Monthly Archives: January 2015


From Him

‘Every moment I question whether one truly needs to be alone to find oneself.
I stand naked on the precipice of my mind, a cold and desolate place.
A longing fills my being, I miss her.
She brought a kindness to my life that I had never known. She brought reason and balance to a man that has had neither…
And as I pick up the pieces of my broken self, I hear her voice, I feel her touch.
There are moments where the suns warmth does naught but leave me wanting, waiting, hoping for a heat I now know not. A heat that was once mine, that may never caress my skin or envelop my being again.
In mind, body, and spirit, I wish I was with her.
I love her. I long for her….’


It has been so long since I’ve seen you. At least six months we decide, though our minds and bodies refuse to believe it. Refuse to believe that it has been twice that since we’ve had the familiarity that they keep trying to slip into.

‘Muscle memory, ´ you say, blue eyes soft. I cannot look at them. There is a tilt to your smile, a disbelief in your expression, which I cannot bear.

I never thought I’d see you look at me like that again.

We talk, held in the misty greyness that is dusk beneath the trees, till the sky is bruised into darkness. We talk about everything, share words that we thought would forever be caught in our lungs.

‘I’ve missed this.’ Your words hold two truths, the unspoken one that nothing has changed.

But I am as grey as this dusk, and as unreachable. I watch you with eyes that are heavy with sadness. Talk with words laced with an ache that has long since made my heart its home.

Nothing has changed, yet it has. And I don’t tell you that.

I don’t tell you that last night I broke it off with a man who loves me, even though all he has truly seen are the broken, jagged edges of what you have left behind.

I don’t tell you that I felt the most worthless I have ever felt when I pushed send on the message that brought us here. Or that I felt sick at how my heart thumped in my chest when you replied.

I don’t tell you that the only reason I am here is because I’ve become lost, with no light to guide me. Only your darkness holds familiarity.

And I don’t tell you that I know all too well that it has been a year since I’ve truly held someone. Or that that someone had your blue eyes, had your scar on his shoulder, and bore your chaotic, beautiful soul.

We talk about Alice in Wonderland quotes, and I do not tell you my favourite. We share so much, yet my chest still remembers the gun you pressed to it and the broken look in your eyes as you pulled the trigger. Somewhere, wrapped in the darkness that the bullet left behind, are still a few shreds of me that I cannot bear to let you see.

“Actually, the best gift you could have given her was a lifetime of adventures.”

Because you still think my love was conditional, and I cannot blame you. You still do not see what you meant to me, and that is a good thing.

You saw the conflict I was caught in, between what my family wanted, what logic told me, and how my heart beat. But that was just a battle.

You had won the war when you’d told me you loved me, still half asleep.

When at your friend’s wedding you’d looked at me in such a way that I saw the future take form, brought to life by your expression.

When you’d laid your hand over my heart and promised to protect me, though neither of us knew then that it was your darkness that I would need saving from.

I had no conditions on my love. I was terrified, confused, and overwhelmed. But there were never any bounds on it.

If you’d learnt how to listen, and to ask, I would have spent my life jumping off cliffs with you. And then spent the evenings using all the adventures you’d gifted me to chase my own soul, to weave words onto paper.

That has always been our biggest rift though. Me, bearing too much empathy. You, naked without it. And all compromises sliding my way, with only a few finding themselves on your shoulders.

So I don’t tell you that my writing has lacked imagination since that bullet.
Every spare thread of it has been used, trying to find a way to write you back into my story. Because I cannot accept that your role in it was only ever fleeting. Or that mine in yours has already ended.

You are not a secondary character.

And I am sure as hell not to be replaced.


A Note for My Readers

I have been going through a lot of the pieces that I wrote this last year, rediscovering them and picking out the ones that still call to me. I haven’t had the distance from it all to do it before now. Sometimes I think I still don’t.

But that’s the problem with writing. Rawness requires words to spill from you while you still bleed. And then, when read again, submerges you in all that you thought you’d locked away.

That wasn’t supposed to be the point of this post however.

Instead, I had intended to mention that a theme may take over my blog for a while as I re-work all the pieces that I feel can be saved. The tales of this blog will never be solely of one nature  but I hope you will enjoy each aspect as it shows itself, and bear with me if ever one is lingered on for too long.

Sometimes it takes a while to bleed away the emotions that colour my mind.

My Strength

Sometimes I find I cannot write.

Sometimes it feels as if depression is courting me, offering me a hand that promises stability. An embrace that suggests warmth, comfort, and forgetfulness. Not from melancholy, but from everything else. It brings to mind days in bed. An escape from a world at once breath-taking, and harsh.

Sometimes writing feels as if it is drawing me closer to that depression, to the hand that part of me so desperately wants to surrender to. Because it would be so much easier not to fight against it, every day. Every week. To stop feeling like time, which I was always told would be on my side, is only deepening the wounds.

Sometimes writing is just too hard. Because it means focus. It means thoughts. It means spending time inside my own head, unlike mindless TV shows and terrible movies that do not require presence.

And sometimes I cannot face that.

Which means that, sometimes, I forget that writing is always there for me. That it keeps me sane. That the ink that runs through me weaves me together, ties all the strands of me into a whole. That even if I try to run from it, I’ll always find it within me. Supporting, and strengthening me.

And when I am heavy with memories, bloated with loss, clouded with memories of him? It is words that ease the burden.

It may sometimes feel like they bring depression closer. But by doing so they cast his face in light and show me all that is really behind his guise.

For his hold which appears so comforting, is smothering. Depression clings to those that it claims and shaking him loose is always harder than holding him at bay.

I may be tired of fighting but at least I have a chance to.

At least I have my writing.