how to talk

a cigarette and a pacifier on the tiles of the public bathroom floor

my brother tries to teach me how to talk about my feelings

I am silenced by the labour of my own imagination.

it is easier to listen and watch than to act and speak, though I can only bite this tongue so much. if I care and I do than I owe a little more. you don't live in this skull. you haven't seen the writing on the ceiling. would you come in and take a look?

only flames

on the eve of her birthday the mystic holds a picnic by the creek. friends and followers lounge on blankets in a circle round the food. the air is warm for this time of year and afternoon, but gentle under overcast skies promising a storm. I arrive a little late for liking with guacamole and a mask. having spent the morning in my head it's good to try to be outside.

tomorrow's birthday girl dictates a ritual for her congregation, willing us to scribe our secrets onto paper: something to let go of, something to hold onto, something to bring to life. I sit on the trunk of a fallen tree and write what sense I can draw from the well:

hiding what and how I feel (for fear)

the ears / hearts that listen / ask me to believe that I am not too much

the belief that I have no reason to be scared.

being a fire sign, the mystic instructs me to burn my paper. I exchange my secrets with a stranger. we share a lighter, holding on until our words are only flames. the earth signs bury theirs in the ground.

the storm never comes. I wash dishes in the sink and tell myself that nothing's wrong. I wash my face and brush my teeth and listen to your favourite song.

the toy you want

your name on my lips at a party full of strangers at the end of someone else's tram line. big houses with trimmed lawns. neighbourhoods that would feel just as alien in the sun. I play the shadow of a writer friend who knows the birthday girl, wearing silver to fade into the theme. he offers me wine in a paper cup and asks about you. wishing my answers were different / taking shape in brighter colours, my confession leaves me feeling even smaller. he knows how I feel and we can laugh about our bleeding hearts. we watch another of our friends unknowingly woo the affections of two boys by the pingpong table. their smiles obscure their rivalry. she laughs in blissful ignorance.

crawling through the witching hour I wash my face and fall into my pillow. I think about the gaps and beg my bedroom ceiling for an explanation. are you too kind to tell me what's changed? I cry because I'm tired of guessing and pretending not to care. I cry because we've stopped saying things we used to. I cry because I've let you see me and you've let me see you too. holding myself I play the supercut: your eyes under the lids of my own, in the dark, ghosts I've known and want to keep at least a little longer. I cry because you run like water, like the tears and days since hearing your voice.

the sun shines in the morning. I do my laundry and try not to think of you and whatever star you're chasing today. I miss you like you used to say you missed me. and I want to be the toy you want to play with again. how much does that make you want me less?

you and I / am and are

if I am to be

and as I am (it seems)

how am I to help but want

between being and my dreams?

if you are for now

and as you are (with me)

why should we be scared to glow?

I miss your colours

they keep changing

what don’t you want to be?

other things

following the sun I walk along the stream, taking what I can from what remains of the day. lost boys serenade me through golden hour through my phone. the waves are warm and gentle on my face. the melodies are melancholic and familiar in a way that forges momentary comfort.

the river leads me to a lake I used to run around. by the water fountain stands the playground I could swear keeps moving inches, the one we climbed to glow in on the night we didn't want to sleep. I watch the sun kiss the window of our tower on its way into tomorrow. the boys sing about writing the worst love song in the world like a spell or anti-curse. I think about the poetry and what I dim in fear of being too much.

you leave me guessing in the gaps. I care too much to not play along for now, though I wish we could see each other a little better like before. it doesn't have to be as heavy in my head. it isn't when you're here. ibis hang from trees like plastic bags over the creek. if I had their wings I swear I'd be doing other things. 

goldfish

I exhaust myself with the privilege to revel as a goldfish in my brain. what I know of the world beyond the windows and my fingertips will always be waiting. the fears and tears I jerk are almost always from my own imaginings. in spite of the headlines I live in the mirror. with my ears closed I only hear myself, deaf to the cries of a world deluged in rivers of blood, a world that once made me scream. I watch the bombs drop on my own time. they fall like rain and scorch the earth regardless.

hope and dread linger in the wings. at this point they have made themselves at home, colonising every other moment. too often I feel like their child. under their influence I think about caring and compromise. in the process of trying to open myself to you I begin to remember that currency is held in keeping caring quiet. this truth challenges the way we've been, how playful and open and willing to see each other as we are. when I think of you I don't want to play the game. when I am with you I don't want to hide.

but what do you want? is it foolish to hope you might want this more than keeping up appearances? is it better to play along the way we're taught? dread urges me to conceal my care, a wound you don't really want to see. but I miss you and mean everything that I've said. I am the statue of a mother holding her son limp in her lap, looking into his eyes. he is the hope and dreaming I know not to resurrect. can I really help wanting to try?

I can only scribble

pain subsides and I can feed myself again. the second night passes a lot quicker, thanks largely to the lack of lights and beeping from machines I can't locate or understand. I don't remember any dreams, but in the morning I manage to shower. behind the curtain I move my hands gently, guiding soap where I can without hurting, washing off the thirty something hours of playing patient. already I can manage much more than before. time is kind and heals sometimes.

they take my bloods and signature before letting me leave. I can only scribble and this makes me laugh because whatever I write doesn't matter. a friend retrieves me from my room, carrying my things down the hall into the day. the fresh air is cold and sharp against my neck. I breathe back into the world outside - the world I know - not knowing what comes next.

at home we strip the bed and clean my sheets. the hum of the laundry underscores a symphony of birds and distant traffic. I sit and read through hours of little consequence. your necklace rests beside my pillow. I miss you like it matters but don't want to weigh you down with words. you find out about the fall on your train home.