My therapist called it an issue. I called it a necessity. Trust was dangerous, and I wouldn’t be foolish enough to let it blind me. After all, I was still reeling from having been wounded once before. I was miserable. The task that I had set for myself, that of unwavering vigilance, was exhausting. My therapist insisted that I was lonely, which apparently was no way to be. She maintained that I should make new friends and allow the past to heal itself with time. So I made an effort, but only to put her mind at ease. My guard would stay up, I wouldn’t let anybody freshen my pain.

The new friends seemed decent enough. Patrick was outspoken and Vanessa was always excited about something. It was difficult at first, having to hide my worries and distrust beneath a smiling facade to match their constant bubbly optimism. Still, such was their sunny outlook on everything around them, their light eventually filtered through my darkness. If the demons were still in there, they were doing a better job at hiding themselves. Each day grew better than the last, and I started looking forward to school just so I could see my friends. I became engrossed in schoolwork for the first time in a long time, and broke through the slump in my grades. I could see that my parents were happy with my academic progress, and that meant almost everything to me. The guard stayed up, but I lowered the walls a little. “It’s different this time,” I often told myself, “they won’t leave you, or let anyone convince them to leave you.” I didn’t want to feel miserable ever again, and was starting to believe that I wouldn’t.

“What are your ideas for the English assignment?” Vanessa asked as the bell rang one afternoon, “Creativity isn’t my strong suit.” Patrick shook his head. “I’ve got something of an idea, but it hasn’t fully formed yet. If it doesn’t, my creativity will shine through in coming up with an excuse tomorrow.” The two of them turned to me expectantly. I always planned ahead, so they knew that I had probably conceived the entirety of my essay already. I smiled and said nothing. Vanessa huffed as Patrick complained, “You never tell us anything!”

The next morning, I arrived at school with a self-satisfied grin plastered on my face. I was proud of what I had come up with. I had stayed up all night, sifted through a heap of books and websites, and crafted each word with care. This essay would give me my first A grade and with it, my parents’ pride. Patrick and Vanessa arrived as I stashed my bag away. Neither of them seemed particularly thrilled about the day ahead. Vanessa admitted that she had forced out a short essay an hour before she had to leave for school, having spent the previous night on a television marathon. Patrick had succumbed to indolence, but he was working very hard this morning to come up with an excuse that hadn’t been exhausted already.

We parted and trudged to the first lesson, and the next, and the next, until it was finally lunchtime, the precursor to English. That’s when I opened my bag, and that’s when my heart stopped. I sifted through my belongings frantically, but I couldn’t find the paper. My mind ran a mile a minute and what had happened became very clear. The demons that had been hiding until then began to laugh at me. “Alright. Which one of you took it?”

Patrick looked up in feigned surprise, his mouth full of a bite of his sandwich. “What are you on about?” Vanessa asked. The false obliviousness pushed me over the edge and old, buried feelings rushed up to the surface. “I shouldn’t have to suffer for your laziness!” I said, failing completely to supress my volume. People were starting to look. “I wrote that paper, I put effort into it and you both know that this is my last chance to push my B to an A. How could you do this? Give it back.” Vanessa still looked puzzled but Patrick spoke up. “We don’t know what you’re talking about-” I interrupted him with an obnoxious snort.“Of course you do. Neither of you had any good ideas, and one of you, if not both, decided to take mine. Just give it back!” I was sure that all eyes were on us, but I didn’t care. All three of us stood up.

“How could you accuse us of this?” Vanessa did a good job of looking hurt. Patrick looked angry- he was good too. “You never tell us anything. Not a thing. I didn’t give it much thought before, but I know now that you don’t trust us at all. What kind of a friend are you?” I saw red. “Don’t worry, we don’t have to be friends at all!” I exclaimed, gathering my things and hurrying out of the lunch hall with tears prickling my eyes. I was angry at Vanessa and Patrick, at my therapist for telling me to make friends, and at myself for complying.

In the washroom, I tried to compose myself. My attempt to recover my work had been futile, but I would try again. In front of the teacher. The one who took it would try to submit it, after all. I wiped my tears. How easily they had betrayed my trust and sent my spiralling back to the horrid place I thought I had left in the past. The paranoia was back, I hated everybody, I was alone once more, and it hurt; I wouldn’t let myself reveal that. I washed my face and rummaged through the bottom of the bag for eyeliner. My fingers chanced upon what felt like a piece of paper. I tugged at it.

My essay. It had been crumpled beneath the books that I had stuffed carelessly into the bag before lunch. My idiocy dawned upon me as my heart sank in a tidal wave of instant remorse. Just like that, I was miserable and lonely once more, happiness lost to my own fault this time. I looked up at the mirror. The reflection stared back at me resentfully. It parted its lips and mouthed a single word. “Traitor.”

My love,

I was walking in the park yesterday when it started to drizzle. I thought of you. The day before that, I passed by a flower shop that seemed to have run out, but for a few roses. I thought of you. Last week, I welcomed autumn when a golden leaf drifted down and landed in my hair. I thought of you. Last month, when the nights were warm, I stood out on the balcony for the breeze. I thought of you.

I think I’m becoming rather stupid, because there is no room in my head for anything or anyone but you. I write to you in desperation to cover the distance between us, for each day without you is a day lost. I can barely believe that I am writing this at all, I cannot recognise myself- yet I mean this in the best way, because I am writing it to you.

I dream of you when I am awake just as much as when I am asleep. I think of the pink stains on my skin that your painted lips leave, I think of the soul in your eyes when they pierce into mine, and I think of your voice when you sing into the night. There is a rush in my veins every time I see a woman with dark hair, because have neither the control nor the capacity to stop myself from daring to hope that it’s you. Then she turns around. How I wish it could be you. I want to speak to you about every little thing that happens every single day. When I’m angry or upset, I long to hear your calming words. When I’m happy, I long to share it with you. But I know. For now, I must settle for dreaming of you.

Yours,

X.

Perhaps I lived a past life as a farmer. It would explain why I often find myself throwing glances at the sky, hoping to find dark clouds dwelling on the sharp blue canvas. My elation at seeing a blanket of grey allowing the sun to rest is unique. It is unlike my eagerness in anticipation of a reunion with an old friend, a celebration, or anything else that invokes excitement. I long for rain not because it grants me joy, as these things do, but because because it offers a form of solace.

Something about the aroma of wet earth, the flash of lightning, the clap of thunder, and drops of water makes me break into tears if I have been melancholic that day, and break into a smile if I have been content. It gives me the courage to talk to a friend who has angered me, and the strength to apologise to a friend whom I have wronged. I do not understand the hand played by rain in drawing out a tangle of emotions so well hidden before it arrived, but the fact remains. When the heavens pour, so do I.

You wronged.

Don't fret.

I'll hang.

s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s s

My sister was in love. Real love, the kind that made her cheeks red and her eyes sparkle. I often asked her what it was like and spent hours laying awake each night, trying to imagine. “Love makes your throat catch,” Marie had said, “it makes you afraid to speak for fear of what may come out.” Another time, she said, “Love riddles you with nerves and makes you sweat, it puts butterflies in your stomach when you look at the person. You’ll feel it when you’re older.”

At first, I wondered why anyone would want love, especially if all it did was make you feel as uncomfortable as Marie described. That doubt lasted for very little time because I decided to want love for the same reasons I decided to want anything- everyone else seemed to yearn for it and, more importantly, my sister had it and I didn’t. So when a boy from History asked me on a date, I was ecstatic. I went home and relayed the details of the day to Marie, assuring her that I loved the boy. She stared at me incredulously, almost mockingly, insisting that I was too young and too stupid to be in love, especially if I had convinced myself so quickly without reason. She asked, “Have you even felt the things that I told you about? The butterflies? The frog in your throat?” She had a point. I hadn’t.

I was disappointed, but not enough to give up. I would go on the date, which was planned for that evening. He would pick me up at five, and we would walk over to the diner on the main road. I was devastated at the curfew, which was set as early as seven, but I’d have to make do. My parents wouldn’t budge. I put on my birthday dress, the only one I had, and waited eagerly at the door. The boy arrived four minutes late, much to my annoyance. We set out in silence. Meagre attempts at conversation emerged from his side every now and then, but I was too busy to comply, I couldn’t be distracted. I was waiting for butterflies and a frog. At the diner, I ordered fish, because that’s what Marie had ordered on her first date. The boy had chicken. There was more silence, more conversational misfiring on his part, more waiting on mine.

I envied the sky, for it was blushing red instead of me as we walked home. I cast glances at him every now and then, though he was staring straight ahead. Halfway between the restaurant and my house, I felt something. Maybe just one butterfly, flitting around in my stomach. I smiled to myself. For the first time ever, Marie was wrong. I wasn’t too young and it wasn’t too soon after all! I started to break out in a cold sweat, and a new butterfly seemed to emerge with each step. I looked at him once more. The butterflies were starting to get unbearable. “It’s all a part of the package,” I told myself. We were almost at my house when the frog lodged itself in my throat. I could no longer reply to the occasional question. I couldn’t speak. “This is it,” I thought, “I definitely feel it”. Just as the thought crossed my mind, I bent over and emptied my dinner onto the pavement in heaves.

The boy couldn’t leave quickly enough. My sister didn’t say much, though my parents laughed at my decision to order seafood at a diner. I didn’t think about love that night. Instead, I thought ruefully about how Marie was always right.

I bore you

Fed you

Clothed you

Protected you

I held you in my arms

My life was your life

And so you grew

And so you all grew

You watched them

Your brothers and sisters

Slash at me

You watched me weaken with every cut

With rivers of my blood

They built

You helped

Still I held you

Your life is my life

How soon you forgot

Now my breath shakes

So your breath shakes

What you once used to build

Drowns you

You have my love

But my heart slows

So your heart slows

With quaking arms I hold you

Your life is still my life

How reckless you were

“Mother, save us”

“Mother, help us”

“Mother, let us stay in your arms”

I’ll feed you

I’ll clothe you

I’ll protect you

If I live

If you awaken

If you love me

If you remember

That my life is your life

And yours is mine

#nature #mother #earth #climatechange

Her ignorance in desiring a life of lustre and romance, like in a black and white movie, had long been beaten into submission by colour, of all things. She had once dared to expect from Father Time only happiness and love. Oblivious to his cruel disposition, she had never pictured herself donned in the green, blue and red hues of envy, sorrow and anger that tainted her now.

She hurried to her perch at the window, clutching a cup of watery tea with shaking hands, the now cold liquid reduced to a quarter of the cup as she spilled some with each laborious step. Her aching limbs slowed her, making her a match for the dark clouds that gathered sluggishly as the sun inched westward. There they were, scampering about with flushed cheeks, piercing the chilled air with their recurrent screeches of delight; the bright treasures of the neighbourhood, the beacons of laughter and joy.

She used to love the rain. She used to love jumping into puddles, shoes be damned. She used to love a lot of things that she simply couldn’t anymore, so every evening, she watched the children love them for her. She missed the days of childhood as an orphan would its mother, so watching the little ones brought comfort laced with pain. In a shroud of naïveté, they could not see what she could- Reality, lurking in the shadows, awaiting its chance to rip the childlike optimism from their unsuspecting hands. She thought back to the first time it reared its head and bared its teeth at her. It was a horrid moment, being stripped of youthful innocence so quickly and without warning. Yet, she knew that if reliving that moment was the price for returning to blinding white light, she would pay it.

She stared through the glass, feeling that perverse shred of resentment she harboured grow just a little, blaming the blameless for having something to lose and not knowing it. Whilst she did so, Father Time smirked gleefully, painting another wrinkle on her face, shaking his head for it seemed as though it was only he who knew of her hypocrisy. She would always have something to lose- until death did them part.