Tag Archives: death

107. in the rain

sometimes i think i only live inside your blood because i haven’t learnt to live in seperation.

you’ve been saving me so long, you know. and now, how do i tell you that it wasn’t worth it, my love? death will come and get me in the end and it will transpire to you that i was always closer to plath than to anais.
the death instinct shakes the salt out of me, it’s the pearlescent blue of the vein branches;  it will reach the heart eventually, it’s always there, diffused in the blood.

i’m always going somewhere, bumping into hurts, renewing my lease on life. and we all know life doesn’t come cheap and death doesn’t come fast for plain janes like us. sometimes i wish to break the mould like sylvia plath, but for now you love me and i’m still tough and sharp like a piece of shattered glass.

i see vendors of big issue on the streets and i wish i could take them all in. as a child, i planned to set up a house where homeless would sleep until they got back on their feet. now, all grown up, i can only smile at such grand dreams and buy the magazine from the kind face smiling at me in the rain.

the world is full of pain.

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86. i think she knew

through my paperround last year i met a wonderful man. he used to walk his dog as i’d deliver papers and we started talking around the time i started writing this blog. i think he’s 82: he must have mentioned it a while back. and i’m afraid there’s nothing literary about him: his existence is one of uncouth coutesy.

i quit the paperround a while back now but i still see him every sunday. nine o’clock in the morning, like church. he’s my little christian connection: even S is nowhere near taking his place. he gave me a bible with a picture of him in his youth stuck at the back, so that i remember him. secretly, i think, he believes that it will help me find him in heaven: he believes i will go there after all. 

to my friends, this man is “the old man”. to me, he is much more than that. it may be true that i meet him every sunday partly because i feel like it’s my obligation, but also because somewhere beneath my skin there’s a tendon that connects me to him.

his wife died last night. or the night before that. and there’s no more words because i’m hurting for him. because how can one even begin to describe his pain?

i had made them a card only this march: they celebrated their 60th wedding annivesary.

sometimes he told me he wondered if she ever loved him but i know that was only because he loved her more than anything else. ever.
and it’s a little late for him to tell her, but i hope she knew. i think she knew.

77. sometimes i just need to know that you won’t die

the week is nearly over. again.
and it feels like rain on skin in the heat of summer, raising goosebumps in spite of its warmth.

i never want anything to end.
not even nightmares.
i drag them out carefully, tossing and turning, roasting, like a pig, in my own cold sweat.
i had one every night this week. sometimes two. and i remember. i don’t keep tabs on my subconsiousness because it scares me. the brutality of the mind always scares me. and i dream of death. of death and failure.
y flores. flores para los muertos.

right now, my world is a house made of paper: cards with pretty scribbles on them, where blanche‘s words i lived in a house where dying old women remembered their dead men have more than substance; they have depth to go on and on, revolving in my head.

i’ve seen them from every angle. i swear.

what is it with death?
i’ve always said i have to die before the one i love. i couldn’t stand life otherwise. and i’ve made you promise you won’t die before me. i’ve made you promise me the unthinkable, the unpredictable, the unpromisable.

i did it just because sometimes i just need to know that you won’t die.

73. so you can stop and wonder if i’m yours

i’ve decided, i won’t allow words to tear us all apart. and my pain shouldn’t matter. this pain is fleeting. and my heart will be beating into the next millenium, where loves bloom redder than cranberries in the bitter frost.

i said something important to you yesterday. via text. and i don’t know if you picked up on it. so many words get lost in translation  from my world to yours.

i don’t believe that every little death brings one closer to life, but i do believe that every little love does.

and i have loved you inconsistently, wrongly asking you to love me as i wish. maybe you can’t love me with all the roses and the cards. maybe my loves are too extravagant for you. maybe i ask too much without the need for such. but i can dream.

and i will dream. in silence.
my dreams will burn and burn.
for three weeks at the very least, i’ll be perfect. and i won’t argue and i won’t bite.

so you can taste the cranberries as they were before the winter, so you can stop and wonder if i’m yours.

25. a little more single

valentine’s day tomorrow.
everyone knows that. most people care. some, like me, are a little more weary of its coming. a little more reserved. a little more single.

walking the streets today was like waking up in a foreign room. every pattern established over the duration of the year (bar Christmas time) had changed. for today only. all the world needed today was a banner screaming for one night only like those one off concerts by a renowned superstar.
illustrious illusion of love taking the world by storm:
the vendors on the streets shouting roses, not their usual bananas or tomatoes;
the music blasting from the shops a mixed array of romantic songs, every single one played to death;
and hearts, chocolates, champagne everywhere.

call me a cynic, but i just can’t stand it all. a dog should be for life not just for Christmas, so love should be for every day, not just the internationally-recognised day of coupling.

i say that but i still don’t know what real love is and noone’s in a hurry to show me.
you went off to Devon. i have to you said and i don’t doubt that you do. you ought to see your gran and if it so happens you visit overlaps with the day we should have spent together, that’s fine by me. no, honestly, it is.
it reminds me of the fact i’m free again. amen.
as to X, oh to hell with X. hot, cold, freezing, boling and then cold again. who knows that boy?
something tells me i never did.

and never will.

21. someone who i don’t want enough to love

resolution is still lost. questions posed, answers comatose.
and one question haunts me, a bat out of hell. 
why can’t i just say to X you know what, boy, it ain’t working, so lets just pretend that this never happened and walk out of each other’s lives. how bout that? 

but that’s a stupid question. and though i have to look deep inside myself for the answer, i know why.
i’m both cruel and wicked at times, and yet, my heart is not made of glass and his puppy eyes always stop me in my tracks of obliterating his dreams.

and it’s driving me crazy, this enforced entrapment by one single look. this fear of kicking to death someone who’s already down.
and i tried to say goodbye over the weekend, but he wouldn’t let me.
it’s like he sensed it coming, texting me, writing e-mails, calling persistently, telling me that we’ll get out of this rough patch and be as happy as we once were. he even got his friend to write me a message to ask me to give it one more shot. and tough i didn’t believe him that we’d be happy, because i never felt happy with him, it was too much effort to turn away and never look back. it was too much of something i didn’t have.

so, here i come, still in chains: never his, still not yours, tied by rules and conventionality to someone who i don’t want enough to love.
still a hunter, a white tigress on a prowl for her next piece of meat.

i may be wounded, but i’m not dead.

the death within the life of us…

wish we’d have cordoned it off,

like an act of protest,
the wind beating at the cordons,
trying to break down the strips of pinstriped yellow
their fluorescence screaming out
for the whole world to see

and 

i long we’d start again
so we could have barricaded it off,
wooded board on wooden board,
vow on vow on vow,
trapping death and trapping love 

so that A&E men in their white coats
would not get past us to resuscitate it 

so that our love could go on being
the death within the life of us.