sick enough

the first documented case of the disease was a few hundred years ago in England. the teenage son of a preacher. they didn't have a name for it back then, and though you can pay for therapy now we still don't know how to talk about it. he was sixteen. they tried to cure him with all sorts of medicines, both natural and artificial. disappointed by his unchanging condition, the doctor prescribed a milk diet and horse-riding in the country air. his records detail the boy recovered his health 'in a great measure', despite not being 'perfectly freed' from his condition.

some of the best research on the disease was unethical and could never be greenlit today. I read about a study in Minnesota from the wartime. a group of scientists with the goal of understanding the impact of starvation on the body. in the findings I cut my fingers on glimpses of myself like shards of broken mirror. cold hands and feet. obsessive pre-occupation with the act. increased apathy and feelings of hopelessness. a loss of ambition and drive to connect. dizziness. most of the men involved in the study managed to find their feet and fill their clothes again. there's an irony in being asked to search for hope from such morally murky waters. 

the doctor asks what I think of the word. I don't know how to answer and hate to be wasting his time. this money could do much more for somebody else. how many starving children might it feed? he leaves me with homework and an invoice for his time. I close the tab and turn to emails but his question lingers like a scar. I close my eyes to listen as its orbit coils the confines of my skull. does anyone ever think they're sick enough?

apathy

they herd the starving in their thousands into fences like cattle to wait for the food they’ve been neglected for months. if not from the targeted dropping of taxpayers’ bombs on shelters and hospitals, they’ve been dying from starvation in the streets. there’s footage of the swarm rushing across the sand to the distribution point. I watch them spill into the queues like crushed tins of sardines and wonder how many of them have eaten this week. the soldiers oversee the operation: the same men who shoot these children in their homes and dress up in their victims’ clothes for fun. once more we see the masses left at the whim of the murderers of their parents and children and homeland. waiting under gunpoint and unforgiving sun for crumbs that never come. the men start shooting - bored or threatened by the thought of feeding starving children - and once more I’m streaming slaughter on my phone. it’s less surprising every time, and easier to shut off and carry on with myself the more I read and see online.

when I sleep I do so knowing I’ll wake to news of more lives lost to weapons I’ve paid for. no blood on my pillow: I’ve been sleeping fine. there’s a parasite growing in my body, sucking blood from vital organs. my heart starts to shrink a little too quickly. I fear the apathy that feeds on every absent swipe away.

hit or miss

I walk through the rain to the store after seeing the doctor. the seat of my bike is damp and I steer her cross the tram lines like a dog I can control. at the supermarket I buy markers and pasta for craft. steal some string from the drawer in the lounge and thread beads between tiny tubes of macaroni. I wear my necklace on the tram alone and present the sad boy with his a moment before he’s due onstage. he’s surprised by the gift and thanks me with a promise to play the song. I cradle the glass against my collarbone and whisper along to the words of the poems he plays on my phone to keep me safe at night. for a moment I forget the body and the world I inhabit and there is nothing but the feeling between reaching the pillow and dreaming. he jokes about selling records and tees before sending us back to sleep. I pocket the napkin runes with his scribbles from the stage the moment he descends into past tense and the crowd.

between sets at the old bar

‘we’ll watch this gig. go home. donate to a charity. watch the last of us. what a great night! if you’re bored you can leave. it’s okay.’

now I watch

wake to scenes of another school up in flames. children sleeping in the classrooms (their homes already flattened by the siege). the blaze surrounds the silhouette of a girl trying to find her way out of the building through the window. you can watch the footage on your phone. the video ends and we don't know if she escapes. I wonder if she has parents to return to or if the bombs have left her orphaned.

the morning is a seat at the desk and an empty head. I tend to inboxes and tiptoe through documents unaffected by the news I read and the lifeless faces I see on my phone. at some point I'll think about my capacity to carry on and crawl back into my wrinkled routine of mundanity and self-obsession no matter what I hear or know about the world outside. maybe I will start to question how desensitised I've become to the suffering of others and what this says about the size of my heart and capacity to channel the compassion I once took such pride in. sometimes I stop and scare myself at how little I manage to care, how much my openness has closed in the face of disillusionment with the world and what I can't control. kindness was a weakness once. I used to care too much. now I watch children burn alive while brushing my teeth.

I hang my clothes to dry with questions I can never ask. listen out for birds that never come. maybe time to try again soon.

claws

the cat scratches his reflection in the mirror. twitching bell and claws against the glass, all too early for the sun. the frozen city still asleep. he wants attention or food. I give him both and run myself a bath. in the basin the water covers the skin with warmth in ways the blankets never could. I hold my nose and dip my head under like I did as a child in the same body. open ears listen to nothing but the underside of momentary ripples from the plunge against the edges. eyes closed. nose and bones rinsed free of the cold that rattled them awake. beautiful darkness and something close to silence. a stillness I forget between the dreaming and the laundry. what else should I be looking for?

in the screen forever

sharing the room with a cat. he meows at the window. I wonder what he’d think about the bombs and listen to the laundry whir in the machine next door. scratches and jump to the top of the castle to watch over his kingdom and the television. there is nothing playing and he will sit and look at his reflection in the screen forever. black expanse of nothing and some faces if the light is right. you can check your hair before you leave.

too many vases on the mantel. bouquet of flowers left to wilt in waiting on the dining table. misplaced or unwanted affections or maybe just a case of not enough space or time. two guitars against the fireplace and a film I’d like to watch. my cousin wants to bake and make a soup. I want to fall into the crevasse of the couch. the cat watches the screen and nothing happens til it does.