under the veneer

there's no hiding when the doctor takes my weights. I can choose to turn my back and carry on oblivious. this doesn't change the facts of who I am and where I'm at.

there's no hiding when the needle takes my blood. the pathologist is friendly and I can entertain her questions about the weather and my lunch. she clocks off in twenty minutes and can't wait to get home for hers. the charade is harmless and holds no sway on whatever the machine will say.

there's no hiding when the sky falls. what time is there for inhibitions when the world is ending? I keep up my appearances through gritted teeth. they start to slip in the dark. are you hanging onto yours? I've been hiding for a while. it feels much safer in my armour. but there's no changing who and how I am under the veneer.

there is a bird at your window. he can't help that he cares.

vessel

and with a breath

earth opens

the Titanic sinks in my stomach

I become a black hole

and nothing else

taking and taking

patterns in repeat into tomorrow

I will cry and dry my eyes again

and when I sleep I leave a body vacant for the night

I am a vessel for the things that happen and the ways they make me feel

they enjoy the shade of being hidden

and escape

I am left to take up space

exposed

unconcealed

with every layer lost

pulsating heart and other vital organs hanging on the walls

in glass cases and your afterthoughts 

words are not enough

come see and believe

and so the old ghosts haunt the gallery to laugh and stare and take their photos

‘do you remember when…’

knowing the display

a joke awaiting punchlines like a sentence still withheld

helpless tissue on canvas

assorted hopes and tricks that used to work

deconstructed for what?

echoes of affection

I remember

when what we said was what we meant

and you use words like strings to pull me with or without knowing

does it matter if you mean it if it works?

ask me anything

my dietitian asks me to think about my bones. he approaches every problem with a willingness to laugh I find refreshing. the scans remind me I am weaker than I should be. there are things I can be doing to rebuild and restore, I just need his help to make a plan.

my friends ask me to think about my boundaries. they listen to my woes and ask me how I'm feeling. my inability to answer only warrants more questions. their faith in my worth endures another day of ego death. I thank whichever of my past selves did the work to earn this love.

my phone asks me to care. I read the headlines to find my pulse. it feels perverted and I do little with the feelings. there is another world in which I do more. I wish I had coordinates.

my heart asks me to listen. I can't close my eyes without seeing the glow of your name etched somewhere in the dark. you're excited to see me tomorrow. I'm very happy you're home.

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 then 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.

readings of my bones

the fall is enough to make me reassess and wonder if I waste my worry on the wrong things. sharp pain asks me to stay where I am: motionless and floating in a haze of analgesics for a day. at midnight they take readings of my bones with the machine, looking through the skin on a screen to figure out what's broken. something near my elbow on both sides. the doctor sits across the bed and tells me there'll be no use going home until I can move myself again. I agree, not wanting to ask someone else to help me bathe or dress or eat. rest and time to heal etc.

the night washes over in glimpses of dark between the beeps and flashes of monitors and vitals measurements. footsteps and whispers down corridors that never sleep. I try to scratch an itch on my cheek. when I wake I wonder what you're doing and if I'll be able to hold you again.

painting with petrichor

the street light flashes on at 6:13pm. from the bus stop I am watching traffic passing under skies tired from crying. a woman sings with one hand on her heart, the other steering off into the right lane. the rattle of the pedestrian button underscores the humming of engines and her rubber tires sliding on freshly watered asphalt. I relish the remains of the clouds, drifting over powerlines away from us into the gold.

petrichor paints the puddles a little softer. pigeons bask in the glow of the taco truck, pecking at their own reflections. I think about your necklace sitting in the shell by my bed. I open the locket to my own reflection. if only I could hold yours just as close in my hands. we choose costumes for birthdays in different states. I bet you look amazing. please take a photo for me.

white noise and a wedding

and I am the boy on the train fixing his hair in the mirror. I stand safe and secure, warm in my coat of white noise, eyes open only when I want to see. I wear my mood on my ring finger, and I am married to the feelings I conceal on command. my alarm is the same every morning: sirens screeching ballads from the bedside of old ghosts I used to know. clawing my hands through the stream of my subconscious into ink through hair under water in the morning showers. I fuel the engine over headlines, a hopeless afterthought of an attempt to jumpstart that part of my heart. the orange man throws his words and bombs around. we watch when we want to between the boulder and the mirror.

I think about the child that didn’t know. he still worried before the sky first fell through the ceiling of the bus. how many times would he use the toilet before bed? remember when he’d calm the anger of the fates using the magic number on the light switch. the fear takes different shapes now, subsisting even still in big boy clothes. he’d like to know a little better, being older and a little longer now. between flashing green lights and another spring’s arrival nothing much has changed. any morning can still spring the first day of the end of the world.

train dreams

you call to tell me you're waiting at the front door. I've been cooking and cleaning and trying not to think too much. on the porch you greet me with a haircut, the difference I can't quite appreciate as much as the hug in the dark. the candles in the kitchen fill the gaps. it's nice to see you smile again.

in my room we play your music and laugh into the way we were again. I release my relief into your embrace. the rhythm returns and maybe we both remember why we started to begin with. I didn't think I'd see you again. you say you didn't want to leave things vacant. I missed you and you missed me too. and so we are where we are, willing each other a little closer with questions and answers and the warmth that comes with holding onto something. our towels hang side by side on the rail above the blinds.

we both have train dreams, like the title of the movie that last made a stranger cry. on his way out of the house he told me I had to watch the film, that it felt like watching poetry. I dream of losing you on trains / in transit, finding you on the platform making the conductors laugh. they are sad to see you go when we board the right train to wherever we are going. track works shoot us all over the city. in the afternoon sun we're nearly caught coming undone through the windows. at the end of the line I spy post with our names through the door before waking up. you dream of the long journey home on a train that never seems to end.

in the morning you stretch on the floor, telling me about your dream and plans for your adventure. before greeting the day you sing me a song about sending your heart to the moon. you kneel with my guitar and I am frozen on my pillow. hope lines the day with the sound of your voice. I look at you in the dark / when we glow / on the floor with your song and my guitar. I think that when you leave I will write something beautiful about this. 

primavera

winter's ending spawns another spring and we wake to face September again. blossoms start to bleed a little earlier here in anticipation. I pass them on the ride to school wishing they would slow down / be a little more patient. they are beautiful but fleeting and I want them to last. back home our weeping tree stirs to life for less than a week, blossoming a soft pink that rains onto the unkempt flowerbed at its feet. my parents know I think of it and send a photo every year. I wish that time would fertilise a little slower.

dining outside at the laksa house on Lygon. the breeze is soft and mild. waiting for my friend's return from the bathroom I listen to a stranger lecturing a captive first date audience on climate change. I learn that winter will soon be a thing of the past. collectively we can't keep up with the planet or our own destruction. 'we'll be okay ... but winter is gone.' in my bowl I carve my spoon through the dregs of the soup.

learning how to swim apart

so we beat on

carved in fire

in water

in anything but stone

pixelated feelings blurred or clear as your voice in the dark

fluorescent or a little less wild 

however you like

the dog from the song waiting with the bird

under the moon

wanting only to be wanted

sitting in your car

you read the new commandments from the mountain in a voice that isn't yours

I say amen

biting my tongue on a prayer willing you home

using other words

a little different from the start

closing windows

as you wish

dimming colours as needed

being what I am

for now:

translucent shell of dreams

head and heart

learning how to swim apart.

clay or chemical reactions

I wait for the right words. they'll come only in time to commiserate the end of days. in the meantime you are busy, working with your fish and doing other things. it's my turn but I don't know what to do. I waste time wondering what you might be thinking. though you're not waiting for the right words to find me too I don't want to be a stranger.

you coloured your hair for the first time in years. I remind myself at every pit that grows in my chest at the sight of your natural colour on a stranger. the orange is soft and gentle. you want it to be darker but you've also said you're not feeling keen on anything right now. I told you it looks beautiful. you probably squeezed my hand or shrugged me off into a smile.

rereading the pages I breathe into the fact that I meant everything I said. I told you this once. we had been glowing and lost in each other in your room. the light was soft and you were warm and all around me. we smiled into each other's eyes, willing the glow to keep us safe a little longer. I could have drowned there happily, your eyes opening windows and blinds, letting light into rooms I'd left locked forever. you are beautiful and in your eyes I don't need to wonder what you think. I thank you and tell you I've meant everything I said. you thank me and say the same in return. I believe you without reason to believe anything else.

thinking in ink I try to map what might be going on, not wanting to push you any closer to the sink to wash your hands and leave. I wonder how alone I am in second-guessing. you told me you wanted to check that nothing had changed. the essence of the question and the way it sounds in your mouth grates against the way we've been since the beginning. I think about the way we glow and laugh and sing, the way we've danced and held and grown to know each other. this has changed. we were strangers not too long ago. do you know too many of my colours now? I remember everything is fluid and we are little more than clay or chemical reactions I don't understand.

I've kept the mirror in my room since your last visit. we lay it up against the bed to dress and paint our faces for the aliens. I took a photo of you colouring yours. it hangs in a library of others I want you to see. evidence of memories that shouldn't exist in a world that moves so quick, too quick to care for kissing in the pantry or glowing through the playground in the dark. I contemplate leaving us where we are, preserving the gold in the vault. do I let you run like water? is it better to speak or keep you safe in memory? what do you want me to do?

a little much

under the shower head I let the water drown my face. I want to exorcise the way I feel, to thaw and disappear into the drain. but the shape I take won't change. there is no substitute for crying. I let the water hold me knowing it is futile as any other feeling. this warm embrace will end with just the turning of a tap. at least I hold the handle.

in the mirror I shave my face as though it matters. too many mornings without laughing. a little too much care and second guessing. I listen to a song that makes me feel a little less alone. I wanted to play it for you last night when we sat at the piano. the foyer was all but empty, everyone else patient enough to stand and smile through all the speeches in the gallery. we improvise something new, doing our best to play in harmony. you played as a child and I just don't want to get in the way. someone takes a photo. your hair looks redder from behind.

I didn't play you the song. I couldn't remember the chords, though I couldn't forget the feeling if I tried. for it to underscore your company doesn't feel quite right. in the car you change gears. I do my best to navigate and keep up with your appearances. the whiplash is a little jarring and in the moment I struggle. words dwarf and discredit. you use yours carefully and I should thank you, though I can't tell which was real: the way we were or this respectful distant language. is this display or have we just been playing dress-ups? a little much for you for now.

in bed I melt into the words and sounds of other songs that know me. I feel a fool for letting you do the same. it felt right in the moment. we saw each other and you didn't run. tonight the blanket isn't warm or big enough to cover the clown. you've read his poetry and heard his voice. tonight he wishes you hadn't. but a feeling is as futile as the water.

silicon

disconnected from the feeling

fear of being

living through my dreams

alone

meet me in the underpass

rain on the roof at night

tying up your shoes

smooth as silicon

I’d like to sleep forever

your afterglow

into tomorrow

please

grey gardens

escaping my own company I watch a movie in the end room with my housemate. it's a documentary she's been wanting to watch for a while. an elderly woman and her middle-aged daughter spend their days arguing and commiserating the past over old photos / relics / lazy snacking / dancing and singing about death in the dark damp rooms of an all but derelict estate in Long Island. over the course of maybe a decade we watch them spiral further into their own nostalgic disillusions, never leaving the mansion they call home. the house clutters further into disrepair with each passing season.

the daughter is first cousin to first lady of a since assassinated president. she wears a different coloured outfit every day. no matter what she's wearing her hair remains completely covered, even in her bathing suit. we can't quite tell if this is modesty or vanity. she often talks about wanting to leave the estate, to find her own life and spread her wings into the world. there are dreams of a life in the city, in New York, where she can be herself on her own terms, away from her mother, away from the black hole that is their home and the history she can't quite seem to escape. her mother finds this funny. she says her daughter will never leave and she never does.

she dances for the camera: sometimes giddy and free as a child without care or agenda, otherwise serious and grave, cursed by something haunted lingering beneath her gaze. some kind of sadness wants to rupture from her eyes, as though the dance is not enough to exorcise the dark. she tells us she only cares about singing, dancing, and the Catholic Church. I think about my mother and her mother. I wonder if they'll dance and sing together in another life.