No one told me...

The lessons I have learnt in my life have been myriad; some have been simple, others have been profound, some difficult, and others simply requiring a nod of the head before moving on. The hardest lessons were always the ones I was not prepared to learn. The ones that came without warning. Sailors, they say, keep close watch on the sky because she will tell them everything they need to know to keep themselves afloat. A story I read a long time ago says that the skies and the winds over land are inconsistent, shifting, and do not give us the warning that sailors have learnt, and passed on through the centuries.

Sometimes I feel like my gatekeeping tasks have me locked in a tower, watching the sky, but I don't know what I'm looking for. Is that cloud formation dark because the sun is going down? Is it shifting to the east or to the south? I get distracted by the lightning and the pageantry of the moon, and by the time the storm hits, I haven't rung any bells, I haven't sounded the alarms, and the air raid sirens are silent. What good am I, as a gatekeeper, then? What good am I as a sentinel? My watch began without instruction, and continues without guidance. I do not have the knowledge and skills passed down from generations past. I have not the preparation or the instincts to know when to raise the alarm. How, then, am I to succeed?

New dreams

[edited]

She said to him:
Go and make
your dreams come true.
She wiped her eyes
and held her ground.
But you must
do so without me.
She sighed and turned away.
I must dream
new dreams to chase,
for in all the dreams I had
once upon a time,
you were by my side.
I am learning to live
without you; to dream
without you; to love
without you.
She whispered to herself,
That is the lesson
I learnt, hard and well,
When he closed the door
between us.
She took a deep breath.
He closed the door.
I simply locked it.

Musings under the full moon

When I was out of my mind (and
I admit I often was not myself
no matter how much I wanted
to be, and not matter how hard

I tried) you told me often that
my actions were what mattered—not
the sincere apologies I offered
when I came back to myself. Yet now

when I am faced with your actions,
you ask me to accept your
words. Ask me to understand
your suffering. Do I know how

much you wanted to call? How many
things you wanted to share? How can
you ask such things? Why
am I expected simply to accept

your words as truth and give
them credence when the message from
your own mouth was actions are what
matter, even when we were together

and when we were in love? Not being
in my right mind never once
changed my love; but not being myself
made me incapable of stopping myself

hurting the one I cherished more
than my own life. Let me pose
my own questions, if I may.
Do you know how hard I tried to be

worthy of your love? How hard
I tried to earn your trust back?
How desperately I tried to keep
that madness at bay? Do you

understand I still wake from
nightmares and reach for you
only to remember I am all
alone with my terror and guilt?

Do you know how often I see
things that make me cry because
they remind me of you—of
the life I wanted to build,

of the future I finally felt
safe enough to start planning?
Do you understand I lost
the person I trusted more than

any other—the one man who
made me feel safe, the man
to whom I confided my deepest
secrets and darkest fears?

My dreams have been snatched
from me, one by one. And then
to experience the galling,
humiliating shame of realising

it all means nothing, because
in fact, I am replaceable.
You do not need me. Maybe you
want me, but your actions

reveal a truth different than
your words. You left. You
moved on. You have someone
new in your life, in your

heart, in your bed. If I were
worth being loved, should I not
have been worth staying for,
worth fighting for, worth the vows

I thought we would say
to one another when
we were hand-fasted—vows I will never
now hear from the only man

I ever truly wanted, the only
one I ever thought found me
worthy of swearing to me:
even though I am flawed,

I am small and plain and broken
sometimes completely, that he
loved me enough to stand by me,
to lend me his strength

and his heart when my own
faltered. For better or for worse.
Because with you, I could have been
more better than worse.

But now, I cannot have
my heart's desire, and I do not want
the consolation prize. There is
nothing consoling about losing

my heart, my dignity, my world
and having to stomach seeing the one
who gets to have the only thing
I wanted, that I never thought

I could have, but for one brief
moment. It will not keep me
warm at night. It will not
keep the monsters at bay.

It will not help put back together
the shattered shards and dust
that was my heart of fire:
once, whole and beating.

Not a love letter

(Written Friday 13 September 2013)

Yesterday was another
anniversary.
Do you remember?
Not that one.
The other one.
Just two years ago.
I was 25. You were 34.
We tried
with all our will
to move slowly
to step softly
to touch lightly
Desperate to convince
ourselves we could
let go.

Six months—that was
our limit, our shelf-life.
Until, 3 weeks
after the day
we met, 2 weeks
after that night
under the street lights

you touched my bare
skin in the darkness
of my bedroom.
As your fingertips traced
my curves in the dim light
shining through the window
you talked of how
you had new feeling
for the first time
since the accident.
A part of me
broke loose, and that small
fragment I entrusted
to you. Despite
the fact we tried
to cling to the idea
of casual,

in that moment
when all the barriers
were lowered—
when our truer selves
were laid bare
I knew we were taking
that first step down
a path neither of us
believed was
short term.

In that moment
we chose to laugh
in the face
of the odds stacked
against us.
We let ourselves
be consumed
and fire blazed
between us from
the spark we lit
in the moment
we first kissed.

And the reality—
sealed merest days later
when I stood
facing you with my back
to the kitchen sink.

Better Stories

Her body tells many stories
To those with eyes to see

Every scar tells a story
This one of the time she fell

off her bike. That one of
a fence on a playground and a

gate not quite open. There are
other scars as well, stories

that go deeper than childhood
trifles. The thin line along

Her right wrist. The burn
between her toes. There are

stories that not all eyes
can see. How she turns her back

in a crowd, or how she freezes
just for an instant when

approached on her blind side
by an unfamiliar man. These stories

are told by scars. Scars she
can trace with her fingers.

Her being tells many stories
To those with hearts to know.

Not every story is told
by a scar. Not every story

catalogues a hurt done to her
or a wound that healed. There

are other stories told of
happiness, of closeness, of time

spent breathing in life. The beat
between words that lasts a fraction

of a second longer than it
used to last. The turn of phrase

said in a fit of laughter. Her secret
smile when someone touches her face.

These stories are wrapped up inside
her heart and her head, clasped

close to her, cherished. But only
seen by those who look for the signs

of being loved. Of loving
freely, openly. And truly.

Not every story is told
by a scar. Some are more

subtle. But she is made
of all of her stories.

And those who can see
beyond all her scars

will see that she loved once,
and well. And was loved in return.

Remember

Remember the night spent
Under the streetlight
Clinging to you
Like I was drowning
Touching your mouth
And your chest and your hands
My head filled with doubts
That made me reluctant
To want to go on
Because running is easier

I am not running now
Just walking, and slowly
My heart in my hands
And my chin to my chest
Wanting is not
Enough of a reason
To stay, or go back
When the world crashes down

Again I am drowning
But not with desire
Or fear of a monster
Lurking just out of sight
But with pain and regret
And a sense of foreboding
A wish I could change things
Go back to the start

I do not for a second
Apologise for
That moment our lips met
Under the street lights
Saying yes to my heart
Has never been easy
Taking what I want
Has never felt right
I did not fall
But rather I jumped
Into love with you
On that wonderful night

It is over for now
And I must continue
Forward despite wanting
What I can't have
My heart aches and my mind
Is weary with wishing
If only I could
Stop feeling so deep

The marks that our love left
Are still open wounds
But the scars that I sport
Show I am tough enough
To wait out the healing
Though it may feel like forever
What we started that night
Was the greatest adventure
I have ever been on
And I would not exchange
All the moments we shared
Just to end this pain.

Un-made

Today was meant to be
An Anniversary.

I took what I wanted

While I walked
In that terrible Valley

Two years ago.
I said, Yes,

In a place
where the only
thing I heard was
No.

But today is not joyful.
There is nothing to celebrate.
Today
Is a day
Of mourning.
A day for grief.

I pierced my skin.
I cut off my hair.
I seek to drown
In smoke and vapor.

Today I allow the part of me that said Yes to die.

I do not walk the same barren path
That lay before me two years syne.

This is a new waste,

Here after climbing
The Mountains of Maybe
And, foolishly,
Keeping my sights

On the summit,

Tumbling headlong into
The Desert of Never.

I want to turn my back on this journey

That has tried me
Judged me,
And found me lacking.

But to leave,
I must bury
The remains of my heart
At the base of the Tree

That marks the entrance

To Beyond.

The girl with the generous heart

Once upon a time there was a girl with a very generous heart. She was not very pretty, nor was she very lovable, but she was clever and loyal. However, she was not wise. And so she gave her heart away too often and foolishly.

One day the girl met a bird. The bird was very pretty, but he had a crooked wing and could not fly. The girl with the generous heart took the bird in and fed him and protected him from the things that prey on the weak and the lame.

The girl kept the bird near her, sharing everything she had. Many people asked the girl why she cared for a bird that could not fly, and the girl with the generous heart always responded the same way: ‘This bird is my friend. Yes, he cannot fly, so I protect him. His friendship is more than enough repayment for the little things I share.’ The girl with the generous heart worked hard, making sure that there was always enough so that the bird with the crooked wing was well cared for and happy.

The girl saved every penny she made and eventually she had enough to buy the bird a new wing. She went to a shop where she could purchase a new wing, and she picked out one that was beautiful, like the bird who was her friend. The new wing was very expensive, but the girl with the generous heart did not hesitate to buy it. It was perfect and she was so excited to get home to show the bird his new wing.

However, when the girl with the generous heart got home and showed the bird what she bought, the bird with the crooked wing flew into a rage. He said terrible, hurtful things to the girl with the generous heart. The bird with the crooked wing accused the girl of secretly hating him, of being ashamed of him, and of wanting a new friend, because the only reason to give the bird a new wing would be so he could fly away. The bird said that the girl with the generous heart must not really love him, and that she must think he is not good enough to love with his crooked wing. He said that if she really loved him she would accept his crooked wing and that the new wing she bought for him was just a way of saying that he would only be lovable if he were not broken.

The girl with the generous heart did not know what to do; she had only wanted to give her friend a gift, a beautiful gift that would make him happy. She left the new wing on the table near where the bird was perched in the corner, glaring at her, and she left the house. She hid for a time in the woods and she cried. When she could cry no more, and the sun was starting to set, the girl went back to the house.

The bird with the crooked wing was gone. As was the new wing the girl had bought for him. There was no note, no explanation. The girl with the generous heart would never see the bird again. But she could not forget all the terrible things the bird had said to her.

The girl with the generous heart was clever enough to know that it was her heart that had gotten her into this trouble. And so the next day, the girl with the generous heart went deep into the woods. She took her heart from her chest and buried it at the foot of a tree.

Ever since that day, the girl no longer had a generous heart. She became reclusive and lonesome, and she always remembered what the bird had said to her. She never looked for the tree where she buried her heart, and she lived a long and lonely life, her one small comfort the knowledge that she could never be so foolish again as to give away her heart where it would not be reciprocated.

The Red King, a contemplation

Red King. Supplanter. Your names shed more light on the effect you had on me than months of fragmented pondering and writing have offered. You came into my life unexpectedly. I invited you in, it's true, but my perception of you had very little to do with the reality I was to encounter. You took me by surprise; a neat trick, while I was looking right at you.

You were an earthquake--you hit me hard, suddenly. I missed the telltale warning signs. And you shook my world, rocked me to and fro and shattered me with exquisite precision.

The more I think of you, the more I understand--the bits of clarity that dribble though to my conscious mind. I understand the fear--delicious and intense, trickling down my spine like lava. You terrified me and transfixed me; for you I would have stayed in that desolate wasteland I so hated. You inverted the poles on me, altered the constellations. All my instincts were pulling me north, pushing me north, dragging me, coaxing me, calling me, cajoling me. But three weeks with you and I lost my sense of direction. You were a magnet, drawing me to you. You became my north, and that frightened me.

The excitement, the desire, the pleasure and the nervousness--all vying for first place in my conscious mind. Around you I could be simultaneously so nervous I could vomit and so happy I was dizzy. I wanted you. I'd forgotten what it was like to want so much, to be filled, consumed, to burn constantly with want.

After the Man, I thought I had shut myself off to that, to the wanting. Perhaps I had, to protect myself--a sort of survival instinct. Or maybe since the Man, after I had doffed my mourning, I simply hadn't encountered anyone who could fill me with electricity and fire, till you. But then you sauntered into my life and devastated me with laughter, with delight. Your merest glance was enough to make me ignite, your lightest touch enough to make me go up in flames.

Earth supports fire: it feeds it, stirs it up, lets it consume and grow and swell. An earthquake can stir dying embers into an inferno.

You were unexpected. And then you were gone. But I am grateful for the all too brief time we had, for the three intoxicating weeks (ironic, I know). You weren't trying; that's what made it all the more intense. But the embers you found still glowing deep within me, sheltered from the world, from the lovers taken and left, from everyone since the Man, that your clever hands (and mouth) stirred back into a blazing beacon, embers I had thought long since extinguished... You brought me back to life, to awareness. You filled me with hope.

I mourn losing you. And I know I have not finished mourning the might-have-been. But I would not trade a single moment spent with you--frenzied or fraught--to spare myself that piercing pain.

You proved I am still alive.

Thank you, Red King.

Un-love

‘I love you – have always loved

you,’ he whispered softly into my

ear, his breath against my neck

hot and sticky, like his words, while unseen

hands like razors clawed at me,

caught at my clothes, severing

seams and slicing through layers

of fabric to slide smoothly into

my skin.  ‘I love you – can’t you see?’ he

asked as fingers curled around cut and

bloody flesh to tear strips of me

from me.  He stripped me bare, cut away

all that protected me, and took what he

saw and shattered it with vitriol.

‘This thing we have is good, so good,’

he chanted while my blood ran down

his clutching claws, pooling and

clotting in the divots in my rent

flesh.  ‘So good,’ he panted as he sucked

my essence out through my mouth, opened

in a silent scream; ‘So good,’ he breathed

as I curled in on myself, trying just

to disappear; ‘So good,’ he moaned as I lay

limp and lifeless.  He did not see the husk

he left behind, but keeps returning to it

and sees only the vibrant thing it once

was – the thing destroyed by his love.

And he wonders, How can I still not

love him back?

10/01/2011

The price of broken promises

‘I love you – have always loved

          you,’ he said, whispering, whispering

     into the soft pink shell of my ear.

But as the words touched the delicate drum

               they shattered into a thousand tiny

          fragments of glass and tickled and cut

     at the soft flesh against which they rubbed.

So I tilted my head, questioningly

               at him.  And as my head tilted

         broken promises came tumbling

     out of my ear, silvery and shining

red with blood.

10/01/2011

The first cut is the deepest...

For A. M. E.


Once our young bodies twined and writhed, reaching
for an ineffable moment of release
that could only be known once we gave it
a name; so we lay panting together,
spent, but unfulfilled.

                                     Still, you overwhelmed
me with wonder, with want, with need, but my
childish hands spread wide, letting it trickle
through my fingers; my eyes screwed up against
the effulgence of the promise of our
naive passion (exposed, in its guileless
infancy, to the scathing paroxysms
of all the rage and hate and spite and fear
the world had to offer), thus I could not
see it for what it was: something so new
and so portentous, just barely breathing,
its pulse quickening beneath the surface.
I kept my eyes closed tight and the brightness
burned through my eyelids, tinting my world pink.

Then suddenly it all lay broken, smashed
to pieces at our feet -- unfixable.
I looked up at you, both of us so very
young, but older than we will ever be.
I took just one step toward you, stumbled,
cutting my feet on the shattered remains
of the shell that once insulated our
felicity, turned away from the pain
in your eyes and the shame and agony
in my chest. I staggered away from you,
ran as fast and as far as my cut and
bleeding feet and my cut and bleeding heart
would allow.

                       But the wounds were still there, blood
seeping through my shirt: so I stitched them closed
with sutures I can never remove, your
name written indelibly across my
heart with golden threads that shall never break.


11/02/2010 revised 16/12/2010