Twenty Two

Oh the boy's a slag,

The best you've ever had, the best you've ever had.

Oh, be still my beating heart.

Who just pops into someone's place of work, for no apparent reason? I liked his hat, he was just as amazing as I liked to remember. It's really his eyes, I can't even describe them, to give the color a name would put them to shame. They're too outstanding.

I'm so ready for this.

Please, please, please let me get what I want?

Lord knows it would be the first time.

Twenty One

All I've thought about for 2 days is that familiar smell ; decaying record sleeves, old clothes and oil paints.

This smell makes me think of certain people, a boy and a girl.

I hate them both.

No one likes to remember things that dig at the marrow of your bones, and pop, like junk mail, into your head.

We bury these memories for a reason, why do you always insist on revisiting?

Do people not know that when they say His name you wince? Your body physically pulses out of beat, heart racing, face flushing. Please, just leave His name where it is. Dead in some forgotten book with nothing but fading colors to keep it company.

When people tell you that they saw He or She on the train or bus or centre or movies. Why would I care? Why rake it up? Force feed me the memory, pull the trigger of unnecessary thought and sadness.

He ended everything, and She pushed it further. I watched it all slip gently from my hands and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Apologize, get down on your knees and say you are sorry for everything you did.

Or don't, it means nothing to me now.

Nothing.

But sometimes, if I wake during sleep, the dark engulfs me. And for a moment, nothing has changed, not my body or hair. For this tiny moment in this dreamy state. I think of Him fondly, think of his lips and eyes. Think of my love. Think of Her jokes and laugh.

And then it's gone, and I realize I'm alone. I look different to then, and check the mirror just to be sure, My phone has none of their digits, or photo's and my lips don't dare speak their names.

I have no good feelings for them, Nothing.

Why would I ever want to.

I miss something though.

There's a gaping whole. It's getting bigger and bigger, and sometimes,

I just can't think what I'll do.

Twenty

It's all rolling out off my tongue, things to say.

I begin to say them out loud. Even to myself.

My skin just now is disgusting, I want to peel it off slowly, slowly. So I can give it a good scrub, really clean away all imperfections. Or perhaps just swap with someone else? Yes, let's get that arranged.

Boys confuse me, I may become gay, simply to rid myself of the confusion that boys seem to always cause. I decide not to text a particular boy, after hearing her has a girlfriend, but then when I get an unexpected text from him, I reply. The ball's in his court, right? Right, so now he may "pop in and see me :) xxx" in work tonight. What? WHAT?!

Loosing my breath, hyperventilating, chest heaving, head spinning...

I've not heard from Him either, I know it's over. But I always feel just a touch left out. He clearly doesn't want to my friend.

Oh sigh, another one lost. Of course...

Nineteen

She carries this bag around with her.

That she carries so much in, her small hands can't hold it anymore, and it's starting to hurt her back.

This big heart sits at the bottom though, she can't leave it alone not for a second. Some of it's a bit torn, broken and glued back. Pieces missing, scattered all over the place.

I can see her holding it in her hand sometimes, and sometimes she pretends it doesn't matter if she ignores it. Let it starve, let it fall to pieces. It's only a game of pretend.

She carries tears, they slosh around inside, rinsing pens and notebooks. Diving into that bag you could bathe in those tears, clear and salty.

In the bag there are words, said and unsaid. Black ink and blue, piling up on pieces of paper or linen, ripping angry words. Words that flutter for love and words that cry for help.

In that bag she carries everything.

All hurt and all joy.

I want to help you carry it.

I don't mind.

I do it with love.

Eighteen

Please smile, wide and stretching, make it hurt your lips. Your eyes, let them well-up with laughing, let it hurt your tummy. Let's go out I'll say, and you'll say Kay, and I'll give you clothes to wear. You'll wear a white dress, it's all I have white or cream, ore there's white or cream? And She'll say white.

We don't want to miss it, don't want booze to soak it up for us.

I want a beat, something strong and itching, to build and push against me. I want to feel bodies, shoving - moving, soft curves and jagged lines. Fingers touching, lips parting.

Take me into the heat of it, as people push and pulse as one, let it soak me in, drench me in its sound. It's noise.

Let me sweat, hair yet, eyes dark. Let me feel apart of something, a crowd moving when standing still, the anticipation, no, the anxiety of it all. Let it break me down. Let it make me crumble, beneath the weight of something light.

We'll come home and eat lots of bits of crunchy bread, spreeaaad the butter on - nice and thick. Or caramel. Ew caramel? Yes caramel, spreeaaad it on - nice and thick.

Then let us sleep, silent or loud. Heat thick upon us, bones aching from the thudding beats. It will be the only way to sleep. The only way we know how.

I am getting desperate.

Seventeen

Here she comes, You better watch your step.

She's going to break your heart in two. It's true.

It's not hard to realize, just look into her false colored eyes.

She'll build you up, just to knock you down.

Cause everybody knows,

She's a Femme Fatal

The things she does to please,

She's a Femme Fatal

She's such a little tease,

She's a Femme Fatal

See the way she walks,

She's a Femme Fatal

Hear the way she talks.

I love this song. That lazy voice, whispery through the old recording. Some people don't know music, music that pulses and breathes . Music I can see, faces and colors, small memories being sparked and twisted. Replaying parts of my life over and over as I fall asleep.

Music of that drama trip, that girl, those smelly boys. That one house party, with the buckfast on the carpet. Crying at Him, screaming at him, as he's vomiting. Music as I dance, arms twirling skirt flying, drink splashing. Everyone's hugging, everyone's so amazing. Music as I cry, as I feel my heart throbbing, my body shaking, my breathing stopping. Music of that boy with daft hair as he quotes Macbeth to be, of my brother and his band. Of BigHim and his goofy jeans, Listen please listen. New Year Music, Plush music, Car music. Music with heat pumping through it, Music with notes as old as Edinburgh. Music of lying on the concrete holding hands, as the boards fly past us. Her giving them the fingers. Of hoodies and pencil skirts. Hot boy music, with collars up and army boots. Music of my Dad, old and acoustic, Music for my mum, highly sung, soprano. Reaching, I can reach that note.

Music to love, to hate, to cry, to smile, to dance. Music that has my name imprinted all over it.

Sixteen

Today I woke up and did this; Fumble around to find my phone. Oh hello empty inbox. Stand under hot water, pour pour over itching shoulders and scrub scrub at dyed scalp. Brush at moving teeth, and spit out the minty paste, watch it being pulled under the clear water.

Back in my room I listen to the sound over the hair dryer - woooobuuuzzzwoooobuzzz - and brush through tangled mess only to give in to the mass of coiling blonde. Pin it up, out of eyes, out of sight. Run fingers over fabric, cool and soft, sheer and cotton. Never knowing what to wear, never totally happy. This or this. They look the same. Opaque tights, over underwear, cream dress that would be a blouse if I was much bigger or taller. Hobbs boots. I can see my face in them, I can smell my mum's perfume on this silk scarf. Mum, mum's face, mum's moaning, mum's cackle. My cackle. Mum being brave.

The car with Mum. Simon and Garfunkel, Mum? Together ; "I can hear the soft breathing of the girl that I love..."

Gran's house, Granddad's stubbled chin, their smell. Smell of food and dried leaves and old toys. Can I look at your jewels Gran? Rings and pearls and beads, smooth, old, rusty. Tiny, fragile in the palm of my hand, my hand could kill this small thing. Break it, leave it with no value. Just a small crushed piece of tin.

Walking with Gran round shops and shops, limping with Gran round shops and shops. Buys me a cake, carrot cake. The shop in the village makes the best. I used to go every friday after school, just for carrot cake. I don't now.

Home, my home, our home. Do some work, I want to be so good, I want to make them so proud. Type, type, type. Check this, no wait thats wrong. Go back.

My bedroom looks like this - bhkgklbgkvfbjkn - I should maybe go tidy it.

Let me listen one last time though.

"I can hear the soft breathing of the girl that I love..."

When I finish this I will; Go and put the TV off, switch, click. Climb up the stairs shiny boots in hand, I will still be able to see my face in them. It's dirty now, from hand prints and crumbling make up. Tidy up my room that looks like that, tidy, hang up all the cream and slide the doors closed. Lie in bed and read and write some more.

Eventually, in perhaps an hour. I'll close my eyes, and I'll think to myself.

Another day done.

And it was so good.

Fifteen

Break. Stop. Tick. Stop. Rip. Stop. Calm. Stop. Breath. Stop.
Dream. Stop. Love. Stop. Love. Stop. Love? Stop. Love?

No. Stop. Empty. Stop.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

Fourteen

My soul slides away.

Like in that song.

They make sickening music, but their lyrics ache with love and sensibility.

My soul stretches in this skin, freedom is tattooed across my chest for those to peek at in awe, I am breathing entirely on my own. I am new.

Thirteen

Self ~ sacrafice of my lonely heart, just so that I do not hear anothers break.

Lets sing this together,

" come with me, my love, to the sea, the sea of love. I want to tell you, how much I Love you"

i question why i do these things.
sitting in my cream clothes and matted hair, i only can think of crawling away and falling fast asleep, away from things like love and fear and loneliness. asleep in some dark small place, perhaps if i do this with my inner~self, i could go into robot~mode and he could have the outer.
then he would be happy, and so would i as i become lost in my inner sleep.

Twelve

One of the most intimate things you can do to a person is write your name in their book.

Only two people have ever done this to me.

I miss them...

Darkness litters everything I see, dull soft tones covering sharp objects. Cloudy thoughts steam up inside me, and I'm constantly too hot, peeling off the bedcovers to run away from haunting dreams. Eyes adjust to odd shapes, I stub my toe.

I've become a midnight walker.

No books will do it, I start and finish, tearing pages in protest. My mind rambles and my mouth mumbles hello's and goodbyes.

To begin with something and to leave with nothing is such a waste of a troubled journey.

The only question left is,

can I risk it?

My tongue is not tied, it is tortured.

Eleven

A message to you;

I won't tell you not to be sad anymore, I know it doesn't help. All you really want is to cry, let every trace of that person seep from you. Cry them out. I'm telling you to, I'm letting you be sad. If you don't want to be over it. Don't be. That's Ok, I want to listen. Rant away.

I won't tell you to be ashamed of what you feel you need to be ashamed of. I will always be so proud of you, for you guts, for your brains, for your beauty. You need to learn to accept yourself, all of the time, not the person that the Posh people say to be. I love only you.

The both of you.

Ten

Hello Russell, Hello Bromley

My soul is crushed when I see photos of you in desert boots and tweed jackets, who are you this week, I ponder as I grimace at that cream jumper you wear, only because I have it.

Girls who look like Topshop chewed them up and spat them out. Who smell like biscuits and have funny leggings that look like petrol seeping over skin.

I want to take you home, bath you and scrub you down, hand you a pair of brogues and a nice chunky jumper with some tights and a pendant then kick you out the door.

Today as I walked into CommonRoomThree, the look on S's face made me want to cry.

"what are you wearing?" They say. To be perfectly honest with you, I felt my combination of loafers and decrepit old briefcase was working, clearly not for S. Looking down at myself I shrug "Stuff."

Bag down on chair, they pick it up, feel the leather soft and peeling in their hands.

"Clara, you're like a walking antique"

ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

Nine

Clara and her Baby Sister

Skinny legs draped in soft cotton pj's, taller than me, but younger. Soft puffed cheeks, with a fringe over those brown eyes.

Let me tell you what to wear, listen to this band, wear my shoes not those trainers. Stand up straight, tuck your wee tummy in. Smile, always smile.

Play that song louder, yeah turn it right up. Don't wear that necklace it doesn't go, wear your glasses. You look so cute. What are you reading? Swap books? Hahaha don't say that, they'll hear you.

Right OKay,

Go,

Have fun.

Today she was crying; I'll kill them for you, because they hurt you. Your so much better, so much more amazing, it's only hard now because you don't know what's coming. But I do.

Let me tell you Baby Sister,

All of it is going to be Spectacular.

Just because of you.

Eight

Tuesday 19th January 2010

last night I met him

You know, Him, the one that every other boy goes up against, he's imaginary in a sense. But last night he was so real

long dark hair, green eyes, tall enough but not too tall. black loose skinnies tucked into workies books, white t-shirt and a denim jacket. oh my god.

Of course he's never going to speak to me

oh my god he's talking to me
"nice shoes"
oh my god he likes my shoes!
say something, you total reject!
"thanks, nice jacket"
he smiles, oh god.

he's sweet, takes my camera to take photos for me, I'm too short.
he talks about music, he talks and talks.
so much to say, lights go up, and he says
"here, give me your number... you've got so much to say"
he smiles
he's gone.

He texts at half 11 to say all the usual, I reply, he replies and then says goodnight and I say night too

Now what?

I don't even know him...

Seven

mumble mumble mumble...
build up of rage,
bubble bubble bubbling...
boiling to the surface,

Please Stop.

I dont think I can give you what you want, not now.
Thinking only burns a small hole in my brain, only forces me to be so utterly sad.
My heart can't be yours... but oh, how i want it to be.

the constant holding of my hand, kissing my upper arm, roaming my face desperate to lie me down. stop moving my body. forcing your kiss, deep inside me mouth. please, i dont like it.

please stop. i'm not that person.

how to tell you that my mind has changed, that I cannot be who i say. that i cannot give it all, i do not want too.

how fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes...

what a terrible thing to be.

Six

" People who truly loved once are far more likely to love again. Sam, do you think there's someone out there you could love as much as your wife? "

" Well, Dr. Marcia Fieldstone, that's hard to imagine. "

" What are you going to do? "

" Well, I'm gonna get out of bed every morning... breath in and out all day long. Then, after a while I won't have to remind myself to get out of bed every morning and breath in and out... and, then after a while, I won't have to think about how I had it great and perfect for a while. "

" Tell me what was so special about your wife? "

" Well, how long is your program? Well, it was a million tiny little things that, when you added them all up, they meant we were suppose to be together... and I knew it. I knew it the very first time I touched her. It was like coming home... only to no home I'd ever known... I was just taking her hand to help her out of a car and I knew. It was like... magic. "

That is how it feels, isn't it?

To get by, without Them. And, even if there isn't a "Them" that is still how it feels, to not have love and to continue without it.

It's the sense of knowing that one day, it will become normal to feel so heart broken.

This does not make me sad.

It makes me feel frail.

Five

I want to remember all of this;

The smell of her perfume, cream walls and crisp bed linen, a tidal-wave of clothes and glittering fabrics, twisting lace and sheer cotton. Everything has a tint to it, like her loveliness has imprinted on everything. Flushed cheeks and dark eyes. Oh to be you, just for a second, to see how it must feel to live and breath in the skin of something wonderful.

Covered in mud I love Her. Another one. How lucky am I. Her room smells different, it's her smell of hard work and angel's, lenses look at me, and I wonder what they capture and hold. She makes no noise when she sleeps, just a gentle breath and I love that, in and out, soft and steady. We can hold hands in the cinema and I don't care who looks, please don't cry. I'm right here for you. Force feeding you literature and nodding to your music. I can't tell Her who to love, apart from me. Always love me.

You are both the perfect fashion accessory. You, and her and me.

Till next time.

Four

London Easter 07

There's not enough color.

Last night I dreamed that I bought some paint and through it all over the snow.

Covering everything in greens and blue's, splashes of angry red and chirpy yellow. Destroying the timid white beneath my feet.

Easy, destroying the purity of the white ground.

I'm starting to hate white. Starting to itch for something new, choking for something bright and bold to come and save me from the pure white that surrounds me. Hurry up.

I'm still waiting and it's been so long.

Three

Today I read;

" 'Noise has one advantage. It drowns out words.' And suddenly he realized that all his life he had done nothing but talk, write, lecture, concoct sentences, search for formulations and amend them, so in the end no words were precise, their meanings were obliterated, their content lost, they turned into trash, chaff, dust, sand; prowling through his brain, tearing at his head, they were his insomnia, his illness. "

Today this made me incredibly sad.

I love to read, I love to be inside some other place, my imagination is vivid. This man, who rips at his own reality makes me want to cry. I'm so angry at you, for destroying my hope in any word, i do not want my words to loose meaning.

It would be nice to think that like books, poems, lyrics for songs even, my own words would be clung to and not loose their meaning. Even if it was only me who clung to them.

To be completely honest with myself, I know that no one will remember what I say or write or sing, but I like to remember others' words that they have so delicately assembled into stunning sentences and phrases. The meaning of these words, make me, me.

"Console me, not comfort me"

Two

It's new year, time for new things;

new clothes,

new books,

new music,

new friends,

new blog,

new love...

New Love?

what about old love? I don't let things go easily, and to be fair it hasn't been easy. But I think it's gone, the love I had; old and broken... It's completely gone.

I only realised this yesterday. I sat on the train to uni, nose in book and ipod singing away to me, waiting to leave the station. When who should walk by, but Him and his girl. It was odd, my stomach didn't do the whole "Oh Dear God" moment, where I feel that it's going to run up my throat and out my mouth, instead it just sat there. I buried my head in my sailor coat, my new-year-self resembles nothing of the giggling 15 year old he once knew, and i know nothing of his duffle coat and skinny jeans.

There is no love here. And that... I loved. To be able to continue reading, to be able to eat for the rest of the day and not pine after something old and gone. I felt weightless as I sat and pondered who he was now. Until my book pulled me back into the world of Geneva and the man and his mistress.

New love?

Is it possible? I don't think so, not yet... But for now I'm quite happy to go on as we are, to want to see him and know everything there is to know about him... this new Him.

Today he walked to meet me after the train, and held my hand as he walked cheerfully and I slid happily the whole way home. My mouth mumbled on and on as we walked and slid, and I liked being able to hush my mumble and hear his low complaints about anything and everything.

Old love.

This song as I sing it and as I hear others sing it in my head at night before I sleep.

"With my lightening bolts a glowin' I can see where I am goin"

It's muffled to me, perfectly remembered in my head as to how they made it sound. They're so clever with their quivering voices and their magic touches.

Oh song, I love you for what you give me.

Let me listen before I sleep...

One

It's so strange to sit with whiteness in front of you. So empty and vast... What to write what to write... It's disgusting how my letters and mumbled words are filling up this whiteness, poisoning it, disturbing this perfect white glow that radiates from the screen. Like snow. Snow, everywhere snow all over our little country, dusting us with its weightlessness.

Anyway... time to write. Time to fill this empty void.