Voicemail to myself

*Self, you got a message. Dial 121. From: Self, at: 08:08 a.m. To save this message press ‘heart’.*

This is for the days when your mind is so much  bigger than you that it is an enitre ocean of toxic waves and you are drowning in thoughts. This is for the days when you are swimming through thoughts thinking that there must be something, someone above you, holding a bucket of water and tears, diluted fears, pouring the bucket all over you whenever you get close to the shore.

This is for the days when moving through life feels like navigating a giant chessboard, and you are just a pawn, and wherever you think you move to you know you’ve been moved to and wherever you’ve been moved to you know you’ll be swallowed up. This is for the days when the rules of the game mean that your emotions are holding you hostage to the masters of the mind, those masterful intruders who move the strings, only with words, who move the strings so artfully that they can instantly make you feel less than you are worth.

This is for the days when you need to be told that you are not alone, and that I believe in you (even if no one else does) and that whatever hurts must be real and that whatever’s real can still come to an end and that that’s a good thing. This is for the days that I need to tell you that the mere truth that everything comes to an end is a beautiful thing to know. That there’s peace in knowing you can make this all stop, the loops, the hoops you set yourself up then jump through, the thoughts, the loops, the hoops. And because it means you can still swim on, move (on), flex your muscles, your mind and say ‘no, I will not be defeated by you, this is not where I end and you begin and this is not the end I choose for myself’.

This is for the days that I forgot to say I love you. This is for the days that, I know, no one will pick you up from the dirt unless you pick yourself up. This is for the days that to stand on your two feet is a big feat and I am here to both love you and taunt you (but not wound you) until you get up.

Come on, old friend, you’ve indulged enough in this tragedy, it’s time to stand up.

Wind Down

Then you won’t say you love me and you won’t call me back,
and you won’t call me first and you won’t be the one
to hurt when it hurts and I don’t want you to hurt
but it hurts that you don’t and it hurts that you won’t
and it hurts to still want when I know that I won’t
get what I want, 

tell me why do we long
to hold what’s not ours
to hold, I sing ‘the future’s not ours to hold”
and I know that tomorrow I’ll grab and
not let go,
then go
and you won’t come back to say hello,
you won’t come back to hold,
and I am still burning, you know,
and still, I am burning, you know,
my heart’s still this open field filled with roses
and memories and ghosts,
but I’m shutting the curtains, I’m shutting
you
out
you’ll never get to know,
I wish I could tell you that I am burning below
and I know that I love
In a way that’s disastrous and unbearably bold
but I still love you, I’m sure,
I love and I wish I didn’t know
that my reckless love is sinking down below
my sinking, thumping, heavy heart
my reckless love
a sinking coin
falling, sinking to the bottom of this well,
down below,
my love, a sinking wish and 

I wish 

we could swim to the surface of this all,
swim to the surface after all
cause our love’s not a coin to be tossed
not a coin to be thrown
cause our love’s worth so much more
than a sinking coin that’s been granted
the final 

blow.

***

Come on, old friend, pick yourself up,
pull your wild hair back, clean your wounded knees
your broken heart from the dust, come on old friend,
pick yourself up,
I bought you some chocolate.
Smooth, creamy chocolate
with salted caramel and those crunchy bits
that stick to your teeth
and make you feel like a naughty child
all over again. Come on, old friend,
I’ll brew us some tea.
With peppermint and orange
and rose petals and honey and
everything that makes us feel at home.
I’ll brush your hair till it’s softer
than your beautiful skin, I’ll wipe your skin
clean from sticky mascara and tears
and fears
I’ll wipe your skin clean,
then we’ll go dancing in the streets
until your feet hurt more,
more than your (broken) heart
until you’ve danced away the pain
until the streets are dancing to the sound
of your name.
Come on old friend, I bought tickets
to museums and shows, I spent all our money
so we can spend
this long evening indulging in dreams and visions
and shows, in art and its forms and the lack
of form, the freedom to know
that maybe none of us are drifting alone,
that maybe our feelings, our thoughts are not entirely
our own (and that’s a good thing, you know?),
maybe our thoughts
have been read before
maybe our feelings
have been felt before
by people who care for us,
by people we don’t know. 

****

Come on, old friend, pick yourself up,
pull your wild hair back, clean your wounded knees
your broken heart from the dust, come on old friend,
pick yourself up, we’ll turn the lights off,
we’ll turn the voices off,
we’ll turn the thoughts off too. 

We’ll turn it all off, old friend,
this circus of ‘should have’ and ‘must have’
and ‘what if’,  this circus of ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry’
repeat,
this circus of ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m me, I’m sorry’.

****

We’ll turn it all off, the voices, the thoughts,

we’ll keep the feelings. 

This too will pass, old friend, 

don’t be ashamed of yourself

and don’t,

don’t be afraid of the feelings.