HEARTSTAINED a collection of people and places

 

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Things We Don't Talk About

cracking with cold
you, broken and beautiful
i remember the nights when i read you out loud

you, firing memories as missiles
dripping with honesty
these questions will never be still

you, lying awake in my arms
flickering eyelashes slicing my chest
your secrets, my sevens, our laundry and losses

blood-let and branded
you, chasing absolution at 4am
and me, drowning in my wishing well
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Darlington, Breathless

Everything here is red brick and I half expect to notice you standing on the platform as I turn my head and try not to think about it being over a decade since I saw you last. This time, again, I'm just passing through and the man next to me mutters under his breath through gritted teeth into his phone,

It would've been easier just to keep the dog, wouldn't it?
I'll talk to you later. I'll talk to you when I get home.

But here I am. I'm kind of leaving and it's unusual to have so many things to go back for. I feel them pulling much more strongly than when you knew me. It's a comfort to have these anchors now.

Would you even recognise me after all these years? I sleep at night now, most of the time. No more skin dripping from vodka-soaked bones and no more desperately cutting all ties with myself, with everything.

Maybe you'd look up and our eyes would meet at the station or on some busy street and we'd both know it made more sense to just keep walking.

I've written so many letters to you, to myself, to us-at-nineteen-and-lost. Some I kept for years and some I tore to pieces as soon as I finished writing them. This is just another pile of wasted words, before the fire.

From the window of the train, the world slides by under the watery light of a tired sun and I remember that my life is something else now. Something different. Something more.

And as I drift off to sleep, I hear in my head the chorus of a song we used to play on repeat with the curtains closed against the blistering late afternoon, our bodies curled in my bed like a tangle of sadness, wishing for anything that might be easier than this.

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Jude The Apostle And Akhilandeshvari

even broken, you are beautiful
even shattered and stricken and falling to pieces
and i don’t mean beautiful like your hair or your
body or the symmetry of your face
i mean beautiful like your soul built from sighs and
screams and rage and wonder and the sum of all
you are, and you are beautiful.

i would wrap you in words like stardust and
honesty and in promises like sacred and
shining and something like divinity and you
would roll your eyes and nudge me with
your shoulder because again i have said
too much, and you are beautiful.

this too shall pass and other misused platitudes
and saccharine reassurances until the days that
will sting less and ache less and lift you up instead of
weighing you down and the clouds will clear and
other cliches, and you are beautiful.

between these days and those days remember
there are tales of a patron saint of lost causes and a
goddess who is never not broken and there
is you, and you are beautiful.
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Trust Is Not A Weapon

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Ever The Optimistic Enabler

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21st November

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Three Minutes Of Eye Contact

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Lessons Learned From Seven Men

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As If You Bleed Miracles

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From A Second Storey Window

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Rain Not Falling And Three Times Everything Changed

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Atlas Released

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As Alike As We Were, My Brother

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Smoke Still Rises

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We Told Our Stories

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Seven Times You Are Perfect

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A note from the author

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What's next?

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~

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