the poet

my hands are dirty; stories and secrets and generations mixed in with the dust. wash them— my mother says—  there are germs. but— the stories— the secrets— all of that came from an afternoon of running my hands over their dusty, dirty spines. i want to see more than just their skeletons.

sight—  beauty which cannot be conveyed any other way. sound— wonder which cannot be described. smell— allure which cannot be bottled up or written down. taste— memories which cannot be felt or heard or seen or smelt. touch— comfort which cannot be met through a different route. can i say all? no? well, then— i choose the experiences they create; for maybe the sum of the parts is better than the whole.

the claustrophobia of these confining sheets: the restless panther in its close, cold jail

am i the only one who wants to be a celtic maiden somedays, running through the moor with my cape and hair trailing a foot behind me, mist clawing high as my shoulders, cliffside and forest looming out of the shade? or perhaps a 1920s beauty, all sequins and glittering eyes and nightclubs, laughing and dancing because the war’s over, a new age has begun, because i  can ? but just think of being a retro 70’s girl, with records and instant cameras and bootleg pants paired with poofy bomber jackets that really should never have been in style. milkshake dates, neon lights,  just. 70s . but there’s also urban girls, all tough lipstick and leather jackets, lounging in alleys with a warning on their face, walking down city streets like they have their name carved into the cement, forced confidence (or is it?), leaving you second guessing and wanting to stay. but working girls! in 1899! starting a resistance and changing the world, fighting tooth and nail and pen to write...

most often silence. fists clenched, lips raw and bleeding from nervous habits, shadowed faces. standing in front of you, arms folded, waiting for someone to break the quiet. you? me? most definitely not me. all the language in our body, our mouths refusing to speak. the stillness is heavy with blame. silent treatment is what we call it, fear it what it usually is. don’t make me the bad guy when it’s your fault, it’s easier if we just skirt around the issue. but the pounding rhythm in our heads: it’s your fault, it’s your fault, it’s your fault —like a marching bound parading to war. sometimes loud. very loud. doors slamming, hearts racing, voices raising. grudges wait expectantly between the lines, ready to shove their monstrous heads into the conversation and bring up the past. standing nose-to-nose, trying to make you to see eye-to-eye. it never works. stubbornly clinging to my innocence, wringing out justification like a worn-out cloth. weak excuses flying from both our lips, ...

what doesn’t kill you doesn’t always make you stronger. it can leave you scattered, fragments of your soul lost to the wind. it can leave you as a crippled version of what you used to be, and wave a picture of your former self in front of your face as a tantalizing reminder of what you can never get back. it can leave you shattered and haunted and begging for a mercy that will never come. what doesn’t kill you can maybe make you wish it had.

you can find me somewhere between the lines of my favourite books, lost in the vintage record section of any second-hand store, and tattooed on all the pages and strings and keys i have ever touched