A Journal of Undoing – Three

Ever saw someone who made your brain freeze when they smiled? Someone whom you couldn’t bear to lean on you in case they heard your hammering heart?   Hers is a beauty that loosens the flesh from my bones and makes its home in the canals of my marrow. Each time I saw her, an earthquake…

Hypnagogia

It is the middle of the night in a week in the middle of winter. The dark is darker here. The cold is no stranger but that does not offer warmth. Dense fog settles itself over the crop, its booted feet stepping gingerly over the hibernating soil and bare tree branches. There is a field….

A Journal of Undoing – Two

There are two kinds of waiting. One with a definitive end in sight, no matter the time. One without. The latter is a kind of waiting without waiting. Which means to say, you don’t know if things will ever change and you don’t want to bet on it, but each time you try and close the…

A Journal of Undoing – One

  There is a water balloon inside my rib cage. It strains and pushes. It wills itself space in a confine where there is none to spare. It has reduced my lungs to limp socks. It doesn’t let me breathe. Where now should this thought go? Do I put a leash on it and walk…

Quarantine

Protect the softest parts of you. The parts that look like hide but are as tender as kitten paws not yet touched the earth. Protect all the tired people in you. The ones who sigh, unable to bear another day. Who look too eagerly toward the ends of things. For whom, to be unseen and unremembered…

Unfickle 

Every night I coax my beloved to tell me again how she loves me. “I will never choose you,” she says with a steady and a voice that betrays only boredom. So many years now, but to my ears it still sounds as brittle as the breaking neck of a tiny bird. The mistake is…

Leaving town

It’s been a while since we met here, hasn’t it? I’m sorry I don’t do this oftener. It feels not dissimilar to gutting myself with a cheese knife. It’s not for lack of things to say, words, or even how I feel. It’s just measly armour. So pathetic. Always prided myself on such courage but I…

It will always be the little things

  It’s been two weeks. She’s not coming back. You’re not sure if that thought is going to pass quietly like a widow crossing herself silently in a church. Or if you’re going to wet your keyboard trying not to cry and failing pathetically. It will never be the big things that hurt you the most….

Texts to my mother 

I’m a 41-year old teenager. Maybe I’m 12. Or 22. Who cares. Not old enough. Mum wasn’t there when teenage shit the fan. But when I ask her now, she tries. She’s so bad at this. It makes her feel awkward to see me weak. If it’s someone else I’m crying over, she will cluck…