the peace

in your absence

is undeniable

the language

of your desire

for reconciliation

has never changed

how can I believe

we can be different

if you have nothing

new to say

I know you miss me

the feeling of my body

next to yours

if I were only a body

our relationship

would be so easy

but I'm so much more than that

I thought you could see

but I'm no longer sure

you've never said

you miss our conversations

or the poems I wrote about you

about us

you've never acted

on your stated willingness

to go to counseling

or otherwise make positive changes

between us

I have been alone

a long, long time

even while in relationships

I thought

we had something different

in the end

it's more of the same

it's me to blame

while the fire

of your desire

stays lit

so when you are lit

you come by for a hit

and you know

I love you, but

this has to end.

I rarely miss anyone enough for it to be painful

I miss time

And spaces

And places

And minutes

But the tangible slips

It is leaky-faucet drips

People are context

People are stillborn

Dead-aching

Unmoving

Unyielding

Stagnant

I miss hands and mouths

I mourn words

I mourn touch

I hold funerals for sunbeams that fell through leaves long since passed

You will find me penning epithets to hungry breath lost on cold air

I will leave flowers where music once rang

I will dig holes 6 ft deep for ghosts

And leave the bodies to rot, carrion-feast

And I will drown weightless in their graves as I stitch myself to phantoms

The flap.

It came unstuck last night.

Again.

I told Tabitha to fix it. I told her. I really did this time.

Last time though, I forgot.

I am always forgetting things.

Like why, when I wake, my bed is always so very cold, as if a shadow walked over my soul.

And why, when I dress, each garment itches, though I had determined months previously to extract every label, every loose stitch, every imperfection.

Yet still, my skin crawls as the fine hairs of my clothing send spiders scuttling over the surface of my warped and wrinkled flesh.

But the flap was different.

I remembered the flap.

I remember how it sounded, disturbing the silence with its metallic screech, the patter of paws and the clatter of claws, stealing through my frozen heart.

Every time the strays descend, the armada lurches in my chest. The waves rise and the ocean lifts, and the spray then seals my lungs. I cry out at night, praying now for silence, when once, the sounds meant peace.

So please, darling, when you visit next, tell Tabitha to nail the flap, to bury those memories.

A broken heart cannot bear the sound, especially when it’s me.

#author #writer #dream #fiction #fantasy #memory

Blog - Hannahvernon.co.uk

I like to wear sweat pants in autumn. A nice pair goes a long way, and the ones I wear always make me feel the best. Especially as I walk down the sidewalk in the nippy air, watching the vibrant hues of trees ready to shed their leaves. Some had already done so, and the leaves were swept into neat piles by the main road. Throughout the day, people would walk past them and disturb the immaculate pile that sat unnoticed beside them.

I enjoyed watching the people that walked by.

Thigh boots. Skinny jeans. Sweater vests. Knitted scarves. I like to see everyone in the ambers, the crimsons, the earthy browns--the cascading colors that carefully wrapped our naked, aging bodies. People watching, with the outfits and the colors, was a very entertaining past time for me. I like watching. But something told me I wasn't one to participate. And I never will have the chance to, anyways.

Unfortunately, I died a month ago. The sweats I still wore from that tragic day was the outfit I'd spend eternity in. I've accepted it, quite quickly actually. There's not a whole lot to consider when the option has already been taken out of your hands. I appreciate that. Not having to spend too much time worrying about how you look, how you walk, how you talk. To some degree, I finally have relief.

However, moving on was an entirely different problem. I walked down the sidewalk, passing by the coffee shops. My nostrils filled with pumpkin spice. I missed that smell, the taste too. There are some disadvantages to being dead, especially in autumn. I sighed. I forgot what a pumpkin spice latte tasted like. That was more frustrating than I anticipated. But, among all the other frustrating things I have encountered, I liked how simple that felt.

My name? Forgot it. My parents? Don't know them. My past? Who knows. But the most exhausting thing plauging me constantly, to no avail, was how did I die?

Wandering, ironically enough, helps me find the memory I have lost. The pumpkin spice. The people dressed in shades of sunset. My reflection in the windows. I hoped that as the winds of chance pulled me and my aimless wandering continued maybe I could find out all the answers I craved.

But until then, I was content to settle for the people watching. By far the most enjoyable moments are when I see the shocked look of people that pass through me. Something told me they must have been cold. But that was mostly because nobody wore sweats. Sweats are so comfortable in autumn. They are my favorite thing to wear, even as I walk lonely in the bustling sidewalk.

Sometimes I doubted--was I really dead? Probably, I would always decide. I was unsure what this level of invisibility meant otherwise. I wasn't hungry. Wasn't thirsty. Didn't feel tired in the slightest. I just felt empty. And I missed what it meant to be a part of the lively people that walked briskly around me.

I was like the pile of leaves, sitting next to the road. Dead. Unnoticed. Empty. As I lay down next to them, I was surprised at my dismay when I wished I was wearing something more colorful than grey sweats.

She said

"I'll always love you,

But I don't think I can stay."

Well, what the fuck does that mean?

Just don't love me, anyway.

Don't fill me full of feelings

Flinging caution in the air

Then just leave me loving shadows

And pretending someone's there.

Just tell me how you hate me

And you'll never change your mind

Collapse me in my own tears

So my salt eyes make me blind.

If you say you'll always love me

Then I'll always love you too

So just tell me you can't stand me

And I'll say I can't stand you.

Today I woke up in acceptance.

I tell you it’s been a long while since I’ve felt whole.

Old memories are set to pause.

An I play today’s rendition.

My spirit sings a harmonizing tune.

Move with the days ebb an flow, a note to self.

Today I feel my path.

Today I know my purpose.

Nervous energy is no more for today’s love greets me with open arms.

Today I am free

I pause. Inhale quickly. My chest constricts, and my vision tunnels.

Seeing you shouldn't hurt this much.

I want to run into your arms. Tell you how much I missed you. That I love you.

That I will always love you.

But instead I just smile. Wave. Exchange pleasantries.

Keep it all inside.

We promise to stay in touch, no matter the distance between us.

And maybe we will... for a while.

But I know eventually you'll find a girl. And fall in love.

And I won't be able to watch from the sidelines anymore.

Because this hurts too much. Because I need to move on.

Because loving you is just too hard.

you make up stories from the ink on my skin, assuming they end with only regret. with each dot, each millisecond of pain, I come into my own world inch by inch. I am a conglomeration of art, ideas, humanity, and it shows. I am a visual of my own personality, so you don't have to ask, although your assumptions may be quick and hard while my person is wary and soft. my ink is my choices. who I am one day may not be who I am the next, but I was still that person at one point. that will always be a part of me. and so will the ink that is burried beneath the quick surface of my skin.

Breathe. Just breathe. They all tell me that it's the best solution, but it doesn't seem to help any longer. I've been hiding from my demons for so long, hiding from the pain, the regret, and the shame. I tried the bottle, and all I found was more misery and despair, bringing my skeletons out of the closet and into the lives of those around me. I hurt them, and that hurt me even deeper than simply wallowing in my own agony. Everyone gives me the same advice about facing my past, the atrocities I saw and helped commit, but none of them can possibly understand me. My parents, my siblings, my friends. None of them have witnessed the horrors I have. They haven't seen cities with bodies littering the streets as far as the eye can see nor pits where the dead have been pilled atop eachother haplessly as if they never even mattered. I've seen that. I've caused that. There's nothing a doctor or therapist can understand about it. They tell me to slow everything down when I start to feel overwhelmed by it all, the emotions and memories that plague me, and I tell them just breathing isn't fixing anything. I can't outrun something inside myself. I just can't. I wish it was as simple as that.