the humid air consumes your secrets
into tiny droplets I can almost see
I feel the weight of it clinging to my skin
condensing in the crease of my palms
as I cradle palpable trust with
trembling hands and trembling hearts
the past does not define us
change begins with coolness at my ankles
the breeze rising and intensifying
I throw my arms into the wind
acceptance written in warm hands
clasped and together
the storm no longer frightening
my ancestors for
the last thousand years toiled, cried
so I can kiss you
How are you? I haven’t written in a long while. I haven’t written anything confessional in a long time and it is really bothering me for some reason, even though I don’t have much to share. I’ve been okay lately. I might even dare to say I am content. I have the love and support of my family and friends, and I am living a life that I am proud to call mine.
It’s still a feeling that I am getting used to. To say that my younger self would be proud of the person I am today is a big step, and it’s really daunting and scary to say most days I believe this.
I must say, it reminds me of those moments when you’re watching a film, and the seemingly catastrophic event is resolved but you realise there is still 40 minutes left, threatening to shatter this happiness that’ll only turn out to be an illusion.
I bruise, I heal, I wake up.
Love is watching your friend tremble as she whispers
the strength he has in his fists,
love is wiping her tears away, it is knowing she will stay.
Love is seeing her beat herself down for
caring just a percentage too much to leave,
it is the extra observations you make of him
after knowing the other side.
Love is wondering why despite the millions of
fish out there, I am still starving to death.
Love is the crippling defeat embodied in the waves
that keep me company.
I can’t recall when I realised fairytales do not exist, but I do know
love is the realisation that one does not need fish to live,
yet still treading the well-worn path down the next day.
I did not realise how small I was until
I laid in a double bed.
The distance between my four limbs spanning
constellations yet I am still travelling,
trying to discover the end of time,
to say I am all that I am.
I told myself to stop writing love poems,
but dear god,
every time my pen sets to paper,
it’s all about eyes, and metaphors, quiet whispers
and how goddamn lonely this bed is.
And I’m thinking maybe someone somewhere
is trying to tell me something,
but the end of time is rather peaceful, and
there are black holes and meteors for the
spaces that I cannot reach.
I am waiting for your kiss.
I stand with my arms out stretched,
my feet firmly on the ground,
I am waiting for us to collide.
I can see the urge in your eyes,
you come barreling into my body
trying to find my lips,
I can taste your agony.
There are caresses on my arms,
a peck to my thighs;
as the desperation grows,
you grip stronger on my neck,
fingers like a clamp around my waist.
Your gaze turn accusing,
as if my lips got up and wandered away.
The blood from my nose is no accident.
You leave a kaleidoscope of bruises in your wake,
yet still I wait.
I am pain. I am patient.
Afterwards, I took down the curtains,
I heard vitamin D helps to
chase away the sadness but all I see
is my lone shadow swaying in a room too big.
Afterwards, I picked up a single bed off a stranger on gumtree,
another bed with someone else’s memories
because mine became intolerable.
He asked me why with all the kindness
a stranger can give, and
I responded with ‘renovation’ but he
does not understand.
Afterwards, with all the tears shed and all the removal gone,
I thought I’d get better but I just lost myself.
My mother has the softest hands,
I can still remember her gentle caresses
before hard labour carved its marks
on her fingertips, like a sharp reminder
of her existence, my existence,
our palms meeting to carry the flowing lifeline.
Your fists dwarf mine in comparison,
the length of your hands wrap around mine
to draw me home, entwining around my
lifeline more and more each day.
I am so young, I have the soft palms
and strong grasps of a toddler who is
still afraid of the hard tarmac beneath.
Your hands feel like safety but also
infinite darkness, and my mother is the
beacon lighting my way.
Your arms around me like stones
forcing me to confront the depth
of the water washing over
our history books
I struggle to breathe under the weight
of the realisations as I read
your face, open and clear
Each line, each word adding
more and more stones as I sink
but I am finally clean