vignette

 everything is tinted now,

faded by the distance provided by years

of other experiences, but still clear enough –

tears,

hot    

salty

carving their lines into the cliff faces of my cheeks

splashing into the sea below.

 

pale wood with these new puddles that rest atop it

raindrops on a roof

sea-spray even though we were never near the coast.

 

 

it’s been almost seven years since we lived there

but the address still rolls off the tongue

as though we never left.

 

 

every day i go home and

expect the old and worn-down navy carpet,

the sea with poison powder crushed into the edges,

curled and coiling carcasses

their sectioned corpses in the corners.

 

and better there than crawling around our feet

better there than crossing the hall,

coming into view when others come over.

we pretend we are better than we are

because that’s what everyone does

because all of life is just acting.

because all we do is pretend.

we play up our expected role because of the:

cadence of our voices

we hide the struggle because:

that is what we were taught

and it is all i know now.

secrecy

lies

pretence.

and it is

masks

upon

masks

upon

masks,

coating layers and layers of

a carefully-cultivated identity.

01-05-2020

the candle is barely beginning to gutter, the flame drowning in softened wax, and in that flickering light something in his eye catches your attention. it draws you in - hook, line, sinker - and you can see him shiver when his eyes meet with yours, locked there, fixed in place. 

silence. then, softly, his voice. “my love?”

there’s a thrill that runs through you at that - love, the two of you so honest, open with one another about it that the fear cannot touch you in these late-night meetings, dalliances. you love him and he loves you and these two things are truth as much as two-plus-two-makes-four. 

“you’re beautiful,” you say, which are not the words you meant to let leave your mouth but they make his cheeks colour and his gaze dart away as he coughs, clears his throat, caught off-guard and suddenly flustered in two words. “i mean it, you know. you’re breathtaking.”

“charmer.”

“only for you.”

the candle flickers again and you glance down at it, frowning, noticing his eyes

tracing the soft edges of your silhouette against the strings of lights on the wall behind you. the sharp smell of the smoke catches your throat immediately after you bend to blow it out. the room suddenly seems so much darker, despite the fact the small pillar had barely provided any illumination, silver spirals making their way to the ceiling and into the cool night air through the cracked-open window.

“smells like a birthday,” he says, bouncing one leg, soft pyjama pants over his scabbed knee from where he’d stumbled the day before. “you know what i mean?”

“i do,” you say, because it’s the truth. “happy birthday.”

“it’s not for another six weeks.”

“happy early birthday, then,” you say, grinning, laughing when he reaches across to take your hand in his and hold it gently, bridging the small gap between the two of you.

blue ink snakes its way up and around his arm, the letters and shapes so smudged you can’t make them out anymore, but the patterns are almost a kaleidoscope, up almost to his elbow, an insight into his mind, the smallest glimpse into his innermost soul. it’s intimate, in the strangest way.

“do you want a drink before bed?” he asks, glancing down as he brushes his thumb over the backs of your knuckles. “got that hot chocolate you like.”

“yes please, then,” said with a smile. “you’re so thoughtful.”

“i try.”

he does. you know he does - really, truly. you help him to his feet and set the candle on the window ledge before you follow him to the kitchen, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind and pressing your lips against his hair as he measures the milk out for the pot. he laughs, and his hair tickles your nose, so you spin him around to kiss him properly.

“i can’t wait to live together properly,” he says, an admission against your chest, forehead pressed against your shirt. the faded edges of a graphic catch his words, embrace the secret, brand it into the muscle of your heart and you don’t bother fighting the smile.

“neither can i,” you say and then, just because you can. “i love you.”

reaching out

they reach out, twisted branches that look more like claws as they cling to your ankles, dig nails into the hems of your trousers and leave you stumbling and tripping. they reach out, as though turning towards that which will help them grow, as though you can aid them and help them and lead them to new heights. they reach out and mark your face with moss, with mud, smeared green and brown and red where the thorns caught your skin and tugged.

salt runs over your lips, into your mouth, dances on the tip of your tongue. you squeeze your eyes shut instead, feel them burn at the corners as the clawed grip turns into something gentler, almost comforting, mostly pitying. they have begun to pity you, these beings, older than anyone you’ve ever known in your so-short life, older even than the pages that crumple beneath your fingers as you turn them and the ink that smears as you touch them.

they are old, they are so old, and you are so young, and they caress your face as you cry in the middle of the woods, the smell of rotting leaves thick in your nose and throat. they comfort you - or, at least, they attempt to - and they ask what’s wrong, child, tell us, tell us the secrets and let us make it all better and you are so, so tempted. it would be so easy, after all, for the bitterness of honesty to fill your mouth instead of the salt that lives there now, for the words to overflow and become rivers, rushing water that fills the space around you with heavy, weighted words. they ask for honesty, and you are so close to giving it to them.

they ask for your name, your true name, and it would be so simple to give in and tell them, let familiar syllables escape your mouth for the last time as they lift the weight from your body for the final time, reprieve eternal rather than sudden and short. caressing your face, whispering in your ear, telling you how they just want to help, they want to save you from yourself and all the monsters that haunt your life, that stalk in the shadows and lurk just out of sight before they finally reach out with their own shadow-heavy claws to drag you down, down, down.

i will not tell you my name, you say. they can probably hear the hesitation in your voice. they know people better than people could ever know them, after all, and they know the nuances of lies and truth better than any other beings on earth possibly could. angry, they hiss, but retreat, their gentle hand lingering a few more moments, just enough for your heart to ache and batter your ribs, but you stand strong. you do not make deals with them. if you forget all else in life you will always, always, remember that.

mea culpa

mea culpa, she breathes, and the droplets burn, the rivers boiling as they run down her face, to her chin, gathering and blossoming and sinking into her skin to stain it carmine for as long as she continues to live. mea culpa, said again and again, somewhere between a curse and a prayer and a cry for help, rolling off her tongue like a waterfall, fitting into the space behind her teeth like it belongs there. dead words from a dead language, which is fitting, since everyday draws her a little closer to the precipice between living and dying, every moment pushing her closer to the edge while life slowly rots and drains from her body. every day aches, saps at her strength.

mea culpa, again, and it’s a mantra now, it’s something that runs through her head every single moment of every single day, it’s her own personal motto that lives in her blood and her flesh and every molecule of her body - the spaces between atoms, the gaps between every cell. every inch, centimetre, millimetre, every single speck of skin on her body corrodes, fades away, decays and falls to the floor like dust, like debris, somewhere between long strips tearing themselves away as blood drips from the gouges in her flesh and tiny spots of it falling like snow, almost.

she feels hollow, but that isn’t new, death residing within her ribcage and clawing at the pale bone, almost piercing skin, almost breaking through and taking her life with the thick shroud that tears at the edges, crumbles, leaves her skin tarred and coated with charcoal. smoke stains and the smell seeps into pores and follicles and people say, when they look at her, you smell like a campfire, and assume that the fibres of her clothes are the trap for the scent so all she does is laugh it off and say camping problems as though any part of this is a joke. her fingers are made of embers and her skin smeared with ash with every touch.

hesitant

he always watches you with the promise of something behind his eyes, darker and more guarded than you’ve known them to be for months. more often than not, there’s nothing to hide from you - nothing he can hide from you, at the end of it all. you’ve always been smarter than most people give you credit for. 

your work requires precision, a delicate hand that dances and barely touches the hints of danger but that embraces it when it brushes your skin, and he watches you with a steady and approving gaze, the way you work so carefully to connect everything, to give you enough time to get out and go, go, go. not once has he questioned what you do. never has he tried to insist he knows better than you. he knows the people he works with better than either of you know yourselves. 

it’s interesting, in a way, how one man can feel so pivotal, so singularly important, that you think you’d do just about anything for him, if he asked. he could ask you to bring him the stars in the sky and all the oceans on the earth, and you’d find a way to do it. you don’t doubt that she would, either. 

maybe it could be said that you’re something akin to being a disciple, of sorts, except that you never read the bible and she never cared enough to, and he's the only one from the three of you with a catholic family and it shows. lying’s a sin, so he never does. murder’s a sin, so he finds a justification that sounds bullshit to you and her both, but what is there to argue about?

(homosexuality is a sin, the bible says, and you know that one, you know l eviticus 18:22 like you know the palms of your own hands, but you’ve got no reason to care. he's the one that can still hardly accept the fact he isn’t straight, even at thirty-eight years old. he doesn’t tell you or her that he has a problem with it, though, just works through it himself. all alone, as ever.)

honey

you kiss honeyed words from her lips while her hands rest on your waist. the fabric of your shirt crumples between her fingers and she tugs it away from your body, riding up and exposing your midriff to the soft summer breeze coming in through the window. against your lips, you feel that she’s smiling, and that makes you smile too as you break the connection in favour of resting your forehead against hers. there’s hardly any space between your mouths, your breath mingling with hers in the gap and knotting something up tight in your chest. 

you lick your lips. she’s wearing strawberry lipgloss.

“sweet,” you murmur as you close your eyes and she laughs, gentle as the draft and a hundred times more intense. “sugar…”

“yes, honey?”

you can’t say it, so you kiss her again. the words still feel heavy, like something poisoned and so decidedly wrong where they sit on your tongue. 

and maybe this is what it comes to - late nights illuminated only by the screen of your phone where you’ve tucked it beneath the covers, holding it close to your chest. tired eyes threatening to slip closed as the clock ticks up and up, church bells striking one-two-three in the distance. maybe it comes to secrets that you bury deep, deep within yourself, secrets that still threaten to boil over and spill from your lips like a waterfall. and you wonder - by god, do you wonder - why you couldn’t just like boys, why you couldn’t just be like the other girls you know who only worry about whether their boyfriend is still using lynx or whether he’s moved to off-brand cologne, why you didn’t have to hide that you prefer red lips to square jaws.

maybe secrets are a form of lie, but you hide your sunset-coloured love away until the two of you are alone anyway. dishonesty doesn’t feel so wrong if it’s for your own safety, you tell yourself over and over. not telling people doesn’t mean that you’re ashamed.

of course, you don’t say any of it aloud. if she asks what’s wrong, you just tell your violet that you’re stressed, that the essay deadline’s coming up faster than you anticipated, and she laughs and presses another crimson kiss to your jaw and tells you to take care of yourself too. she offers you tea. your heart aches as you smile at her.

the pictures that plaster the internet make you feel homesick when you see them. you wish that were you were there in glorious technicolour instead of the washed-out greys of your home; you wish that you were kissing her on rose-tinted snapshots on twitter instead of behind the walls of her bedroom. you wish you could take a chance instead of bowing your head to follow the status quo.

you tell your mother on a tuesday evening with salt streaming down your skin only for her to wrap you in her embrace and tell you that it’s okay, that she loves you no matter what. she wants to meet your - girlfriend. she wants to meet your girlfriend, and you’re almost giddy on how good it feels to not have to avoid the word, to have to tactfully say “partner” instead. 

your mother starts sending rainbows at the end of every text and you wonder whether being yourself is really meant to feel this warm.

your girlfriend, all her soft curves and rounded edges, wraps you up in fabric that’s orange-white-pink and kisses the corner of your mouth in the june sunshine. you call her “honeydew”, call her “sugar”, you tell her she’s beautiful as she laughs and her cheeks flush until they match your skirt.

“i love you,” you say, and the words taste like honey.

recollection

and maybe this is what it comes to - late nights illuminated only by the screen of your phone where you’ve tucked it beneath the covers, holding it close to your chest. tired eyes threatening to slip closed as the clock ticks up and up, church bells striking one-two-three in the distance. maybe telling people is overrated, why put yourself at risk when you can have your nighttime secrets, your twilight sweetheart, star-crossed lovers only after dark.

the thing is, she’s so perfect, and you don’t want to ruin it. the thing is, she’s everything you could ever hope for and more, and you don’t know whether what you have could hold up under sunlight. you don’t know whether her promises of saccharine, sapphic devotion will come to life past dawn, whether she’s telling the truth when she talks of red lips pressed against your skin.

the thing, you know, is that you just don’t know.

and that’s the real reason you’ve never said it out loud, never told anyone what the two of you have, your ten-point text on twitter past dusk. you’ve never said that word aloud before, the big one, never admitted what you are unless you could type it and be sure of reassurance back. it’s a weight on your chest like no other, it’s an ache that threatens to claw its way to the surface every day that you battle it down.

you wonder what her lipgloss would taste like. whether her hands would be as soft against your cheeks as you think they would. whether her hair would tangle in your fingers as you ran them through the soft waves, and whether she would laugh. 

you wonder, most of all, whether your midnight violet wishes she was laid beside you, too.