I hate nature sometimes.
Like sugar plum fairies
We dance
Around each other
Waiting for something to happen
Over power. Over woman.
Falling to our primal instincts
We are better than that
We are more than that
I hate it.
The way we are stubborn.
We are too busy fighting.
Fighting time
Fighting fear
Fighting death
Fighting each other
The hands of the clock ticks away
Death wraps its warm arms around us
But that I suppose is why we dance

Remember when we were happy
and nothing could take the sun away from us
that kissed the backs of our necks
and warmed our cheeks

Nobody could end our adventure
for we were young and in the woods
there was no time

Remember the games that never got boring
and the way we wandered
the trees like they never ended

Youth pulsed through our blood
and ran in through our veins
like the way we ran down the stream

Time didn't exist
We radiated happiness
Under the sun was eternity
And I wish I never left

It's chilly/overcast
the street is empty: wednesday 215pm
everyone is at school or at work
This is when I thrive.

No worrying what each car is thinking of me as they drive by
the urge to check the backs of my shoes in case I've stepped in something is diminished.
"Whatismyhairdoingarethesepantstootight? These pants are too tight.
Hide your cigarette so they won't see. Am i walking in a straight line?
Should i be on this side of the road or the other
There's no sidewalk I don't know.

Someone I know
Someone I ******
Will inevitably drive by
Pity me
'That's her isn't it? Why is she walking by herself in the cold?
She doesn't have a car? Pathetic. She can afford to buy
cigarettes at ten bucks a pack? Irresponsible.'"
Head held high walking down an empty street
Useless.

I feel the heat still radiating from newly-parked cars
Small and fleeting moments of relief
Akin to meeting eyes with an attractive stranger on the street
Making whatever this is
Easier to bear

I feel just about ready to
burst
with all the love
and kind words
and stroking of the cheek I have ready to offer.
But nobody wants it.
So should I just burst,
splatter all over a canvas and create a sick sort of work of art,
leaving me a let down balloon, a broken shell?
Or should I leave it to decay,
to slowly eat my insides and eventually fester out of my
ears,
nose,
mouth,
into something bitter and spoiled.
Or should I just keep growing
and hope I find you?

Dad.
I will always remember when I was thirteen and you came into the living room and said
"We have nothing in common anymore. Nothing to talk about."
That broke me.
At the time I didn't understand what you meant. But now I've grown,
and the years have gone by,
and I think it's finally clear what you meant that day you made me cry myself to sleep.

I have always been a Daddy's girl.
My first word was "Da Da."
You taught me how to walk, ***** trained me, took me to the doctors when I was ill.
I used to lie on your belly and watch football with you, even though I had no interest in sports
and would rather curl up with a book instead.
But I tried.
Because thinking even your gender is a disappointment to your own father is a pain so sharp, so unfair that I was willing to try anything.
I remember when you bought me a jumper, bag, trainers, t-shirt with your, our, favourite team on them.
I proudly wore them to school, only to be pounced on by the older boys.
"Haha, they're *****."
They kicked my bag and stomped on my trainers.
But I didn't care.
It wasn't only football.
I remember us sitting on the sofa watching Laurel and Hardy videos, stuffing ourselves with pizza,
you beaming down at me as I laughed and laughed at the silly man and his angry friend.
That made you happy.
There were lots of things that made you unhappy.
If I spilled a glass of milk, or drew on my hands, or forgot to wear my coat to school,
you'd transform into the 'other' Dad.
A man I didn't know,
still don't know,
spitting and screaming at me, your wild eyes vacant of the real you.
The shifts made you tired, and I crept around when you were in bed,
and even when you were awake, afraid to bring out your Mr Hyde.
Being ill didn't help. You clung even more desperately to life,
Mr Hyde coming out when anything went wrong.
It wasn't your fault,
but try telling that to the ten year old me.
All I knew was my Daddy might die.
I was scared.
You were scared.

I'm still scared now, at nineteen years of age.
I finally understand what you said that day.
We are like a ghost of our former selves.
When we sit on our separate sofas, I can hear the faint laughter of our times watching Laurel and Hardy.
When we greet each other on a morning, a grunt from me, a grunt from you, I remember our embraces.
Now it hurts to touch.

How can I love somebody so much who scares me so much.