the wind blows
ticklish and firm
like how my mother used to
brush my hair and say,
“stop squirming”
I take a step outside
and immediately apologise
for almost tripping over
a cat
and I laugh as it turns its nose up at me
all the while saying, “pardon me, sir,
you have a good day, be careful now”
the rocks on the pavement
greet my feet like old friends
and they say, “long time no see”
and I skip merrily
leaving behind crunch, crunch, crunch
the azure canvas above
my head
swirls with white cotton candy
and smiles with a shine of
tame golden light
why is the world happy to see me?
why does it show me grace and beauty?
I stepped outside my dark room
and my dark house
out of my dark thoughts
intending to travel to
no man’s land
one last time
one last breath
but when I get to the bridge
a cyclist almost crashes
into me
and instead of getting cross
he says, “sorry, are you okay?”
and when he leaves
his bell still rings in my ears
and when I look down
the water is calm and it
dances with my face on its waves
and suddenly a lone drop
should have hardly disturbed it
but when it reaches the river
circles expand, larger and larger
than my terrible life
and it showed me
perhaps the world won’t be the same
if it never knew my name
so I wipe away the river
from my eyes
and I dance to the tune of
cars passing me by
and I say
“not today.”
Perception becomes habitual,
It becomes automatic.
And so life is reckoned as nothing.
I walked these halls each day, for years.
Shoes squeaking on linoleum floors,
Hearing distant echoes of laughter and screams.
I pried open the wooden door,
Always careful of its rusty hinges
And its makeshift lock,
Always careful not to
Scratch myself on the exposed nail.
It’s routine,
It’s a pattern,
It’s always in the afternoon.
It’s predictable.
And that is where I went wrong.
Art is a way of experiencing the artfulness
Of an object.
After we do something several times,
We begin to recognise it.
Art removes objects and experiences
From the automatism of perception.
Is it art then?
That experience
Of being torn inside out?
Is that art then,
In the form of a familiar faceless boy
Whose name I know but cannot say,
To teach me a lesson, far too early, far too soon?
With my pounding heart echoing defiance,
Still not loud enough for his ears?
Is that art, as I contemplated the
Colour of the toilet lid, warm eggshell grey.
Is that art?
As I felt myself change colour —
Violet, blue, green, red;
As I heard his chuckles in my ear,
A symphony that does not follow
The drumming in my chest,
Felt his fingers made of fire
On my ice-cold skin?
Is that art then,
That novel experience
Of staring at a toilet lid from above,
As pain ruptured below,
And a photograph of that stall
Embeds itself within?
Defamiliarization,
Is what they call it.
Defamiliarization,
They say, is a characteristic
Of art.
Is this art then?
Is my suffering beautiful?
Is my life not reckoned as nothing now?
Is my life something, at last?
Does it have any meaning?
Tell me —
Is this art?
This
Cannot
Be happening.
His hands against
My body and my face.
No, I say; he laughs and continues anyway.
I should find a way to want this, or at least fight back.
But I am in a different place as my body turns to pliant clay in his rough calloused hands, and I
Keep crying even when he finished, keep silent even when his hands are no longer there, keep staring at the wall, as if it will show me I am simply alone in my room.
Or maybe, I tell myself, I am making mountains out of molehills, I am exaggerating the truth, or maybe I even just dreamt it, or maybe I was crazy like what my brain always says, but when I jump into the shower, I see red on the blue tile floor, and I am stretched open,
I am wretched, I am unclean, I am weak, why didn’t I fight back, did that really happen, I imagine myself in a courtroom and I am asked about my clothes, and I see eyes staring accusingly at me, and I am broken just from a few touches, and I am not a child anymore, but I am not a woman either, but why didn’t I fight back or scream, did I want it, did it feel good, did it hurt, what was I wearing, what did I say…
It is a corrosive wound, burning and destroying from the inside, until my own head is my own prosecutor and my own eyes the jury, and I am made to feel like a liar, made to doubt my own story, made to think I made it all up, that surely I was looking for attention, or I am an unreliable witness to a crime I might have even instigated, or maybe I am the criminal and I deserve to be locked up, or maybe I wanted it because why else would I shove my hands into my underwear, trying to mimic the way I felt his hands on me, as if I will understand what happened by replaying the scene and directing it, where I am powerful and my mind will not be hazy anymore, I will not spiral out of control anymore… won’t spiral…
I’m drinking coke
Swirling sugar amber in ice
Just to take the edge off
Pretending it’s whiskey
And maybe pretend I have a reason to cry
Take the black box drugs
And stuff it down my throat
Pretend I’m hooked on a lifeline
With diesel running through my veins
But still I’m not addicted to anything
You can’t love me until I can love myself
And it sucks, really, it does
Cause you have so much to give
But even if you turn the knob all the way
I can’t take it and give you something other than I am
I’m afraid that this is all I’ll ever be
Hoping and reaching for a better life
That I do not deserve and cannot live
Because my very bones are made of
The brimstone and fire that cannot ascend
Wish I could shine the darkness within
Cause maybe letting it out
Is like the cork off a champagne
But how do I say that I want
Someone to save me
Except I want that someone
To be me.
How do I say that I want someone
To love me
Except I want that someone
To be me.
there’s a pulse in your headphones
a steady dun, dun, dun, dun
a beat that your feet are wont to follow
dancing like a body hanging from the gallows
there’s a glare in your eyes
as you glare at the sky
but it keeps smiling in bright blue
and you can’t help but start smiling too
even under your black glasses and black mood
blue above and yellow in your hands
as mangoes kiss your lips with each sip
and your hand is wet and cold from the cup
even as your skin burns from the sun above
look at you with your scuffed-up boots
look at you with your scars and sombre eyes
telling yourself you’ll never smile again
seeing the world from under tinted eyes
you’ve been coloured blue, little girl
with your black box pills
pretending you’re addicted
to something that could kill
your past pulses under the basement floor
and your present breezes by, flying petals and leaves
but you’re part of the future, still
you with your sugar amber eyes and your warrior’s skin
it doesn’t matter when these
moments are fluttering in its fleetest
cause each day you get up
hoping for a brief taste of bliss in its sweetest
so you’ll keep walking with
your headphones and sunglasses on
dancing to the blues and living through a song
you say you feel nothing
and maybe your heart starts to believe
but on days like this you start to skip
and you bare your teeth, less than a threat
more in a grin
and your dark mood bleeds away
to be replaced with the iridescence of your lust
lusting for life
with the sun in your eyes
and fruit on your tongue
and your skin burning bronze
and your black sunglasses and your headphones on