Human connections are an odd thing, no matter who you are, or what you do, eventually your projection onto others is determined by their perspective. Theirs, not yours. After spending far too much time feeling obliged to explain myself, my actions, my thoughts & opinions, I feel no need to. It’s not about attention, or sex, they are easily obtainable. That’s not egotistical, or self-obsessed, nor is it my prerogative (even though it is). It takes little under a minute to remove your clothes, less if you’re excited. But it’s the stripping of fear and hesitation I’m interested in. Is the world so shallow that I couldn’t possibly drown in her water if I tried? I lose faith in humanity almost as much as I gain some. I hope this balance doesn’t fade. Every time someone grabs my arse, or thinks it’s their God given right to force their drunken tongue down my throat, because I entertained their incoherent conversation in fear of wasting my tobacco if I didn’t, I get that rising disappointment in my stomach, moving up to lips, to only come out bitterly via my sharp tongue. And then, before I know it, I’m the wanker, the heartbreaker, the tease, the girl with intent, who had you at hello without even saying it. I’ve got my demons, oh believe me, I know them well, but I still desire that dangerous intimacy that may just destroy me. I want the hands off my body, and into mine, let’s walk.
You repel, and you attract. You’re black and white, yes or no. You’re cold, but warm upside down. Your head is inside out but on the surface, so intact. You’re lacking the emotional capacity to talk, when it’s what I really want. I feel like I’m drowning in a sea of oxygen, something I think I need, but really I’m just getting too much. I feel nothing around me, it’s sunny but I’m freezing. You laugh it off like I’m your favourite joke, when really, I’m your favourite nothing. Everything I thought I had was an illusion of grandeur, my intelligence bemuses you, my paradox of emotions entertain you. Everywhere I turn is another wall I’ve built up, running out of space and options, I’d rather not be here at all, than be here to be anybody’s fool. I miss my family, they don’t miss me, I feel discarded and useless, like the spare keys you keep in a bottom of a drawer, just incase, one day, you find out which door they open.
I follow the lines of your hands, with my eyes, the lines of your mind. We don’t know where we’re going, but we see the shore. I set my sails high before we crossed paths, tried to hold back, but every sharp turn left me wanting more.
I pressed the tissue against it, watching the blood fill the cheap, porous paper. Funny isn’t it, a little nic on your ankle that won’t stop bleeding and nobody bats an eyelid, but flash a cut on your forearm that barely got to bleed and the whole world thinks it’s a party they’re invited to. I spent the first three years of my adolescence anticipating body hair, and since then, I’ve spent everyday trying to remove it, and every other day, trying to remove you.
I’ve spent the best part of my year lying awake in the cold, begging for sleep to visit me, even for a couple of hours, wondering if this is all there is. I’ve cried the equivalent of British weather into my pillows, regretting so much, tearing myself apart piece by piece, trying to make everyone else happy, and all those nights I’ve wasted, bring me one lonely night closer to the end of my days, but it’s not what I want, not in the slightest. Even writing this, emptying the darkest and furthest corners of my mind, I’m screaming on the inside. But I don’t feel like talking, and I don’t know when I will again, all the parts of me that have been frayed, and destroyed, are aching with want for a better existence, a sense of worth greater than this. But there’s that fine line between being selfish, and knowing I’ve got to run away, before it’s too late. That fine line is buried beneath snapshots of everything I wish I could change. I’ve rarely known anything but sad, and that makes me even sadder when I think about how much happiness I’m more than ready to give other people.
If I had to summarise how I feel, I don’t think of much else, other than the colour grey and all the connotations that accompany it. It’s familiarity, the way it is easily recognisable, relatable, but nobody really warms to it. It’s misery, but strange kind of beauty in certain lights. The way it can transform a mediocre scene into a masterpiece of photography. But the dullness that is to be expected from it, is always there. Well, that’s how I feel, that’s what I think in - grey.
And then it struck me, how much life was like a patchwork quilt. So many years spent making it perfectly warm, pleasing to the eye, each stitch safely in place, holding your carefully selected squares close to one another, like writhing lovers following your movements every cold night. You’ll pass it down in the family, and it’ll keep your children just as warm as it always kept you. But, when things go wrong, and the stitches get pulled, creating cavernous pockets of air where there should be warmth, life gets cold. And for all those on the outside, looking in, it looks like the same reliable old quilt, each design cautiously placed, sewn to the next, painstaking hours spent holding it all together, but only you know, underneath is cold.