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.

A series of ‘why’s. Chapter 1.

Why am I awake at 3am asking myself this series of ‘why’s? 

Why is the room so small (without you), the lights so bright, my white dress still stained, why is the sound of passing cars, things just passing, the thought that nothing lasts the only thing that eases, that soothes, that smoothens this uneasy sense of wonder?

Why are we not interlacing fingers tonight, why are we not sharing stories if we both want to? Why is the story I have made out of us so close to science fiction? Why are you still the protagonist in mine when I attempted so many times to downgrade you, when I insisted too many times before that the story goes on without you? 

Why does my brain knock my heart down so hard sometimes? Why does it still demand that I shut the doors, that I lock you out when there’s thunderstorm inside? Why do I still let you in when I know I am still burning inside, when I know we are better off brushing the tears off, kissing instead, holding each other’s skin, finding beauty, skipping away, running away, running away together.

If fire burns and passion scars, then why do I still indulge in everything that’s dangerous for me when you are around? These long talks, these long walks, these mesmerising silences, when we are together why do I l still like these long walks when everyone talks, talks about the fastest ways to make it to town? When we were walking once, I wondered why is google maps always so quick to calculate distances, to minimise the walking distance? I thought I should ask you once why do we measure distance in time when it should really be measured in terms of the vastness of absence? 

Why am I already wide awake at 6am when I slept so late last night? Why were you still in my dream if I am so done being your friend, if I am so done being your lover, if my heart doesn’t jump when I see your face pop up again and again on my phone? Why did I miss you so much when I was sure I did not need you, when I was sure my body, my soul, my body could be put to rest without meeting yours? Why do I sleep so much better after all when I am done caressing every inch of your skin, every cell of your body? 

Why do we fall so hard sometimes in ways that we could not even dream of? 

Why do we fall so hard sometimes, 

ten flights of stairs at once, 

heart pounding, 

poems flooding our lips all at once, 

this influx of emotions deforming themselves 

into this series of ‘why’s? 

******

I know you too have been asking yourself ‘why’. 

Why this series of ‘why’s, Pandora’s box of doubts,

emotions deforming themselves into this senseless sense of fear. 

Maybe we grow to distrust whatever’s too beautiful 

to call our own, maybe we grow to question 

what we cannot explain. Maybe we learn to hold loosely 

what we don’t understand yet we 

passionately 

want to hold onto. 

Maybe we hold onto memories (the good and the ugly)

with the same intensity 

that we fear losing the ones we hold onto. 

Maybe we can’t stop the questions like we can’t stop 

the hurt, but what if I told you 

that often enough (and only with you), 

what if I told you that sometimes 

when I am with you 

I forget to ask those ‘why’s,

what if I told you 

that it doesn’t really matter 

why. 

Here, (gone), stay

And this is how I know that you, that this, that we matter. 

***

When you are here, I am – mostly – here. Even if only for this moment, for this beautiful moment, you are here, I am here. 

I hold you close and my mind is not travelling back to that boy who thought my skirt wasn’t short enough to be the girl who’s pretty enough to hold hands with when the rest of the kids were watching. Tonight, as I hold you in my arms, I’m not travelling back to the girl who left no mark when she realised I am the girl who knows how to bite back, when she realised I wasn’t the one to change colours like the rest of the pretty girls when it suits them. 

Tonight your lips are an extension of my lips and it doesn’t matter that the water isn’t warm enough, for the perfect tea, the perfect swim, the perfect shower when you’re tired, doesn’t matter that much that the food I cooked last night wasn’t tasty enough, that I don’t know my body well enough to surrender myself to you. Tonight my lips are your lips and it doesn’t matter that this life slips out of control sometimes, that accidents happen even in bright light, even in daylight, even when belts are pulled and doors are locked and no one is drinking, no one is speeding. Tonight my lips are your lips and it doesn’t matter that we don’t always see the same stars, that sometimes you don’t see the stars at all, that there are days the only thing that we share is those dim lights spanning like replacement stars across the sky, that the sky was ripped apart from my hands once, that I was holding the sky in my hands once, that it crumbled like stardust in my fingers. 

When you are here, for a moment I am here. You are here and the ghosts are not, the howling wolves are not, the howling voices in my head are gone, you are here and the only noise I hear is just this subtle sound, the sound your fingers make as you trace the future on my skin, as you walk through those dark alleys, my dark thoughts, those dark stories, those dark trails that I am too scared to walk through alone. 

***

I am here and this is an apology for not always being here. 

Forgive me for drifting. Forgive me for shifting. Between what is and what should have been, between the rights, the wrongs, what’s real and what’s not, myself as the protagonist, myself as the sidekick, the winner, the loser, the hero and the victim, someone who deserves to be loved, someone who doesn’t. 

Forgive me. The past is a sticky place sometimes even when fresh love replaces the decaying remains of foul love, even when we are happy we lost to have found what we have found. The future takes us on a dangerous trip, a shaky staircase into unknown chaos. The future, the future how it sucks, how it pins us down to this never-ending, this never-ending swirling slide, how it ties us down to the bottom of these inexistent depths, how it deludes us into thinking that changes happen with thoughts, not actions, not with actions driven by feelings. I am here and this is an apology for the waves you can see in my eyes sometimes, for the waves I am drowning in and the multiple ways I have to downward spiral. 

***

I am here and this is not an apology, this is me placing my heart in open display, this is me placing my heart in your hands, asking you to handle my fragile parts with care. This is is me, asking you to mind the wounds but not the scars, this is me, asking you not to treat the wounds, but let them heal, not to treat the scars but somehow like them anyway. 

***

This is me, finding the courage to ask you to stay, finding the courage to ask you to like me anyway. 

The woman that I am

‘This is an elegy to all the things that we become before we’re done becoming women’ – Alysia Harris

I am not a girl of pretty words 

will not compliment her dress

despite what society expects 

I am not here to impress 

the fools that you still call your friends

and I am not sorry for the mess 

and I confess

Emotional intensity is still 

the greatest power I possess 

the reason I will not 

play part in foolish tests 

the reason I will not 

suck up 

to the emptiness 

that (some of) you confess to. 

I am not the girl in that pretty dress

someone that you can just compress 

into a pretty doll, with no stress,

pretty girl with pretty curves, no prowess 

too easy to possess 

with empty words, no stress, 

no reason to sweat, 

someone that you can just neglect 

squeeze between your palms, 

no distress, 

squeeze between your palms, no respect, 

I will not let you squeeze 

me dry.

I am not the girl who smiles best

and sometimes my tears run so deep

they carve my chest 

and I confess

I think I like my breasts 

but I also like chess

this meeting of minds that burns

skin, bones, wet chest

I will not offer you myself

if you are not bold yourself

bold enough to hold my mind, 

my waist, my chest, 

my mind

as you enter

the chaos in my head 

my mind 

as it diffuses in your head

my mind, doesn’t like silence 

my mind, doesn’t do silence, 

my mind likes to explodes instead

I am not that girl, not that girl 

with her heart well packed 

in boxes, come closer, come closer, 

I said, you’ll see, I said 

that I am not the one to fit into that boxy dress

not that girl

with her mouth well shut

her hair sleeked back, no stray strand,

no wild streak, passions held back

I am not that girl, 

not the one who could lie to you best 

who would tell you success stories 

but never the rest, never the worst 

never the sad endings, the bruised lungs

the bloody hands 

never the sad endings, 

in which men could bring peace but 

they bring mayhem instead, 

no rest, only stress, 

a bubble in which everything is blurry

I confess

I’ve been in the bubble myself. 

I know what it means 

to not feel good enough for him 

or her

or them

to not feel good enough 

to want to be that girl, 

someone else, calmer than you 

perhaps, younger than you, 

perhaps, quieter, collected, 

feminine enough, tame, 

enough. 

I got my spiky teeth back on 

this time and you cannot try to tame me, 

this time, this time, I love my rough edges enough

this time, I am edgy enough 

proud enough, this time, 

being the woman that I am,

I am enough.

.

Not you, not this, untitled

I tried to write about someone else tonight

Not you 

Not you, not about the way anxiety nibbles slowly

snatches my mind away

Not about the way I am scared I am not good enough

even though I feel pretty enough,

I feel pretty enough but I am not whole.

*****

I tried to write about someone else tonight

Not you 

Not you, not about the way fear is the castle

I hide into, not about how I built these impenetrable 

walls 

with frozen tears, frozen fears, 

the fear that I could never mould myself into

something 

people can hold onto.

I keep slipping, sliding sometimes

into in-existence

tell me how come I feel like a door 

despite these walls

tell me 

how come I feel like an open door

for people to walk into

*****

I tried not to write about you and the way

The way I tried to reverse the roles with you 

The way life reverses schemes and plots

The way it undoes our doings 

The way it implants feelings

in all the wrong places

The way I feel like I’d do all the wrong things

in all the wrong places

And still fall after the climax

the heights and depths 

of this intensity that’s haunted me 

all my life, I’ve been hiding intensity 

in the softness of my watery eyes

can’t you see

I have a thing about anything fluid 

and the way its force sweeps away 

everything that gets lost 

evaporates 

inevitably

I have my ways of burning, burning

until everything evaporates

until you can smell burning feelings in the atmosphere

until you can no longer smell the feelings

****

I tried not to tell you that I’ve been an open door

for people to walk in and 

people to walk out

just when I am trying to shut them in 

I tried not to tell you that I know 

where it hurts 

because I’ve been hurt before 

in a myriad different ways

because I feel pretty enough

yet I’m still full of holes

because I’ve been hurt before

I’ve been left before 

 with no alarm bells

ringing, no phones ringing

without a warning sign

a goodbye wave, short conversations

over coffee or art or sex

or the lack of it

or whatever it is that we’ve shared 

we, the ghosts and I,

We shared, we share

No more, tell me 

why does it all have to end

when the prize is won

when we’ve mastered the game 

when we’ve held the flesh

when we’ve consumed what was never ours

in the first place

*****

Tales of constants and transitions – March 2017

You make me want to fight. The good fight, the ‘pull up your sleeves and punch against time’ kind of fight, the ‘hold me tight, I got no time to waste’ fight. You make me feel young as I puddle through endless weeks, these blue Mondays, these heavy Wednesdays, these tiring hours that feel like heavy mud, hardening blood, as I swim to get to the other side, the side where it’s you and me and the suspension of time. You make me suspend my disbelief, for a lapse of a moment, a click of your camera, you make me suspend my disbelief, now in multiple flashes and how close, how close this moment now feels to eternity. I’ve suspended myself to your arms and I feel like a pendulum, swinging between these unnameable emotions, I let time fly by cause you are here now and ‘here’ is all there is for me right now. I swing, I spin in your arms, can you read my mind, can you see how my thoughts are spinning, how wired I feel when you are around and how all these emotions, all these emotions are now exploding in space, a separate universe where you and I don’t have to fight against our demons, where you and I (but mostly me) are free from the demons of past, the unwritten stories of the future. 

I had this thought once. As you held my hand (or was it some part of my naked body that I did not quite understand until you breathed it into existence), I had this thought once. That I fear continuity, how it slits your wrists open while you are sleeping, this dangerous routine, this blood dripping out of us, drop by drop, how we lose ourselves, how we lose interest. I had this thought that what you fear is natural endings, not the earthquake but the depletion, not the fire but the erosion, not this tsunami of passion but the magic that never happens because excitement always fizzles. I had this thought that what I fear most is not being able to untie the knot once it is already the noose around my neck, the love that chokes my throat when I am gasping for air, when I am gasping for space, not being able to recover what was once distinctively mine, these oil paints of my life now dreadfully diluted. I had this thought once, that some of us paralyse trapped in the past, some of us trapped in the thought of the future. 

You held me so tight that night and you did not say a word, the past didn’t matter you said, you thought I could not see the cracks, maybe you thought for a second that I would not care to look within, that I would just fall asleep and would not waste my breath to ask you questions. But my eyes shine light right through you – you see – my eyes shine light through yours as I watch you fall asleep, as I count the speed of your breath, the hissing sound your breath makes as you reuse the air I’ve used, as you open your eyes in confusion to catch me staring still, staring, still, after all these hours of tracing the shape of your face with my fingers. “I want to know,” I said. I meant to say “I am here to stay”. I meant to say I am here because I could not possibly be anywhere else, because I could not resist your light, the way you made conversing so easy, the way you came after me when I was running away from myself and everything that gives this life meaning. 

I watched you choke on your food when I confessed “I think there is no meaning”. 

What I meant to say is that we shouldn’t need to be going anywhere to enjoy the ride. What I meant to say is that I am still afraid of losing what’s good and that you’ve been too good to be true and I am still scared to admit you know the ways to make me smile. What I meant to say is that you make me want to fight. What I meant to say is that I hope I got enough fight in me to make this work, to make you fight back to keep me. I hope I got enough light to guide you to a home you never knew to be yours. 

I hope that, despite the damage, the wounds and old pain, I hope that despite it all I still got it in me to fill in those cracks, to fill in your life, your time (and the illusion of it) with undiscovered meanings. 

Recovery

You said you needed space

So I left your space and stuffed my space with your presence, 

drowned myself in the memory

of your smell, 

your smell on that old white t-shirt

I used to wear when we cuddled in bed, 

drowned myself in all the objects you left,

lifeless for you, for me breathing life into your in-existence,

left you messages when I knew you wouldn’t see them.

Stuck our photographs in the pills cupboard 

so I could reach for the placebo, 

when my heart got sick of needing. 

I am a lover of the aftermath. I tend to hold on to shadows long after bodies have gone.

***

We hold two separate pieces of the same broken mirror, 

our reflections distorted in different directions, 

we no longer seem to fit in. 

To fit in into each other the way we once did. 

Once we thought we were magnets, 

Now the only thing left is the cold empty fridge, 

now the rotten eggs next to the chocolate pudding and, 

tell me, how did we not notice

there was a dead elephant in the room

our corpses lying naked on this silent bed

where the only thing still flowing 

were the tears on my cheek

***

The tears dry out in the end. 

And is this what recovery feels like

to finally collapse 

with bloody hands on wounded knees, 

the only witness in this crime scene,

to finally realise this is not a standstill or a deadlock, 

this is murder committed right here, 

this is murder committed in front of me 

when I was too busy trying to 

lure you back in.

Is this what recovery feels like 

to learn to unlove the shadows

to learn to bury what’s dead

***

Watch 

As I let go of the shadows, 

As I carve out my own space,

for our crimes, I forgive. 

End of the year

Play me a sad song, mister.

It’s the end of the year, you see, 

and I’ll make us some tea if you pick the exit music. 

Play me a sad song, mister. 

It’s the end of the year, you see, 

and I promise to put my words in order for once, 

to tell you where it hurts and why, 

to tell you of the ways I’ve found 

to stop the bleeding, the ways I’ve found

to stop 

these swirling thoughts, this whirling 

sound of feelings 

when the phone keeps ringing 

when my clothes need washing  

when things are changing too fast 

to cling on to the past, 

life, you know, it keeps happening sometimes

when all you want to do is pause the movie. 

Play me a sad song, mister. 

It’s the end of the year, you see, 

and I came to your doorstep to say

that betrayal doesn’t always need a reason

and

that people just run away (from us)

sometimes, 

that people run far, run fast

the way wild animals do

the way young lovers do, 

and I know 

we are still wild at heart, but do you think 

the young would still say we are young

and 

do you think we’ve grown if we 

still 

Don’t know 

How to keep good love from going wrong, 

How to keep each other from falling.

Play me a sad song, mister. 

I’ll make some tea if you make space 

for me, I’ll make the time to tell you stories, 

I wrote it all down once but that doesn’t mean 

I’m not just telling stories, 

I’ll tell you a real story.

A friend told me once:

“Dude, if emotional running counted as cardio, 

I’d be so fit right now.”

I tell you, after all these years, 

I’m still always on the run 

somehow. 

****

21 on the run on the run on the run

From myself and everyone,

25 years and my life is still,

Trying to get up that great big hill of hope

For a destination.

****

Play me a sad song, mister. 

I know we still both smile through it. 

And isn’t this beauty, the way distance and time

(and no direction), 

the way distance and time don’t stand

between us, 

And isn’t this beauty, after all, 

the way we can watch things fall apart

and still find beauty. 

And isn’t this beauty, at least, 

the way we both still find beauty in rain 

and sad songs, in sad songs and rain,

the way we repeat ourselves in cycles

and still

find beauty. 

****

List of (sad) songs used:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hXe1jpHPnUs – Jeff Buckley – Lover, you should’ve come over

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BFSmkY1hOsE – Van Morrison – The way young lovers do

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wapCTd5fS2Y – Tracy Chapman – Telling stories

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Nyq5Dnq6dY – Beth Hart – Leave the light on

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6NXnxTNIWkc – 4 non blondes – What’s up

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i1R8FxLzxPE – Fink – So many roads

I can boldly say I learned.

I thought about the way my body conducted the heat of his body once, the way our tongues got tangled kissing, the way I miss sliding my fingers down the asymmetries of his face, the way I miss his arms around my waist, my head resting on his shoulder, my tears on his white t-shirt, my hands against his chest, my hands pushing the door, my hands now covering my face. There was anger in his eyes as I closed the door, but at least there was at once a trace of feeling. 

I thought about him tonight. The way my eyes undressed him, the way he slowly undressed my feelings. The way he watched me strip myself naked of dignity, barefoot, homeless, a gypsy, stripped naked of memories, drenched in illusions. I thought about him and the way silence numbs away that tingling feeling, the way absence is a diluting substance, the way old songs no longer trigger thoughts of him, the way I still think of him sometimes without doing too much thinking. 

I thought about the absence of waiting and how it still somehow leaves you wanting. How it still leaves you craving, not the familiar, but the unknown. How you can hide your desires but you can’t hide from them. 

I thought about him tonight. The way I was just his object of desire after all, a pretty doll, a frame on the wall, a golden medal that proved to be a fake. I thought about the way my brain did not matter after all when I could not share my body, the way some men like to chase then kill when they can no longer win the game. 

I thought about her tonight and how I learned the hard way that you can’t kill them with kindness even when you want to, that sometimes ‘forever’ is too short and your howling heart is not enough to end the shooting. I thought about her and the way warmth transforms itself to war, the way cold war seeps under your door at nights and leaves you searching for a way to stop the jealousy infection.

I thought about the way lust can choke us all but in the end it’s friendship that hurts the most when gone, in the end it’s companionship we mourn for, that leaves us searching for a blanket, searching for a soul to hear the echo of our own. 

I thought about the way all souls howl the same way in loss yet not all of us happen to be howling at the same time. Love, it is a losing game and I guess we all learn with time. How to play and how to lose. How to be bold and when to retreat, how to not judge ourselves for crumbling in defeat at times, how to release, to laugh it off and cry it all out. 

****

He taught me how to lose with grace. He taught me that life goes on even after it has fallen apart, even after your unnecessary sorrys have poured out of your mouth and bleached your skin, bleached your self esteem.

He taught me that time is too precious to spend in the absence of feelings, that our bodies are not temples for everyone to walk in, that our bodies are houses made by stacking up bricks, one by one, made up of vessels, blood and sweat, unwanted fluids that noone’s entitled to but that we have the right to share. To share with our guests, with those who make space to rest in our dark parts the same way they reside in the good ones.

She taught me that sometimes even what you thought was forever can find the exit door, false fire alarms would drive away most. And when the fire gets real you roll up your sleeves and put it out yourself, you roll up your sleeves and – guess what – you live. This is the end of the story and, in the end, you are alive. 

He taught me there are people, places, things that we cannot go without, yet we go on anyway. Despite the damage, the fear, the loss, we go without, we go on without, within we go on burning. He taught me there are always new ways to feel lonely and presence may be suffocating but in the end it’s absence that twists the knife, that pulls the knot, that strangles all feelings. He taught me to be patient in loneliness, sit still in the void, make noise in the void, move mountains if needed to see the light, beyond the mountains you can usually find light. 

****

And sometimes there’s nothing beyond. Yet we still live on to fight the good fight, to make dreams and crush them then start from scratch, to still scratch each other’s backs when the going gets tough. To hold hands as we shiver in the darkness.

I guess I just came here to say that the going gets tough without you. 

I guess I can boldly say I learned. And I hope, I hope there is still space for me to fit and find comfort in your darkness. 

Tales of constants and transitions – August 2016

(Same) Scars

“…I’ll tell her to never regret loving in permanent ink and that scars only give you stretch marks, something to gossip about.” 

****

You and I bear the same scars. 

But just as I hide my own weapons, 

You hide your wounds under your sleeves 

Until they are rotting. 

I, on the other hand, 

I scratch myself in public sometimes

Until everyone knows that I’m not 

Afraid to expose my Achilles’ heel, 

My soft spots, my bleeding thoughts 

Until everyone (mistakenly) thinks I’m

Out there 

To unveil whatever they’ve been stuffing 

Underneath the sand, 

Buring underneath the laughter, the cold water 

They pour on those already exposed enough 

To not give a damn when they are soaking. 

You told me to look after myself, 

You warned, though I would not listen, 

That the whole world 

Loves the sight of fuel, the sight of fire, 

Loves to fuel my fire whenever the winds 

In my mind are blowing furiously, 

Ominously threatening to knock 

Down this paper fortress I (pretend to) 

Hide myself into. 

You and I bear the same scars. 

I knew from your silence you were hit 

By the same bullets I once opened my chest 

To receive. 

You and I bear the same scars. 

You can tell from the way I explode, 

The way I shatter into crystals of tears, 

The way I sing ‘all cried out’, the way I cry 

Myself to sleep sometimes when there’s 

No one there to see me shrink into 

The corner of my bed. 

I can tell from the way your brittle bones 

Crack in the silence that’s engulfing you, 

The way the noise in your eyes pierces

The void with its truth, the way your eyes, 

Your eyes

They sew and carve their pain 

Into the silence. 

You and I bear the same scars. 

Though we wear them differently. 

You and I bear the same scars. 

And though we wear them differently, 

There was a time when – I swear – I thought 

I had just been wearing yours badly. 

Forgive me for running away from 

This blending of scars when I realised

We were both wounded. 

Forgive me for not wearing our scars

Like armour. 

You and I bear the same scars so give me 

A second chance, 

Let me treat your wounds and 

Offer you my shaky hands, 

You and I, never broken but wounded, 

You and I, neither trying to share nor hide

Our scars, 

Only forgiving ourselves tonight, 

Tonight, old friend, 

We are forgiving each other. 

Tonight, old friend, 

Not yet mended but one step closer, 

One step closer, 

One step nearer 

The Light. 

****

PS: “there is a light somewhere. It may not be much light but it beats the darkness.” As much as you and I are both creatures of darkness, there is a light somewhere.