Because She Thought

words

are magic

and the world is full of muggles

(Source: in-the-gutter-gazing-at-stars)

The thought of her,
blind to her own fragility,
and wasted on the things
she snuck inside.

The thought of her so sick,
it makes me sick.

Not knowing, not
seeing, not feeling;
only fragments
of a moment.

Those plastic walls,
rotten from the excitement
of the crowds;
soiled by the judgement of his body.

She is only sixteen,
yet she insists;

“I’ll be eighteen, next year.”

musicluvrgart83 asked: why have we never made out?

Most likely because we have never met.

You shovel a handful of mixed nuts into your wide mouth.

Food won’t make this go away.

You finish the half eaten cake, and the tub of chocolate ice cream, chewing and swallowing as fast as you can.

Stressing.

You become more panicked as your stomach inflates, telling you to stop.

Food won’t make this go away.

The shower is running.

Head bent on the bathroom floor, you clog the drain with your anxiety.

Life is only as real as the consciousness can imagine. Existence is only as real as the lungs drawing air.

We sat alone in our house full of objects. How did things suddenly become so hard?
I tried not to remember how easy things had been before, and how easy it would be to slip back; but this is called home now.

                “A traffic bollard, a bottle, me.”

He sat across from me at the table. Warped by the pitcher or water we didn’t have to pay for, his hand scrawled quickly, back and forth across the cardboard. Colouring, he worked on canvas cut from boxes, because we couldn’t afford paper. We could only just afford food.

                “All I managed was a piece of your hair.”

I stood to my bedroom, Sigur Ros quietly echoing their reminiscent syllables. A tear slid from my eye, as his carefully imagined our life; the life he was creating.

She hid the case of beer throughout the house,
too sick of the way he sat outside,
opened the refrigerated doors,
and slowly drank himself to sleep.

I watched her gradually divide the carton;
three under the bathroom sink,
one into her underwear draw,
and two behind the unused VCR.

As she slid them back into our family cabinet,
my eyes remarked a change in its appearance.
The top shelf filled with board games from my childhood,
the bottom held the liquid that swallowed his away.

The irony turned the room into a crime scene – later,
he turned detective,
searching for his hidden source of freedom.
I found mine in a cigarette outside.

I rolled it crookedly on my bedroom floor.
Then once he found a bottle,
I walked out, down the back, and lit a candle,
dousing myself with fuming bug repellent.

The stick half burnt before he found me,
hidden behind a tree scrawling letters
in a notebook he’d handed me at Christmas.
I said I had no urge to follow football,
as a mosquito landed and died inside the candle.

The next night I rode down towards the river,
and blew the smoke above my head.
The sunset carried the ashes far away,
paralleling my desire for things to change.

Head in hands the butt went dead,
as goose bumps rose along my arms.
When the sky goes grey, I’ll have to leave,
hoping the headwind steals the scent away.

Perhaps I’ll be too far gone soon, anyway.