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.
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.
ill at ease. still a child. no boyfriends. a squandered youth i still regret. the absence of rebellion. i look back, think about myself and feel depressed. oh to erase the feelings of ineptitude. what did i do? read books, write poetry. fill page after page of countless diaries. i listened to sad music; i listened to my parents and did what they asked me. i'll end up alone, i would tell myself.
it comes at night. i love the nocturnal silence. when it comes to me and takes hold! only daylight is my saviour. i do not mind the bland paint job on the wall. or the dull, worn out carpet. the sepulchral surroundings comfort and ground me. i am a daydreamer. my head whirling with words that find their proper order in the starkness of this room.
i walked the lonely woods at night, and came across a pixie. he was so small, his hair was bright, his appearance rather tricksy. he flashed a mischievous, sprite like grin, and beckoned me come forward. i walked to him, my mind made dim, and did just as he ordered. he pointed to a fallen tree, and asked me to inspect it. i looked and saw, to my surprise, it was not as i expected. the tree was not a tree at all, but a giant soundly sleeping. i turned to see the imp was gone, and this would be my ending.
i look to you for validation. to do something. or nothing. to take it back forever; press the reverse button. we handle it, by not handling it, says the voice. my anxiety hops inside; like dried beans on a table jumping during an earthquake. a familiar tightening, a squeezing grip - a closed fist in my chest. i feel there is something i should be doing. i seek forgiveness that i do not deserve. i remember you, and worry what you’ll think.
a solitary hermit am i, in a dark cave i do reside, whilst they come to me in strides, so i might flatter all their pride, with the wisdom i’ve acquired. so long ago since i became, a much sort after humble sage, who dwells here in his lonely cage, whilst the people send me endless praise, for their spirits that i do raise. they seek me always for advice, on love, vocation and their life. they want not truth nor painful strife, for truth can cut just like a knife, so i just sing them sweet delights. “you sir, i see, shall be a king, and adorn bright golden bejewelled rings.” to these falsehoods they will so cling, and hang off every word i sing; oh the happiness my words can bring. merrily they’ll dance and skip away, without making a second’s delay, to tell the others of their day, and how the fates have finally swayed, and life’s debt to them shall soon be paid. oh when will these small humans learn, life is not responsible for their return, on everything that is not earned, and into my old mind be burned, all the falsehoods that i have churned.
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.
THE LONELY WHITE WOLF 