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
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.
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.