like a brand new ink cartridge
you pushed me into your pen
and drew with me
such beautiful lines
and I caressed your pages
with mine.
you used me up,
but not completely,
my colour was never enough.
you wanted more
and yanked me out
without a glance
discarded me on the floor.
he was like the moon, cold and distant - but always within reach. she would watch him from the bottom of her well. she often heard laughter echoing through her chamber. the stone walls that encircled glistened with blue light; small comfort. she would sometimes sing; that unsettled him, shattering his illusions of a perfect world. the rope had been cut - long ago. she knew it had been him. the neglected forest, wild and overgrown, kept her a secret - never to be found.
god knows i suffer in the summer. the season doesn't invigorate me, i find it depleting. the new light disorients me and fulminating nature overwhelms me. the hazy air, thick with cut grass and pollen, like an invisible army endlessly assaulting my eyes and nose. it all begins in the spring, equally as melancholic. i sweat all day, but by night i am freezing. no sweater or shoe seem right for this temperamental time of year. every blow of my life has taken place in warm weather. the jovial laughter in chiffon summer dresses only remind me of the losses, betrayals and disappointment. the summertime inertia of waking up in bleached surroundings and having the distinct feeling of being inevitably pushed forward. but today is the weekend, i do not have to leave the house. i can wake up and not get up. there is nothing better.
what was it that you said to me about the moon, how it had the magnitude to capture our shadows? were those the exact words that you used? i can remember the story of the princess, who became trapped in the moon's reflection on the surface of the lake. we each recall the story differently - you argue that she was a queen; i do not think that it matters. we wander into the forest. the silence was uncomfortable; i hesitate just for a moment. you gently take my hand and guide me from the path. i will never find my way back. the air is thick and pungent, i'm suffocated. i can taste wet soil; the stench of damp rot and decay. 'not much further,' you say. i did not know you had a plan. we came upon a well, the crumbling stone; overgrown with ivy. i felt the wave of unease. 'look down it,' i did not hesitate to obey. it's so deep, is there something down there? you ask me to imagine falling in. but that is a game i will not play. i do not know at what point you let go of my hand. it must have been when i turned; you had already gone.
i built this house stone by stone. my fingers bled from all the work. i pulled up the drawbridge but not before letting you in. i witnessed you plant something, i allowed it to grow and grow. now ivy climbs and strangles the walls. buried deep in the foundations and lifting my floors. the windows now completely covered, i forced those shutters closed. i locked the basement, but the flies crawl through the cracks. i swat them away; more come - the body you hid down there no doubt. the yellow wallpaper that i hate; peeling at the edges and tobacco stained. i risk a glance outside, is that you? i know it has been years since you last climbed that fence. i must find those shears, i thought i had them here. did you take those too? the near constant drizzle of rain; oppressive clouds coagulate over me like voluptuous rolls of fat in the sky. i shiver against the damp chill, but the fires cannot be lit. i imagine you surrounded by light, bathed in an orange, diaphanous glow of warm July sunshine.
slowly, i move from room to room. standing. motionless. staring into the space. only my shadow moves with changing light. i want to lie down. i boil the kettle for tea, that buys me time. a watched kettle never boils. the familiar screeching jolts me back; that didn't feel long at all. a lump move upwards inside - best to ignore it. giving it attention gives it strength, allowing it escape as a scream. or something worse. what a waste. all those unsaid words. i had them well-planned. your ears remain innocent. what sort of power can silence without a gag? suffocated - but still breathing. perhaps you're a magician to pull such a clever trick. i'm convinced of your kindness, whilst i watch you sharpen your knives.
i found a vase with a flower i could not keep alive. i watered it with falling tears, it still wilted and cried. i sunned it with fake smiles, the petals continued to fall. i placed it on the windowsill so it might see outside. but still the colour faded, my flower did slowly die.
will you chase away my sorrow, that haunts me in the night? the courage i must borrow to escape misery and strife. the darkness it covers me like a blanket of despair. the weight does suffocate me as i claw and grasp for air. the moon gives off no light; the stars have been blacked out. the fear does steal my sight leaving just pain and doubt. come play me your sweet music that lulls me back to sleep. the only thing that calms me, your lullaby to keep.
THE LONELY WHITE WOLF 