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.
Posted in chapters of my life
Tagged again, always, ange, anything, because, before, blanche du bois, brutality, card, cards, carefully, cold, dead, death, did, die, drag, dream, dying, end, even, every, failure, feel, feels, flores, goosebumps, have, head, heat, house, is, it, just, keep, know, life, like, live, love, made, me, men, mind, more, my, nearly, need, never, night, nightmares, not, now, on, one, otherwise, out, over, own, paper, para, pig, promise, prose, rain, raise, remember, remembered, revolve, right, scare, scribbles, seen, skin, sometimes, spite, stand, subconsiousness, substance, summer, swear, sweat, tabs, the, their, them, they, this, to, toss, turn, two, unpredictable, unpromisable, unthinkable, want, warmth, week, what, where, women, won't, words, world, you
certain things hit me with a strange ferocity. different velocity, acceleration, speed, but they are have one thing in common -somehow they wound me gently, taking care not to hurt too much or break more bones than will heal naturally given time and care.
it’s often words. soft, sometimes inaudible, but always taboo.
like the wednesday past, when i met your past love and she told me of the things you and her did, the way your breathing would take on an animalistic quality, as if the lion i know in you was roused, the way your face would contort at the end of it all, the way it made her laugh.
and then there was the way she asked about what we have done. and i told her. why wouldn’t i? let the vulture take its prey and feast on it. we all need nourishment of some kind and i guess my nourishment was hearing it all out in the open. everything has it’s price and well, she’s only me in retrospect.
those little things are enough to drive us insane, but i think we ought to face them head-on. that way we are the hunters and not the hunted.
and then there was this morning and a text from you telling of your time in france and how, by chance, you ended up sleeping only meters away from your parents and their squeaky bed last night and the night before.
and i don’t want to fill in the gaps.
my parents wouldn’t.
but we are all different, non? my morals are not yours. my horror is different to yours. ukrainian normality does not always collide with the french, i know that. you laid there in silence, but me, i’d get up and go to the bathroom, garden, i’d go out.
and suppose that’s us in twenty or thirty years time. does it scare you? it scares the blinking daylights out of me.
but what do i know of fear?
maybe i ought to go to war.
so here’s my rebuttal: we do not see things as they are, we see things as we are.
Posted in chapters of my life
Tagged acceleration, all, always, animalistic, are, away, bathroom, bed, before, blinking, bones, break, breathing, care, certain, chance, common, contort, daylight, different, does, don't, done, drive, end, ended, enough, everything, face, fear, feast, ferocity, fill, france, french, from, gaps, garden, gently, get, given, go, head, heal, hear, her, hit, horror, how, hunted, hunters, hurt, inadible, insane, know, laid, last, laugh, lion, little, love, maybe, me, meters, morals, more, morning, naturally, night, non, nourishment, often, on, one, only, open, ought, out, parents, past, prey, price, prose, quality, rebuttal, retrospect, rouse, scare, see, she, silence, soft, somehow, sometimes, speed, squaky, strange, suppose, taboo, take, telln, text, that, them, then, there, they, thing, things, think, thirty, this, time, told, twenty, ukrainian, up, us, velocity, vulture, war, we, wednesday, what, when, words, would, wouldn't, wound, years, you, yours
dig up the past just to hold its skull in my palm, like hamlet, and exclaim alas poor, Yorick ( or X or Y )… here hung those lips that i have kissed i know not how oft. where be your jibes now?
and that’s exactly what i do. defiant proclamation of my freedom when others rot in dim despair. i rise above them like a phoenix. though dead’s my past love, i’m yet alive to love you.
.
speaking to X today was almost a tragedy, Shakespearean, or else a Chekhov masterpiece of irony and loss.
his unhappiness at life, unjustified, seemed clearer, more logical, than my reasoned joy. he has that girl, you may remember? call her S1, for lack of better name. and yet, as i predicted, he needs that push she’s not providing; he wants a mother or else – a friend. but there she is, a girl he has to love back too. that too was never his.
and tragedy or none, he lost all i left him with, those shards of glass my heart had flaked upon his recieving palm. i used them to change him, but they are gone.
snowflakes have melted from the heat.
and he daren’t say it, but romance to him is dead, and hope vanishes at night, like a fleeting memory of me. and i just wish he’d love her more.
i’m not writing any lyrics for her
i realised they mean nothing
if that is love, then we are lost. lost souls where silence is the only truth. and yet, my love, that doesn’t scare me. my only fixation is that skull, it’s pearly mass so solid in my hands.
alas, poor Yorick.
alas, poor X.
Posted in chapters of my life
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and we can’t even fight properly.
have we lost that ability or did we never have it in the first place?
and our mean words are pebbles, small, insignificant; each hit a vague pain somewhere in the nether regions of the heart, but tell me, is our love not strong enough for boulders to be flying, for pain to be immense, almost insufferable?
I want to
lie down somewhere and suffer for love until
it nearly kills me
i want it to take the whole of me. i want to have no mercy and recieve no mercy back.
and every time we fight, sparks fly but the fire never ignites.
and every time we fight, there is no anger, just sadness, scaring us into oblivion with the thoughts of losing each other. the notion of how life would be if we were apart, different people loving us, needing us, prepared to die for us; breaking hearts.
yesterday everyone found out about us.
i didn’t like that and we fought, fear eveloping us like misty green haze of jealousy.
and there was no anger, only wronged love.
Posted in chapters of my life
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glittering soot on her eyelashes 
