I went a little storm crazy,
spurred on by the fears felt by my dad
and mom.
"You’ll have to go inside at one,
that’s safest."

To shed some light on this,
give a little more context,
I live in a shed in the garden,
it’s idyllic.

They got to me
and Twister has always been one of my favourite films
and I used to love reading about storms and hurricanes as a child,
I have only myself to blame really.

I started packing things that were
most important to me; the home videos
of my sister and me, I’d brought my photo books back inside
a long time ago,
and I brought the USB-stick on which one of my stories still existed,
sadly deleted from all other devices when said devices broke down,
I took my birth announcement card in its pretty frame and left the pacifiers
even though I would mourn them if I’d lost them,
I took my notebooks filled with poetry and left the many gaming devices I grew up with,
thought I’d be sad to lose them.
I left the Barbie doll of Little Bo Peep from Toy Story, which my mother adores so
because I might damage it in my bag,
but I would feel eternal guilt if that was lost.
One part of me could let things go
realized their material worth
the other saw all the times I used them
or all the times and days I was going to use them.

I packed my stuffed animals,
them being almost as old as I am
and having gotten me through a great number of bad dreams
and painful sleep.

But with a heavy heart I left Blub Nemo Rex (or Bruce)
the stuffed animal shark my sister gave to me once I’d passed
all of my first year classes at the university, like she had promised she would
if I kept up my end of the deal, because it was too big.

I grabbed my laptop because if ****
did inevitably, or so it would accordingly
to the latest forecast,
hit the fan,
I’d at least have the stories and other snippets
of earlier writing present with me.
Of course, it is also the mature and responsible
thing to do: take your laptop with you
so you can at least do your homework
for next week’s classes.

I don’t have to tell you about my id
or my student id cards or things like that,
they are always in my bag,
tucked away behind a zipper.

I would miss all of my books so gravely,
it was painful to have to force myself to
think “oh I wouldn’t miss you when you were gone”
which was a lie, even those I haven’t read,
I’d miss, and the ones I hated, too.
I suppose I am far too sentimental at times.

Then when I had come to this selection of things
I very well couldn’t do without,
I walked into the garden, my dad was
storm-proofing his plants and garden, his greatest pride,
and I felt guilty because I hadn’t even stopped to think
about the five plants in my room, Sancho Panza, Streep, Doris,
Diederik de Droogbloem, Baby and the one
that my mother named but I always fail to recall.

My dad looked at me and said
“it isn’t until five that Eunice becomes cumbersome”
and I was relieved
“And you can stay in your room until then, no harm done.”
so here I am sat,
back in my room in the shed in the garden again,
realizing that I was over-reacting
and far too materialistic.

Just to be safe,
I did return my mother’s stuffed animal to her bed
and gave my sister back her Winnie The Pooh teddy bear
which my mother got her (I got a beautiful stuffed animal version of Piglet)
when we were at the Victoria and Albert Museum, my sister’s
favourite museum she hopes possibly to work at one day,
back in two thousand and eighteen.

I also briefly considered
all the diaries and letters
I had written to myself when I was younger
and if I should take them inside
in case something completely terrible happened
(Eunice had turned into Eunicezilla in my mind and I’d already imagined that my lovely little shed would be as wrecked by this storm as Aunt Maggie’s house was and everything would be ruined beyond retrieval)
but I decided not to, to leave them in my room
because I don’t know if I am as attached to them
as I would like to think I am.
after all, what’s a few scribbles from ages
nine to twenty-one when they’re all mostly
just thoughts about insecurity, puberty and anxiety?

De nacht is eindeloos,
zeker als je de dageraad onverwacht
begroet na een uur of zes
verlangend naar slaap die niet komt.

The night is eternal,
especially when you greet the dawn unexpectedly,
after six hours of tossing and turning
longing for a sleep that will not befall you.

Ik ben fysiek ziek
van dit alles.
Er raast een manie door mijn lijf
en ik ben bang dat het mij de baas zal zijn.

All of this
has made me physically ill,
mania rushes through my veins
and I fear it will get the best of me.

Mijn maag draait en tolt,
het wentelt zich als zeerovers
op een schip, tiental keren op z’n kop.

My stomach twists and turns,
tips from side to side,
like pirates on a ship,
tons of times upsy-daisy.

Ik ben heel de nacht wakker geweest
radeloos over elke beweging,
peinzend over elk woord
dat jouw lippen verliet.

I have been up all night,
guessing about every move you made,
pondering the meaning of every word
that crossed your lips.

Het is haast infantiel
dat jouw aanwezigheid
zoveel invloed op mij heeft,
ik weet niet waarom ik dat toesta.

It is absurd
how much your presence
affects me,
and I don’t know why I let it.

Ik heb mijn huiswerk gemaakt
naar muziek geluisterd
wel twintig webpagina’s geraadpleegd
mijmerend over jouw gezicht,
schrijf ik gedicht na gedicht.
wat je dan ook wordt,
een muze blijk je in elk geval wel.

I did my homework,
listened to music,
took the advice of two dozen websites,
musing over your face,
I write poem after poem,
whatever you might come to mean to me,
a muse, for now, that inspires endlessly.

Ik heb een nacht slaap verloren
en heb het gevoel dat ik nu
langs de wereld heen leef,
deelnemend, maar niet participerend.

I lost a night’s sleep over you
and feel like I am
living alongside myself,
watching but not interfering.

De nacht heeft mij sterker gemaakt,
ik weet weer waar ik toe in staat ben,
*** ik in elkaar zit,
en ik heb mijn zelfvertrouwen weer herwonnen.

The night has given me strength again,
I am aware once more, of my capabilities,
what makes me tick,
and have found my confidence again.

Ik weet niet waar wij
tweeën naar toe gaan,
of we hetzelfde pad zullen betreden,
of bij de splitsing ieder een eigen weg gaan,
maar ik weet wel dat ik niet wil verdwalen,
en ik zal op het rechte pad blijven,
ook al is het misschien mistig.

I don’t know where the two of us
will end up,
if we will tread the same track,
or at the fork in the road,
will each pick our own path,
but what I do know,
is that I will not allow myself to get lost,
and will follow my trail till the end of the line.

Voor hem tien anderen,
en voor mij misschien vijf.
Ik weet dat ik beter kan krijgen,
ook al lijkt dat niet zo wanneer ik met hem praat.

There are ten others like him out there,
and maybe five like me.
I know I can do much better,
even if I forget during our talks.

Drie dagen,
niet eens drie dagen,
en hij heeft zich als een worm
in het klokkenhuis van mijn hart gewurmd,
en neemt hap na hap,
tot de appel op is.

Three days,
not even three days,
and he, much like a worm,
has burrowed itself
into the core of my heart,
and bite after bite
devours me,
until there’s nothing left.

Ik ben misselijk,
en ik mis je,
een maladie
van eenzaamheid
overspoelt mij.
Dit is niet wie ik ben,
altijd zo helder en duidelijk,
standvastig en vastberaden.
Jij doet mij ijlen
en daarom mag jij het contact
maken tussen ons,
ik heb al genoeg geleden.

I am sick to my stomach,
I miss you,
a fevered loneliness
overcomes me.
This is unlike me,
usually so clear,
determined and steadfast,
you make me delirious,
and that is why you
have to keep up the conversation
between us,
because I have already suffered enough.

Ik controleer zo vaak
of je al iets van je hebt laten horen,
dat mijn ogen langzaam vierkant worden,
ik mis geschreven schrift.

I have been incessantly,
obsessively checking my messages,
to see if you have texted me,
so much so,
that I fear I will end up like Mike TV,
I miss hand-written letters.

Er zal nooit gevoel bij hem vandaan komen,
en bij mij ook niet, zeker nu niet.

He will never reciprocate,
and neither will I, not presently.

Waar komt deze plotse last vandaan?

From whence came this plague, to plague me?

I fall in love with strangers on the train.
The descent as quick as the commute,
Our eyes meet and it takes a glance
And I have fallen in love with the way you smile.

With the colour of your eyes,
And the way your lashes crown them,
With the expressiveness of your brows,
And the way I seem to drown in them.

I look into the mirror
And I lose myself
I blink and yes, that's me.

Is it really?
I look a little fake,
My paint's cracked and flaked
Off at the front, my eyes have lost their colour
And my mouth's all wrong.

I thought I had brown hair,
But what's that black and white
Slate I see, staring back at me?
Am I copy of the real thing?

Gepetto, I want to be a real boy,
I feel like nothing more than a toy.

Lately, I seem to lose everything
Important to me, or to society,
My cards, my sense of self, my mind,
I'm looking up symptoms of illnesses I don't have, but ****, there are signs. (None of them new.)

I hear fragments of voices,
Suddenly surprised by thoughts voiced by my own mind. If I was a race car, I'd have flown off the tracks, crashed into the side, safety cars too late, there's no nick of time, to arrive at the scene.

The mechanics gave me an oil change,
A new set of wheels for the big race,
Testing went well, but suddenly,
I've lost my head start, first place
And it's the motor that's strange,
Something difficult to replace,
The system's crashed and all it needs,
Is a spark,
And it'll all be knocked straight
out of the ball park

I don’t want to cut myself open on a stage,
Make my blood curdle on command.
Applaud me, will you?
This idea of sisterhood, this union
At the end of the play
One lives, one dies, and one has the glory
of letting the curtain fall down
Down on the story
Performed to move people.

I’m not a performer,
Not a thespian, actress or Janus,
I have the one face and that’s all I’ve got,
Like it or not.
My clothes are not a costume,
There’s no cue for me
That tells when to go on.
I speak now, with lines rehearsed
To keep playing the fool
The one no-one listens to.

Do you like me?
Do you like me?
Do you like me?
Please applaud.

I am not an act, waiting for an audience.
I do not respond to applause,
There’s no curtain call,
No stage light in my place
That tells me where to fall.

I can’t keep playing
Can’t keep pretending
I’m the one who decides to walk out
On all of this, now.
It’s the final call, that one last bow
And thus ends the show,
See you next week, with all your friends in tow.

A standing ovation,
A brief revelation
I don’t want this, quick,
Act like it’s all part of it,
Stumbling’s funny, err on the side of performance,
Don’t reveal the truth, don’t bleed on the stage floor,
It’s all fake. All pretend, I’m no actor,
but I perform every minute of the day.
I’m not sure my heart’s real.

A fat *****
Sitting in the seat, in the row in front of me.
His suitcase takes up another seat, left across from me.
This **** takes up four seats and it’s too much wasted space.

There’s so much space in the classroom,
I made myself quite the spectacle when I walked out
Ran into the teacher right behind the door, waiting
To see if the screening went well.
I’d seen it three weeks ago,
I told him so.

Made myself quite popular in one go.
Seems like it is my ego, (but the truth is, I really don’t know)
That prevents others from sitting close,
It’s fine, I don’t talk to them,
I couldn’t stand to.

Less than thirty minutes till Hoorn
A few more hours until bed,
And then all of the routine can start again,
I dream of a future, but when I’m awake
I’d rather not be a part of it.

Don’t want to participate.
I have nothing useful left in me,
There’s nothing I could say,
That would sway/ persuade the world
To turn the other way.

I’m no earthquake, no rain or thunder
Lightning strikes me, not I the sky,
And it’s in the dark that I cry.

Days have grown shorter,
Nights longer,
And the sun doesn’t set early yet.

There’s ten of me
Sitting down on my chest
Steamrolling down my back
And flattening me into the grains
Of the ordinary, common experience.
(Perhaps I’d like that best)

In the wee hours of the morning
I close my eyes and plan and plot
I stew until I’m blue in the face
And I’m itching to leave this place,
It’s then that the cuts and ropes
The drownings and falling downs
Lull me to sleep, and I breathe out
Sweet death, and when I wake again,
I live and take another breath.