feed me to the lions,
watch them tango,
hear them roar,
as they move back and forth,
and tango with my limbs.
twist the rope,
around my neck,
and on my skin,
i want you to burn me.
everybody wants to.
watch them tear me limb,
ripping my skin from my bone,
i am skin and bone,
just endless skin, and too much bone.
i need to feel the blood,
drain from my body,
making me less, and less,
my skin as it tears,
for i am just meat.
i am meat to them,
and meat to you,
and too much meat to me.
then see the fire,
burn and alight in my eyes,
and extinguish in my soul,
alight from my feet,
and through my skin.
iv been itching to tell you,
its been bubbling up beneath my skin,
between my many bones,and my endless skin,
giving me goose bumps.
ive been meaning to tell you.
ive been twisting at night,
contorting my body,
it feels just right.
ive been itching to tell you,
that i love this pain.
i love feeling my skin get less, and less and less,
and feeling the rope bind my arms,
and twist around y wrists,
giving me scars.
i love it so much,
that i will do it if you wont.
ill start the fire, under my feet,
watch it eat through my skin,
ill tie the rope around my waist,
and then to my shins,
to make it easier.
everybody wants it easier.
ill grow the ivy from the bottom of my soul,
growing up and around me,
climbing throughout me,
binding me like i am forest,
like i am a part of this world.
i will perish.
when the weak,
burns brighter when there is only darkness.
ive been meaning to tell you,
i am only skin and bone,
but oh my god,
there is so much skin,
and too much bone.
huge in the ocean,
by my own feet,
my wrists on my heels,
kneeling as i beg to go forwards,
knowing not what it will bring.
head in my hands,
keep going, come on,
though i want not to push anymore,
heart starts to palpitate,
skin lifts up,
climbing around me,
encasing my mind,
pulling me limb from limb,
forcing my hand,
my fingers into the water,
my skin feels the cold,
i become it, so vast,
my skin wraps it up,
and there it stays,
between my fingers,
but i jeep finding buckets,
i keep hearing sirens,
i feel the sickness,
from the sea.
i become the ocean,
but i dont want to be the ocean,
i become torn paper,
but i want to stay whole,
i had neat parcels,
capsules of bad time,
but i keep finding buckets,
unwrapped and open,
pushing my head down.
i keep finding stop signs,
strange ocean traffic lights,
i hear taxis,
bright orange lights,
in the ocean,
faster than i can walk,
i am life,
i don’t want to be life.
Like breaking 1000 glasses.
I look at myself, in the mirror. I notice the hills and troughs of my face, the curves of its womanly shape. My face is confident.
Eyes, my own, roam my face, my pale skin, dry skin, warm skin. My own eyes look back at me, challenging me, piercing blue- some green- asking questions I can’t hear, teaching me age-old games of loathing and love. I love it. My face- I do, it’s nice, but what’s behind it? It won’t tell me.
I look at my shape, in the mirror, and it does not respond. I pick up my fingers, one by one, off of the mirror, pulling myself away, and I call myself. I reach my fingers one by one into my open mouth, feeling my teeth and tapping out words in my cheeks, feeling out for feeling. But I go straight to voicemail. Quickly, I take a last note of my curves and the layers to my skin, staring hard; on top of one another, laced in and out of each other- impregnable. Softly, I feel my feet lift off of the floor, and I am thrown into a room- no windows, no wall. One phone. 3 calls.
For the first call, I just try dialling the number and waiting… and waiting…. and waiting… and I get a sharp hang up. I am an unknown caller, myself is scared of me- no- no- not scared- maybe- I think- I don’t know- not scared.
I need to try a different approach. How do you show someone that you just want to be heard? I think. I turn blue, and purple. I throw the phone. And I scream, my stomach knots up and I become the knives inside of me- sharp and scary- the phone lurches and hisses at me, and it does not want to respond, but at least I hear a noise. At least I know that someone is there.
Lifting the phone to my mouth for the last time, I kiss it. I hold the phone and I take it into my mind, and it becomes a heart. A heart in my mind. I tell it that i love it and i hold it and i care for it; i cry with it and we cry together i hold it tightly and rock it and the lines on my forehead rest on the curved body of the heart curved rivers on my hands and a sweet breeze of breath comes from the phone i love it, i love it for my whole entire god damn fucking entire life, with everything i have and it costs me nothing but i feel myself shrink with each minute and it combusts.
As if an art critic, I am confronted with all of it at once, blown away by the mistakes. It’s almost too much to take in. Maybe if you hadn’t used too so much red? More yellow perhaps… the colours don’t blend well. You seem outside of yourself.
I don’t like the shape, either. Maybe you should make it bigger. Although, it’s already bigger than it seems but just… not big enough. It’s too big and it should be smaller. But also, Emily, you haven’t done it right.
What do you mean, Emily, that I haven’t done it right? I am trying.
The phone pops up, out of thin air, from the floor, and starts at my feet, touching each corner of their skin. As if slowly filling me with conversations. It’s a start, it’s only my feet, but I am being filled.
I finger the delicate bind of the rope,
The frays lace between my fingertips,
they teach me how to laugh;
I feel the spiral of its bind,
up, up and on forever, it seems,
the ivy wall of the rope,
reaches up as it teaches me how to climb.
My hands explore their tissue paper skin,
feel the crinkle bound to their skin,
and I know it all.
I feel the rope wound around my nerve,
and I feel it slip,
and I tug,
and I don’t know why.
But, I tug at the rope wound around,
and around my nerve,
willing it to unravel and-
and all of a sudden, I know nothing anymore.
The nerve stands alone, bleeding,
the canopy of midnight encasing its agenda
my own nerve, as it wants to watch me bleed.
how it is so true.
Nerve- no not brave,
I am nervous and I tug,
grip, grapple, will,
want, beg, plead for the rope to come undone
I want the rope to fall away
for a minute i want the wind to pick it up
i want the damage to be done and for the frays
to spin themselves into nothing
the game of tug of war only has one player and its me
i can’t watch as the hurricane winds around
me and my endless skin goes on
as my fingers move to route march its corners
finding all of the hideouts i didn’t want to find
the ground between my rope,
oh and there is so much.
i want to find nothing, feel nothing, see nothing,
be nothing, i want to fall away into nothing
as the midnight rain washes me into the ocean
and out into orbit
i need to be away
i don’t need to be fixed
the rope doesn’t need to be mended,
tug of war was never meant to be played in teams
the frays aren’t there to be tied back together
i need to be sewn, glued, designed
and ordered to stay, sit, stay stuck
i need my arms restrained and my nerve a fountain of sticky
sweet, sweet glue.
I need never to reach for my endless skin and the suffocating rope
throw me in a barren land where no rain falls
and if no rain falls i can never dream to be a hurricane
destroying nothing but myself.
This is on feeling my skin but not being able to touch it, of plaiting my hair only for it to become undone. Its sister specialises in turning up the volume only to feel nothing and in writing when the sensation of communication is lost in all words.
What’s worse: wanting to be loved, or knowing that you’re not? What about both at once? What about feeling unsure about the both of them. What about asking 3 questions when there should be none.
When the bridge leans over you, when it reaches around your neck and tells you that there’s a door at its other end, that’s the worst part of it all.
This is on being lost.
Of having too much skin even when you know you have too little, of trying to be everybody’s friend when there is nobody. Of farming when there is nowhere.
That is what I am writing of, on and for.
I write for being lost. As a compass to tie to trees and throw to the sky, to lose in rivers as the mud pulls my shoes off and pulls me down.
Love letters to the forest breathe clean air and save me none; after I am done knowing that I am lost, I am not allowed to know anymore.
No matter the effort, how much strength I steal, how much clean air I pirate from my deprived emotions, no matter, I am empty. There is no going backwards and certainly not any going forwards.
What is worse: knowing that you’re wrong, or not having the energy to be right?
fucking hit me like a tonne of bricks,
Hell only knows,
my conscience only shows,
my smorgasbord of sins,
mistakes, but its too late.
fuck this shit.
Flowers and roses,
look at our big noses,
from our years of ferver,
wanting to go further, mad.
fucking let me show,
you the way,
to my dungeon of things,
things in your dreams,
things you can’t eat,
or think, or see or taste or breathe,
it’s hard to swallow.
I try too hard,
you try too little,
she looks too much,
and he knows too little,
shut the fuck up,
is less a command more a warning,
don’t speak or i’ll sin once more,
i’ll tell you i love your voice,
and he’ll tell you from hell,
it’s from heaven,
we love it, the grass,
and we bathe in the mud,
our skin licks up its suds,
your dirty words clean my dirty hands,
i like the taste,
of your mouth,
she likes the sound of his wealth,
lately, have i shown you,
everything we’ve done.
shut down, we’re corrupt,
have i shown you,
fuck this fucking hat-
ill lay it out on the table,
i’ve got a presentation,
of how its all wrong,
it might take too long,
my nose is too long and my,
heart hasbeen wrung,
can i be done?
i can’t do it,
we shouldn’t do it,
our conscience should know its all wrong,
far too fucked up,
to show your innocent,
the way into this world,
shut the fuck up,
close your ears,
its all something you don’t want to hear.
Kissing you is like kissing stars.
Girls are soft and delicate, beautiful and strong, powerful and bold. Girls kiss with intention and they kiss like they mean it. Girls mean it.
Kissing you is like kissing pillows, you are beautiful and intelligent, witty and enthusiastic.
You are out of my reach. You like me and I like you, but I fucked with you one too many times. You are soft and delicate and I want to kiss you again.
I want to hold your face and kiss your neck and I want to lie with you and feel your skin and I want to be with you.
Kissing you is like kissing dreams. You are so much fun. I love you.
I am going to read so much. You have no idea. This list of things that I am going to do is very long- I have been under so much stress and have worked non-stop, revising almost every night for the past two years. I have revised at least 8 hours a day everyday for the past 5 weeks. Sometimes more. On weekends? 12 hours. 9-9.
First: I’m going to Spain. And I’m going to fucking enjoy it. I’m going to eat churros. I’m going to hold my arms out to the sea and have it embrace me. I am going to learn to love the sand as it tries to burrow into all of my food, and the sun as it scolds me for enjoying it too darn much.
Second: Books. Lots of them. The Life of Pi. Weathering Heights. Emily Bronte. Everything Dan Brown has ever written. The fucking dictionary if I can.
Next: Eat. Everything. I’m going to fucking enjoy myself. It has been two years of just exams and wanting good grades. Please. I am not even kidding. I am going to devour every single chocolate cake that has ever existed to be eaten on this Earth.
After that? : Yoga. All day, everyday. I am going to read whilst I do yoga, I am going to eat, laugh, cry, talk, learn, love whilst I do yoga. God, I miss yoga. I had to stop doing it to revise around February. I want to get to know my body again.
Na: Learn Dutch. Dutch is the coolest language and I will not hear otherwise.
And Then? : I AM GOING TO FUCKING WRITE. I fucking love writing, man. About 2 years ago I started writing a book. I am about 100 pages in and I swear to the sweet Heavens above if I do not make the time to improve, add to and decoupage this book I will go to the Heavens and I will drag from it everything that it has ever loved. I am very serious about writing. My bad.
There is nothing that I am looking forward to more than this 12 weeks.
What is it to write?
To write is to create, to sing and to dance to music with no sound, and to hear the call of the birds when there is no nature. To write is an invitation to be elsewhere.
It is the remedy to all sadness, the food of hunger and water of thirst. When you write, you are elsewhere.
I cannot wait to write- to create.
For, time is not always crucial to a good piece- I write this as a daydream (judge for yourself if this is ‘good’), fleetingly, wasting time that I don’t have- but it is like the sugar to make a cake sweeter, and the juice to stop a babies boredom.
Time is handy, it makes it rougher as the storm to which you never want to leave- the sense of belonging as rain hails down on you. Not the right metaphor, but the right feeling.
Writing is hard, but I can’t wait to do it.