Assignment.

We've been told to write another story,
and the deadline is in two days.

And so much life has been sucked out of me in the last month,
and I'm so exhausted,

that I have nothing to write about.



I need inspiration.

I want to recreate the bruises you left on my body; on my chest, on my neck, so they're everlasting and I never forget you.
x.

Cold Shaking Bones

Tread softly on my cold shaking bones

Hold me close, keep me near

Please don’t ever let me go.

Would you really like to know?

I’m holding on for life my dear

Tread softly on my cold shaking bones.

Let the stormy and raging wind blow

I know the answer, but it’s the answer I fear

Please don’t ever let me go.

These changes—I’m afraid—I cannot undergo

But the season’s close calls and the end is near

Oh tread softly on my cold shaking bones.

I’m weak and I’m bruised, as you finally know

Swirls of purple and black fade out and disappear

Please don’t ever let me go.

The strings of my heart have come unsewn

Your body’s the only creature I fear

Tread softly on my cold shaking bones,

And please don’t ever let me go.

un.) finding myself slightly intoxicated last night; on sadness, on whiskey. deux.) the way H.'s eyes light up when his favourite song is played by the DJ. trois.) the way lace clung to my collarbones when dancing. quatre.) waking up with a cloudy mind, thoughts mimicking the mid-February weather. cinq.) rain falling on the brick outside my window, soft ticking, counting the drops in a minutes time. six.) Keaton Henson on vinyl to keep me company during breakfast.

x

better left unsaid;

I know I should not be saying this,

but at 14 minutes to one in the morning, 

I miss my aunt. I miss the little things, the nonsense:

the laying in bed at two in the afternoon, sun leaking through the shutters.

the drives around town, '57 Chevrolet pickup, windows down, hair blowing in the wind.

the vintage finds, the old handbags. hair brushes that belonged to my grandmother, to her mother,

I miss my friend, 

the warm embrace as salty liquid escaped the brims of my eyes on exhausting high school days.

I miss,

             my aunt.

growth.

I will leave you inside me until you explode.

Send your arms, intertwined with mine,
    
                            into oblivion, shadows on the wall.

Take your heart, my heart, our hearts,

out of our bodies, marbled red and white.

Place them on a plate, 

keep them with me, 

keep them safe.

La Belle Personne

Is Lea Seydoux not the epitome of angelic perfection in this film? The milk white skin in stark contrast with the rich browns of her hair, dressed in neutral colours…she's incredibly flawless! Ultimate skin tone goals, especially if it means Louis Garrel will be lusting after me, he's such a babe. 

//

You'll be getting your short stories back, marked, next week or the week after. And the thought echoed, bounced off the curves in my brain as I lay, stomach down, on my bed. Inhaling the scent of the tulips in the window, my new perfume, the warmth of the morning clung to my duvet. I'm still not entirely sure how I feel about work being "marked." The idea that your creativity is being critiqued by another being, deciding whether or not you're able of passing. It's all a bit…off. Like the snow melting on the warm concrete of the city, people complaining about the cold but never happy when it's warm. I laid in bed, watching the neighbours play in the white remnants of last week, thinking of how the whole world is a bit off, how we're always being critiqued, criticised, watched over by someone else.

And then I thought, what if we didn't. How would the world be if we all loved, and we woke up next to different people and loved them all the same. If we trudged off to work with smiles instead of emotionless faces, walked into class giggling instead of dreading. I walk into every Wednesday class giggling, musing over ideas in my head, channeling energies and focusing on possible story lines.

On Wednesdays, I love. And I ignore those who do not, for they are not as happy as I. 

x

The moral of the story is that you are well, you continue to be well, you will always be well. The way I feel in comparison to your feelings would be to compare the consistency of milk and honey, water from the tap and sap from the largest oak. I lay in bed at night, eyes searching for answers on the ceiling. Alone, wrapped in a duvet, green silk sheets, red hot water bottle, thick bed socks. You lay in bed at night, eyes shut tight. With someone (that's no longer me), underwear, navy printed duvet. Breaths are long and soothing, lulling and mesmerising and everything you are in the daytime. I am uneasy, I'm a sailor back on land, I'm the ocean waves after a storm, I cannot take it. Kicking and tossing and turning, a newborn baby struggling to sleep, crying for attention, needing to be held.