life moves,
and people leave.

my skin will stretch
and my mind will learn.

and maybe it takes time,

but maybe i don’t want to wait,
maybe i don’t have time to waste.

salt seas
and cold nights.

narcotics atop sand:
your bellied laughter,
a little dry gin,
the rising sun warming our faces as it wakes the world.

and here with you,
maroon painted and
drunkenly dancing around words,

everything seems so
light.

nineteen years,
238 months,
1,034 weeks,
7,238 days,
of my life.

i can compress my existence
into numbers.
lay them out like statistics.

tell people i am made of days, hours, minutes.

numbers.
they are easy.
finite.
simple.

but will i ever be able to translate my existence in words?

will i ever be able to speak such complexities?
or only count?

my soul is made of
moonlight and pixie dust.

i find myself in them.
i see the way the moon changes me
and how magic brings me to life.

my heart is made of
fine art and scented candles.

i see myself in the strokes of oil.
feel all my emotions poured out in perfect pigment,
feel my soul storm soothe as i trim and light the wick.

i hear my inspiration
in music and nature.

i listen to my thoughts in song
as if someone has dug through my mind,
and i see leaves as a reminder that change is good.

isn’t that beautiful?
to find yourself in all of the smaller things?
to be everything all at once
and still feel free?

my grandpa packs the dishwasher
because my nan doesn’t like to.

my brother cuts the chicken
because his wife hates the texture.

and i read my students poems
with the same reverence that my teacher read mine.

and i've noticed this all around,
all of these humans being human.

people picking up  
each others lost and littered items.

offering a listening ear
and a wise word or two.

bringing things to homes
as a gift and a 'thank you' for hosting.

still making tea in unfamiliar kitchens
and putting friends’ children to sleep.

still holding things for each other
when hands are too full.

still doing life together,
like plants that share the same soil

facing each other, like sunflowers,
on days when the world is more shade.

giving flowers and heart shaped petals.
still celebrating, and singing songs.

so despite all of the suffering
scattered and dispersed in the world,

there are alters to love everywhere,
and people are still worshipping.

somedays,
i will make a cup of coffee
for my mum and i.
seek solace at the table
find comfort in each other's company.

these are the moments i need.

this is the sweet,
amongst the sour.

i got a paper cut
and i picked at it
until its corpse
become a permanent headstone
on my skin.

you hurt me,
and i picked at it
until it began to scar,
until it began to
tighten the skin.

i will never be able to escape the ache of you.
never be able to revive myself.
or be able to relieve the pain of the skin pulling.

but i will always try to heal it,
even if it is no use.

i wish i could take the art off the walls,
and the moon from the sky,
and brew it like tea.

add boiling water and simmer the world down
so it is just sweetness.

i wish i could take a sip of it,
early in the morning,
before the chaos begins to rise with the sun.

a sip at lunch
a reminder of the world's beauty.

and a sip at dinner, just before bed
to wash away the day.

(it would taste like freedom)
(it would taste like peace)

anger has always been a strand in my DNA.
i inherited this from my father.

it lives buried deep in my chest.
i feel it slightly when i breathe.

a constant throb,
a pit, inside my lungs.

i feel this rage so deeply,
i am used to its presence.

i do not know what it would be like to live without it.
to breathe without it.

there are moments in a climb
where you stop,
and put down the things you carry.

either to admire the view
or to let your lungs heal
from the constant ******* in of wind.

there are moments in life,
where we must stop,
and put down the things we carry.

either to admire the the view
or to heal the ache
of constantly living.

my bedroom walls are filled with framed art.
a desperate plea for me to get up in the morning,
to search for beauty that is replicated
inside the golden frames that cling to my wall.

and i tattoo pretty things
onto my arms
in an attempt to remind myself that there are
pretty things left in the world.

if i don’t remind myself with the tangible
i will forget about all the sweetness.
and i will never leave this sour.

i try to be soft
but it translates to fury.

i try to be water
but i am ice.

the closest i'll ever be to snow
is a hail storm.

i spend a lot of money on flowers.

give me a minute to explain myself here:

every saturday morning i wake up early.
hours before work.
and most times, minutes before the sun rises.  
i’ll shower,
put a very small amount of effort into my appearance,
(because it is morning).
(because who really cares anyway).
and i’ll drive myself to the markets
that wait approximately four songs away from my house.

i won't be there for long.
(i am never there for long).

i’ll pick up some treats
for my dog (who was not thrilled with the early morning wake up)
as an apology for the interruption to her sleep.
and then i’ll carry myself to the buckets of flowers.

i’ll stand there and decide, for a few delicate moments.

i’ll ask him for ranunculus.
i’ll tell him that
i like the way they open,
and how delicate they are,
and how a single touch can have them falling apart.

he’ll agree
tell me that ‘softness is beautiful’
(this petal he gives for free)
and i’ll store that in my pocket until i need it.

i’ll think about how
i can not control much.
but i can control the flowers my vases hold.

so what i am trying to say is
i’d spend any amount of money to be able to hold something.
to be able to say,
“i chose this.”
instead of letting something be chosen for me.

my mother deserves more than the hurricane she was given.
i am certain that i am not what she signed up for.

she deserves flowers and fine art
and i am nothing but thorns and cut-throat.

so i buy her flowers,
constantly,
hoping it will make up for my rot.

hoping the scent of them will make her forget
the damage of last nights fury.

i feel like a thief.

all i do is steal.

i steal views,
and feelings,
and songs,
and glances.

and sometimes i drive home from work a certain way,
slow down more than usual,
pray the sky is clear enough
just to see the city from afar.

some nights i take a long way home,
just to roam around a little more,
just to be able to sit a while longer in this freedom.
i would chase this feeling around the world.

and sometimes i sit a little longer in my car,
to listen to another song
play over and over again -
just to feel the lyrics echo through me once more.  

and i look at people a little more in the eyes,
a little longer than i should.
let my eyes wander over their cheekbones and lips,
hoping i can memorise the way they form words on their tongue.

the point is
i steal.
in the hope of feeling something
a little longer than i have the right to.

sometimes when I drive to work
the city looks like it is burning.

the sun slipping into the horizon
its wrath ablaze.

it casts raging orange hues across
glass windowed skyscrapers.
it creates a skyline filled with furious fire.

the back of my neck burning
from the warmth of the sun still setting,
and if i think about it long enough,
i can feel the glass windows melting.

i've always imagined the city like this,
raging
and chaos
with life fleeting.

and if i turn the music down,
and roll down the window slightly,
i think i can hear the souls screaming.

deep cries
while life just slips
from their fingertips

the point is,
it looks like the city is dying,
skin blistering, ash breathing

and just for a minute here I think
that this is the cityscape of my mind

all the rage,
and the fury.

and it makes me question why the reflected orange
brings me such peace.

i'll never escape it.

the redness of his blood
the eyes that stare back at me in the mirror.

i still bleed the same as him,
still write with his pen,
i am still his daughter,

despite trying so hard not to be.

they say that some ages feel closer to others.
that memories spiral inside of you
instead of existing on a linear plane.

i can feel the younger years slowly tighten
toward the centre as a i age,
suffocate it until i can no longer remember

a final breath drawn
before a sobbing goodbye.

hurting, so that it can make itself known
one last time
before it slips into the void.

maybe that is why twelve feels like yesterday.
when I was haunted by the ghosts
that lingered in those hospital wards.

and maybe why thirteen feels like today,
when i’m praying for a miracle
to be given to him.

and maybe why fourteen feels like tomorrow
preparing to dig soil to cover him
not knowing that it would never get the chance to touch his skin.

i'm reliving all of the pain,
the aching in my chest,
the short breaths of panic.

it all exists inside me
coiling around my heart and
suffocating.

all the anxiety growing from seeds planted
all those years ago.

and i keep telling myself that it is alright
that he lived
but my mind doesn’t know any of this

because its still
twelve
and thirteen
and fourteen

and it is still hurting.

i was born pure sweetness.
a fruit born from my mother
delightful on the tongue.

you were pure acidity.
a fruit grown bitter
hostile to taste.

how does one drop of bitterness
flood, so deeply, the sweet?
is there any way of tempering acid?
or will i stay like this… burnt?

if anyone cares enough
to ask:
“why poetry?”
i'll breathe deep

and i'll tell them about Keats.
i’ll tell them that his was the first poem
i truly ever read.
really understood.

because despite years of schooling,
i hadn’t connected with anyone else’s work,
and it was solely because he wrote what i couldn’t.
the things i couldn't yet form into cohesive thoughts.

i’ll tell them about my english teacher,
who wrote the book that ignited my love for reading,
who read the first draft of every poem i wrote,
and every poem i’ve written since.

who encouraged me
endlessly,
(even if those drafts were entirely unreadable).
and i’ll tell them that i owe her my craft.

i’ll tell them about all of my failed narratives
that still sit incomplete on my computer,
and i’ll tell them about all of the finished
and polished poetry in comparison.

so if one day someone cares enough to ask me:
“why poetry?”
i’ll tell them that i stumbled upon it,
but have chosen it since.

most importantly,
i’ll tell them that it’s what allowed me to dig
up all that i have buried.
feel all the things that i have kept hidden

underneath.

i’ll always send you
the things i see that remind me of you

every poem i read
that i know you’ll love too.

every movie
that i think will sit you in the edge of your seat.

every book
that i think you will like, and that you will keep.

every song or lyric
that makes me think of you.

it will always be sent.
always be given- a gift, an offering too.

my way of saying
i love and am thinking if you always.

i can’t help that everything lovely i experience
is always infused with a little bit of you.

sometimes
the moments we steal
are not enough
to make us forget
that life is heavy.

sometimes
the moments we steal
are not enough
to make us fall in love
with life again.

look at the night sky.
see how the stars move,
and the moon changes.

growing and shedding.
cyclical
and never stagnant.

i want to be the same.
moving
and growing.

i am trying to mimic the moon.
but how can someone so limited,
achieve such growth?

how can i endure the loss
and still wait for the bloom?

when did the flowers
start demanding blood
instead of water?

when did life
start demanding thorns
instead of petals?

the blood of my mother is sweet.
but the blood of my father is sour.

no wonder i am certain of nothing.
even my blood does not know
how it should taste.

someone could light this body on fire
and it still would not be warm enough
to cure the coldness caught in the bones
that were formed from my mothers blood

it scares me to know how far light can travel.
how stars billions of light years away
can die and yet still be seen on earth.

and it scares me that i can only hope
that the light i leave on the world,
lingers for as long as that.

or even

lingers at all.

i am most afraid of heights.
and the ocean.
and the vastness of the desert.

i’m also afraid of spiders,
and snakes,
and all things that bite.

i’m afraid of drowning.
of being buried alive.
of fire.

i’m afraid of failure.
of letting people down.
of never achieving anything good.

i'm terrified of dying,
and choking on my words
and feeling this pit in my stomach forever.

you used to say
that a glass of wine always makes things go down easier.

so when you left,
you gave me the bottle.

i’m preparing for a funeral that isn’t meant to happen yet.

i dig a grave
and carve a stone.

i’m not dead yet.
but i feel like i am dying.

it will save them doing this
when i am gone.

it is easier to prepare for a funeral that hasn’t happened yet.
than one you didn’t think you’d have to prepare for at all.

i sit on a friends couch,
and listen to stories of all of the people in their life.

all of the good and all of the bad.

then i’ll tell them about
all of my good and all of my bad.

shedding and letting go
of all of the things.

letting them slip
in between
the cushions of the couch.

this is how we make the world feel lighter.

you were a flower still blooming
plucked from the garden

stolen from soil

long before your time,
long before full bloom.

what a devastating way to end a life,
ripping roots
while it was still searching for light.

‘be careful what you wish for,’ they said.
and i should have taken it to heart.

i asked for change,
for growth,
but i didn't ask to be flooded
with everything all at once.

i didn’t ask for it all to come rushing,
with little time for me to adjust to the weight of it all.

i’m nineteen.
and i’ll never be able to tell you how life works.
or how people exist.
or how cranes build themselves.

i’ll never be able to explain to you how planes fly.
because i know it has something to do with
****** and aerodynamics
but please don’t ask me to explain because truthfully i have no idea.

i’ll never be able to explain the vastness of space.
or what setting to wash my clothes on.
or how to not fall apart.
or the temperature you are supposed to brew your tea at.

i’m nineteen.
but i am able to tell you that life gets better.
and that some people are good.
and that to exist we must learn to trust.

i’ll be able to tell you that despite trying not to
you’ll still inherit things from both of your parents.
you’ll secretly hope that you are more like your mother
and i will loudly hope that you only get your fathers good.

i’ll be able to tell you to keep going.
because one day you’ll look back and be thankful you didn’t give up.
i’ll be able to tell you that it’s important to learn new things.
and that everything goes down a little better with tea (despite the temperature it’s brewed at).

i’m afraid i am nothing,
without literature, and art.
without words and ink.
without flowers and music.
and most importantly, without you.

your soul is dark,
and sullied black
by life.

it must ache
to be so              hollow.

to be so empty.
without substance,
without light.

a pit of mystery,
buried inside of you.
water so murky
a swimmer should not risk,

but boy,
i am drowning.

time takes us
and we let it.

i want to fight it,
but i do not know how.

anger will do nothing to slow it.
but i will still rage, in hopes that it will.
(it’s the only thing i know to do)

i often think
i am not meant to be human.

like i am made for somewhere
other than earth.

maybe i am a being,
made of stars,
but sentenced to life on earth.

i wonder
if i am
a speck of stardust
looking
for a way home.

you will die this way.

trying to handle all of this mess,
trying to keep it all even though it is too heavy to hold.

it will seep into your soul
until it becomes too much to deal with.

it will bleed
and smear red onto the walls.

and you try to clean but
really you are just pushing it
further into the crevasses.

and you try to organise
but really you are just moving things around.
moving them into their new graves, to gather dust and to rot.

and even though you have hidden it,
it is still there,
the decay is still happening.

the mess it still
buried and decomposing
behind a curtain.

you need to cull, and burn.
throw out and throw up all of the things you are carrying.
rid yourself of the weight you hold so tightly onto.

let it go,
set it aflame,
laugh at its ashes as they settle into the fabric of the curtain.

you don’t deserve to be confined to a life
carrying it all.

it is not your job to carry the universe,
you are not atlas,
you can put it down.

i promise the world will not end.

the wolves are at my door.

what i mean by this
is that soon i will be torn open.
guts spilling out of body
blood pooling and drowning.  

its 4:15;
the wolves are here, pushing inside.
and the moths are in my stomach.
anxiety welcomed them in,
and i can not get them to leave.

i’ll wait impatiently for a text
or a call
that will deliver sadness
on a platter and expect me to eat.

death; he will deliver the aching himself
but first he will call.
tell me to wait by the door,
so that he can tell me that he has you.

and to remind me that i never will
again.

i’ll wait for the details of the crash
or results from a test i didn't know was happening.
i’ll wait for the ‘it was so sudden,’
because ‘it wasn’t meant to happen this way.’

those moths in my stomach are telling me
that death is about to start knocking.

that he will bring the wolves
because they are about to tear me                                a  p   a    r     t.

he talks of the weather
and i secretly hope that he speaks of anything else.

not because i am not interested
in the way the trees will sway
on a certain day,
or the amount of rain that
will come our way.

but because i am much more interested
in who he is.

i want to know why the weather fascinates him,
how the world makes him feel,
i want to know his favourite movie or book
(please let him be a reader)
and the way he takes his coffee in the morning,
and i want to hear about who inspires him the most.

i want to memorise all the smaller
more vulnerable things.
in hopes that one day we will run out of things to talk about,
and then we might turn and say,
“the weather is meant to be nice today.”

life will offer smaller moments.

bite sized pieces of joy
meant for those who struggle to find the bigger ones.

like a piece of chocolate
our grandmothers
swear they will not give us
but surely will.

a person
at just the right time.

a book
that says just the right thing.

a song  
with the perfect melody.

or a film
with the right amount of humanity.

it’s the smaller things
that life gives us.

the smaller things
are the ones we must cling to.

i killed a bug today.

in a moment of panic
squished it until its corpse
combined itself with the page
laying underneath.

remorse washed through my entire body.
guilt lay at the foot of my stomach,

and for a moment i wonder if God feels the same.
guilt for crushing me
with the weight of all the pain
i am forced to withstand.

i wonder if he ever feels sorry
for letting me go through that.

for letting me suffer.

if there is ever any remorse
for almost killing me.

surely he does right?
feel sorry for it all?

please tell me he feels sorry for all of this.

i am made of every person i have met,
and every person i will meet.

some are and will be kisses on cheeks,
others are and will be cuts.

i just hope
those that scar will stop pinching as i move.

it’s summer here,
and my seasonal depression
slips away with the waves at the beach.
my eyes brighten with the sun,
and at last, i feel my heart warming,

the leaves are falling from the oak outside of my window.
autumn. lets old loves go with the seasons,
stripping itself of the sun damage from summer.
shaking itself clean of scars.
(i’m healing old wounds)

in winter, i slip.
fall along with the temperature.
stiffen along with almost everything
that meets the cold,
why am i so cold?

i sprout a little in spring.
defrost from the frozen winters.
wait for the new.
i see the oaks' new leaves.
i see the flowers in me bloom.

it’s summer here,
and i begin to feel like myself again.
letting my heart thaw
and my limbs stretch.
(the cold can’t bite me here).

why does nothing feel real,
until it happens?

am i that sceptical of good things happening,
that i convince myself they won't,
until they do?

i don't believe it will happen
till i am there
experiencing it.

and even then,
it all feels like a dream.

or something on the edge of a memory,
something i can't quite hold and live in.

like the concert i was sure i wouldn't get tickets to,
or the holiday i thought i wouldn’t get to take.
or next year.
or tomorrow.

how can i live in the moment,
when the moment doesn't even feel real?

rain soaked skies,
warmth blanketed bodies
laughing loudly
(oh god how sweet is the laughter)

gin painted lips
worn with love and passion.
voices of friends  
whispering prophecies

of a lifetime
waiting to be spent together.

all of this goodness
huddled under the shelter
of a house that holds
arms open.

with people warmed
by liquor that teaches tipsy.
that teaches joy filled tears
(i’m still echoing bellied laughter- it’s beginning to hurt)


there is so much love here.
it spills over plastic cups in hands
as a we dance
we dance.

i can not stop the gratitude
from leaving from my lips.

i can not be te ioly one that feels
all of this goodness.

(i love you,
please let us do this again.)

i’m learning to see the love.

i’m learning to look at you
and not automatically see rage.

or fear.
or hurt.
or my father.

i will look at you and not see my father.

because you are kind
kind
kind

and there is actually so much love here.

and for once,
i can find it
without digging through
all the mud.

all the hurt.

it's intoxicating.
the salt air on cool nights.

wind that disperses the scent,
pushing it closer to the deck
that warm bodies
are perched on.

warm bodies
that have full bellies
that grow painful
each time they laugh.

bellies that have been aching
for the last few hours,
because the laughter is harmonising
with body cries.

salt air
that blankets them.

salt air
so inebriating
it forces them into admission.

sweet confessions whispered
over mugs (warm and full).

songs of 'i love you'
swept up by the moon,
only to be caught in trees,
(let the words nestle here, please.
close to the ground,
before they are taken by the breeze).

and for a moment here,
they forget themselves,
forget the world,
and just be.