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.
i look forward to that day when i bump into you in a coffee shop or bookstore and not absorb a drop of that tiresome anxiety. the ongoing lament; another existential crisis. when the words you say sound like nails down a schoolroom chalkboard and not a chorus of angels singing. the numerous meals i cooked were not enough to make me the centre of your universe. instead i was a planet in a vast solar system that revolved around you. even as my life shattered, i finally felt i was coming up for air.
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.
she told me to cut the cards twice and create three piles. then she told me, pick three cards, as i held my question in the air. she placed walnuts on the table. the air filled with thick mist; a blue filter over the forest. she lay there on the rocks, her legs partially in the stream. a single pink rose on her breast; her marble skin glowed. her palms facing up like the Virgin. the fur of animals had been scattered; her hair neatly combed.
i know what burns within those pages, i know the secrets that you hide. i know the pain that follows ages, i know what lurks inside.
like a forgotten museum, having remained hidden and undisturbed. i was stepping back in time. everything veiled in a misty film caused by years of damp. dozens of books and a variety of objects; pieces of furniture, remained exactly as left. my nose grew irritated and itched insatiably. the pungent, cellar like aroma - musty, rotten, damp. my tongue tasted the mould. the wooden floor felt spongy and bounced beneath my feet, a spring in every step as i walked inside. his desk as he left it. letters strewn, half written. in the corner, a framed photograph. so he did love, after all.
THE LONELY WHITE WOLF 