just like me.’ Little did they know. Yeah. Little did they know.

Take me back to that place.

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Happy

Happy. Happiness. Happy. Happy people. Happily. Happy man. Happy woman. Happy. Happy children. Happily. Happiness. Happy. People happily. Happy. Happy. Everyone happy. Happy.

I look at happy people.

Exeter to St Erth

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I saw you on the train. In the reflection of the window. From Exeter to St Erth. The entire time. You didn’t even know I was looking. I was looking for someone to love. I was looking for someone to destroy me. I knew you’d understand about art and all that. Look at your rings, look at your eyelashes, caked in black make-up, and a nose ring. You didn’t know what to do on the train as much as I didn’t. You’d chosen to be wistful, just like I had. I could share my soul with you. Your face was timeless like all the English roses that had lived, wilted and died. Your lips were pronounced, soft, if soft were a colour. I wanted to kiss you. I couldn’t bear to touch you. I wanted to be you so I could be assured that being someone else wasn’t too different from being me. Even though you were white and young and unlike me in embellishments and clothing.

I saw your face up against the red cliffs and the water and the clouds. I wanted to hold your hand and imagined us walking along a beach sometime. And then you went to sleep. Of course. Lost in dreams even more treacherous than English living. You’d wake with an anxious bang. I’d be there to hold you, to reassure you that it’s just a change in scenery and hormones and life – it’s what it does to you, makes you feel disjointed at times and scared, even though you are the bravest person I’ve met, and I haven’t even met you yet. We will make love one day before you disappear into a memory, just like a picture I once drew of my reflection in a train window, from St Erth to Exeter. My red-headed beauty, my love, like mine, like my very self.

Does anyone write about me when I’m not looking, when I too am being self indulgent in a train window?

You got off at Newton Abbey; not St Erth. I imagined you lasting longer than you did, the image more than it was. You weren’t the girl I saw in the reflection. You were not me nor mine after all. You weren’t even beautiful. And so my eye-line is vacant, again.

Horse Face

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10,000 horses galloped by, each with your face. The hooves I’d heard hounding me for 10,000 years. And the face, one face that had come to me in 10,000 guises. All lined up, all of you, one of you. I took aim. 1 shot. 1 arrow I’d waited to fire 10,000 times on a night like this, by the light of the moon. By the light of the moon’s face. Face to face with 10,000 horses. With one horse. One face. Face to face with you. Face. There can only be one face.

The Sweetest Stone

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And they call her the sweetest stone you’ll ever find,
An intimidation in the soil around her.
Breakable yet never breaking.
What is the secret to her mixed elements? Contrasting yet not confused.
You never expect her tears. You never anticipate her fears.
It is a privilege to hold her and to wonder if you can bear the strength of her vulnerability.
If anyone can…

Mediocre People

Life is full of extremes. Love and Hate and nobody cares about what is in between. But I do. I care about mediocre people. They perplex me and vex me and if I could get my hands around a mediocre person’s neck…They are thieves and vagabonds dressed in nothing, but splendour.

Her mediocre face looks up happily, eyes bright behind her mediocre skin. She has no cause for happiness and yet it is the privilege of her mediocrity, not to see it. And he…a waste of what could be, a not quite, a worse than mediocrity. I can’t look at mediocre people, standing tall and unashamed. I cover them in my criticism and yet it is my curse to see them all the same.

Cruel

You call me cruel knowing that if things got nasty so would I. I won’t do anything specific to hurt you; only leave you. Leave you like you left me. Leave you like you never imagine I will leave you. It will hurt. The waiting with hope wavering into depression. Feeling, thinking, that I don’t care, don’t remember. That will please me, you hurting. You could call me cruel now that things have gotten nasty and so have I.

I laugh.

Wake. Live. Die. Repeat.

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We rise to electric music. Heart disturbed, before the eyes. We know something is waiting. The day, as bright and empty as when Adam began. We seek out the sun, always rising on the wrong side of the house. Shrouded in down, we wonder if it would be easier to remain in our damp grave. Heart settles. Mouth smiles. Lazarus rises.

Muntu

We’re so far apart. Me, right there and you, right here. Like a dead mother, you never existed. And…everything doesn’t have to be so heavy, because as soon as you return we’ll smile. At our wicked ways, we’ll cry tears of laughter. That is if you return otherwise the illusion will live on. That is if I return otherwise the illusion will die. Nothing so far has changed you, not fire, not water, not pain. Twin statues we stand apart staring into the unknown of each other’s eyes. We are not dead. We are not alive. We are muntu.

The word muntu makes “no special difference between living people, dead people, children not yet born, and gods” (The Poisonwood Bible).

It’s Not You

It’s not you. No really, it’s not you. It’s not you; it’s me. If you knew about me you wouldn’t blame yourself. You wouldn’t expect so little for me. You’d find someone better: lesser. You’d be sad for me knowing that I’ll never be happy, that there will always be something more than you. If you knew me you wouldn’t try. You wouldn’t have to. You would know that it’s not you. It’s not you.