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 walk across the bridge alone
in the cold moonlight
i see your face in every
passerby
and those that see me cry.
the innocent moon
that does nothing but shine.
i came back
angry and offended
and see the willow tree.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
THE LONELY WHITE WOLF 