Wednesday, 24 February 2010

He reads his lover some letters
While she sleeps and dreams of never.

Tuesday, 23 February 2010

Toes in the Sand

He felt a warmth when he buried himself up to the neck, water filling his little dugout. She thought him crazy, thought him brilliant, thought him her own. He was such a beacon of pride and joy. He had the answers to all her questions, and wisdom beyond the exuberance of those blue eyes. When he would dig himself out and lay his head in her lap, she would play with the salt-stained hair, as he lay silent, his arms wrapped around her waist. Life had a way of turning idyllic, when the moment called for it.

He remembered a time when she was taller than him. Back then, she'd pick him up on her back as the tide crept in to whisper in their ears, and he'd laugh as the icy fingers of the rolling waves tickled him. When they jumped out and he let go, he would kiss the bruises where he held on too hard, and she'd play with his hair, or distort his face.
Now, she laughed at his youth, and contented to sit on the beach to watch him keep it. Under her watch, he was 7 again, and she was all too happy that it stay that way.

"Sis? Sun's gone down. The chill's drifting in."
"Hmm. Hey, Alf?"
"I love you."

He nodded, and kissed her on the temples. As he took their stuff to the car, she watched the last rays of the sun pan out over his shoulders, and felt his warmth stay to ward the chill away.

Sunday, 21 February 2010


Light catches her face, and she starts crying. She wanted many things; love, happiness, contentment, peace, excitement. She wanted, most of all, to be understood. To be recognized for who she was. What she was. In the shadows of London's dusk, she'd refuse to take abuse lying down. And yet, here she was.

So this is what all the fuss is about. Life, at 21, at its zenith. You're looking down over yawning possibilities, and jumping from puddle to puddle, choosing splashes as they erupt. A step in the wrong puddle is nothing to cry over. It's just something you learn from. So there's more puddles to jump in.

Until you jump in quicksand. Escape is no longer an option.


"My, how you've grown."

The fire in her eyes swayed gently, as she took another sip of her sparkling wine. Growing up wasn't a choice she made. It just happened. She didn't think she deserved credit for something she didn't do. She whipped her hair over her shoulder, and continued to stare into the space above her plate.

"I always had faith in you. Even when you were just a silly little girl, I knew you'd come through."

She couldn't decide whether it was sweet of him, or patronizing. She was sure he grew up too, much in the same way she had. His laughter was no longer silly. It was hollow, and leaden. No. He hadn't grown up how she had. He'd grown far more, far too much. For the first time, she found concern swilling amongst the bubbles. She said nothing.

"You know...Some people grow, and some people don't. And before they do, it's always hard to be sure of who will, and how. But you're just...astounding now. Simply being around you makes me feel...Proud? Blessed? Lucky."

She had never seen his tears. And now, as they streamed down, his hands trembled, and his body shivered, and he looked sorrier than she'd thought possible. What a wreck, she thought with shame. What had happened to this marvellous young man, this man who fought for her, who fought her for her own sake. He was so certain, so confident, and so correct, she recalled. She was lost. How do I fix this, she thought wildly as she ran through a thousand ideas in her mind.

"I....I'm sorry. I just...I've....I'm embarrassing you. I'll leave. I'm sorry."


What a fool you are, he scolded himself. There were people there. They were watching. She's going to feel so exposed, so pressured. You FUCKING Idiot. What is this envy? You should be proud. Like you said you were. But no. You wish your life was going that well. You wish you knew yourself half as well. This is pathetic.

She is really something, though. I wonder why I broke. Maybe because...I thought she'd hold me up? No. There's something about her. Some sort of comfort. Yes. That's it. I knew she wouldn't think of me as any worse. She wouldn't judge me. She'd still love me for me, and for and despite all I've done.

That's exactly it.

So he pooled his tears in his hands, and wished them away, as if he knew that was what she would do.


Why do all of you cry at me, she wondered in misery. Do I not have enough to cry for myself? Do I have to be your Atlas, every single one of you? She held in all their complaints and their sadness.

The waiter approached cautiously, and let her know the bill could be settled later. Head in hands, her tears flavoured her dinner, as she wept, for once, for her own miseries.

Saturday, 20 February 2010

Thursday, 18 February 2010

Rich (Or How To Set Us Apart)

"You will never be a part of this world. My advice to you would be to leave. Don't even try."
"That's not an option I would like to exercise."
"You're not taking this seriously."
"That is not true. I mean it as seriously as I can."
"Not seriously enough."

She picked at the butt of the spent cigarette, wondering whether his name started with an A, or an E, or a J. His blue eyes wandered around the room, stopping repeatedly at the smouldering stick balanced lopsidedly on the ashtray rim, refusing the urge to take another drag, or three.
"So, anyways. There I was..."
"Your stories are so dull. Why must you make me sit through them?"
"They don't need to be exciting. This situation we find ourselves in, it does away with the desire for spontaneous rapture."
"That's not what I meant. Your words do not portray the electricity rushing through your skin. Why is that urgency in your touch lost in your mouth, in your mind?"

She sketched her thoughts in slanted cursive, not looking at the shapes left when her ink dried. Her thoughts were lost in black and blue, but she'd know where to find them when she looked. She picked at the scab, as he picked at cold leftovers.

"Don't ever speak to me again. Don't say a word. When you come, I want you to touch me. I want you to see me, and dance with me, but I can do without the sound of your voice. These cold nights aren't for words. Yours, or mine."

He reached up to fix the sky a little, and stoked the fire dying in their bellies.

"Come. I don't want to sleep alone tonight."

He remained silent, while his hands did the talking.

Wednesday, 17 February 2010

Saturday, 13 February 2010

Two Thousand Stomach Aches

She kissed him on the lips.

In grey tones of early mornings, in those spaces where there was distance, He would look at her, and find her less attractive. She was still everything he wanted. When her sulk bled in her mouth, when her voice cracked in his breath, when his eyes danced in her hips, he found happiness. He still wanted more.

She would call when he would lay besides another, and ask if everything was okay. Why wouldn't everything be okay?, he thought. He gave her assurances, gave her love, gave her a sense of stillness. She took them in her embrace, and named her secrets after stars.

He watched while she wrote. She watched while he played. With ritual uncertainty, they tangled in corners where neither belonged. When she pulled away, he would escape into the shadows, leaving her with his scent, and the promise of something more yet.

Saturday, 6 February 2010

I Want To Love You (But I Know You Don't Want Me To)

The scars on my back tell me stories, just like the bruises on your knees sing to you. In a monstrous moment of passion, you looked us in the eye, and wondered, aloud, how it could get any better than this.

And then we found out that it couldn't. But it could get a lot worse.


Our love is a texture of taboo,
sunk into our hot wounds,
blood coated on your nails,
and tears melting on my face.

Thursday, 4 February 2010


I feel I should believe that,
in a world where angels
can make men weep,
there is still hope
for every single one
of us.

Wednesday, 3 February 2010

We're All Alright (But There's Trouble In The Moshpit)

His smile is reflected sadness in her eyes. His eyes follow, and drop a notch with hers. As thumbs secretly caress each other amongst noisy passersby, he thinks of a song, and she starts to hum it to themselves alone. And so, we find significance in coincidence. She feels ill, and he feels reticent. She shapes him into comfort, so she can sink the world into silence, so she can hear nought but the falsetto piercing her heart in her head.


He stands in wait as she shuts the door, and peels back the cotton warmth to reveal freshly tingling skin. She sees him and smiles, as the cold shakes loose from her bones.

"I love coming home to you."
It spills forth, as she spills into his arms. He smells tobacco and cologne in her hair.
"New brand of cigarettes this time?"
His caustic tone did not escape into forgotten notions of possibility, and she sighed wearily.
"No. He's still smoking Davidoffs."
As am I, she thinks to herself. A cigarette feels great after a fuck.
"Do you come home to me because he refuses to hold you?"
"No. I come home to you because he doesn't know how to."
No one but you.
"Why do you come at all?"
"What sort of question is that?"
"If he's the one you're fucking, why not live in his fucking filth, instead of wallowing in mine?"
"Honey, you're not filthy at all. We both know you're ideal. Our hearts are sealed within one another, but you can't get me wet, and I don't make you hard."
"So your solution is to fuck someone else."
His voice starts to crack.
"Baby, I think you're over-reacting. You should try it too."
"I have. And I couldn't. It's not you. It doesn't feel right."
"I'm sorry. It feels just fine for me."
Tears flowing down his cheeks, he gets up from the chair he forgot himself in, and kisses her with all the passion of a yearning that has burned impotently in his pit. She gasps in surprise, digging her nails into his neck and back when she regains composure. They stay locked for a while, before he pulls away.
"Tell me that wasn't real."
"I feel it. I do. But it does nothing to..."
His rage asphyxiates her from across the room. A silent threat pricks the back of her throat, as she searches for peace in the fear. He cries on, brimming with anguish and destruction, two far-too-familiar emotions in this house of theirs.
"...I've set your dinner out on the table for you. You should eat."
She sits down, not touching a single tear of the tens running free from her eyes. He pulls out the chair for her, sets a napkin in her lap once she is sat, and kisses her mocha shoulder once the wine is poured. His soft lips know how to brush my skin just right, she thinks. Not like those ruffians, who expect her flesh to respond with blood when they sink their teeth in.
She tastes a morsel, then takes a few more.
"I want out."
"...then have it. If that's what you really want."
He says nothing more, though she sees right through him. She sees him screaming in protest, raging like rapids in the rush of unintended emergency. She finishes her food, wipes her face clean, and drops the napkin on the greasy remainders on her plate. The coats come on once again, as she braces herself for the treachery of the northern winter.
She walks out the door. He stands transfixed, helpless, pleading silently. The door shuts. The footsteps fade. An hour passes. She does not come back.

He falls to the floor and weeps, until he forgets how this started in the first place.


She pins him down to the bed. The violin's crescendo makes her cry. He stares in devoted awe, as she chokes the life out of him one last time.