what are we beyond pixels and pictures
but empty shells dictated by a valley of greed, violence, silence, data
unable to exist without, desperate for beyond, behind, outside

neon nostalgia and retrofuturism promise relief we cannot obtain
while all that glitters in silicon steel boxes is stored away with fans churning air thick with dead heat

donna - mad, iconic, far from first but memorable in her questioning
no escape for us until we break the boundaries, binaries in code and encoded

unravel, split me, unzip and withdraw exterior for a hint of personality past performance - search for something real
rest in possibilities, all that will not
be

The pain is precise
Ears ringing
Heavy ache
Sheen of sweat
Such a small incision
Felt long after
Invisible cut
Tangible absence

Apt metaphor
For those appointments
That came too late

I'd find new ways to show him I love him and remind him his worth
I'd tend to my garden and fill every last space with leafy renewal
I'd bake once a week, never the same recipe twice except Gran's shortbread of course but that's an add-on
I'd tend to my herbs and mix up new gin cocktails on Fridays to welcome the weekend
I'd find a cafe to become a regular for casual routine
I'd continue with therapy and heal in my own time with no fretting over consequences or impacts or delays or coherence
I'd sit in the sunshine with podcasts and laugh freely, learn hungrily
I'd read books with soft characters and squishy middles and happy endings
I'd be insular and reach out and hibernate and flit as my needs ebbed and flowed with the social tide
I'd carry notebooks and write pen to paper with every whisper of inspiration in the brickwork and bird chatter
I'd touch the sea everyday no matter the weather
I'd accept the rain, welcome the blue skies, learn to roll through the thunder
I'd be still awhile and move and grow
I'd be free

Helium pumped into my corpse to animate dead weight
Pulled down, skeletal anchor and stretching upward, weightless and outside myself
Always a contradiction
Constant tension
Split apart, torn in opposition
Body feels what mind won't acknowledge

I deactivated my Instagram account last night in a fit of tears and self loathing. This morning I'm compelled to share my feelings on Twitter because there's no one specific I can turn to. It has taken a breakdown and 8 months of therapy to recognise my sadness stems from loneliness. And that's a dangerous thing to be during recovery - lonely. It makes the impetus to get well harder to see. I'm happy alone but cannot sustain happiness on lonely. I can't give up and leave my love with the burden of my lacking commitment to life. I can't move on until these traumas no longer knot my nervous system and corrode my sense of self. I can't heal in isolation.

Shouting into voids through screens and pixel bits is the cry for help with no destination, no intended audience, no necessary acknowledgement.

Having no friends, only casual acquaintances, was safe until it wasn't. It wasn't by design. I leak desperation wherever I turn. If anything my carnal need for connection, positive reception only worked to put distance between me and love of others. I think that's why I cannot comprehend his love. He gives so freely, unaffected by my jagged edges and fugly design and my insides coated in tar. Still he collects me on his lap and holds me together as my body threatens to crack open with violent shudders, my core destabilised as tectonic plates surrender to mounting pressure of my past and present. Great fissures marking lifelines and more pain than is acceptable for one lifetime.

My greatest fear is by being too weak to let him go. My deepest hate is my selfishness as I force a life of loneliness on him too. Those who tolerated me before have set in place their boundaries - I'm glad they're putting their own needs first, of course, and the pattern repeats with painful recognition that I am the problem. But now it's not only me who feels cold in the distance, he is left astray as well. My heat insufficient to warm us both. I should untether him from me. I should let him be free. From responsibility, from duty, from guilt, from the crushing weight of knowing me and loving me.

If you love him, let him go. I should. I should. I can't. And that hurts more than all the isolation. Selfishly too, because if I let him go I could be free of this. I could slip away unnoticed and not hurt anymore. Living is pain. It demands so much. I am empty. I have no more to give.

Love might be a losing game, but life is a cruel irony.

From myself

From the world

From my newsfeed as it fills with in-jokes I don't get about the bizarre cultural phenomenon that is Eurovision

Scrolling with one eye ******* shut does little to assuage the assault on my heart from squares of millennial pink and sky blue, espresso black and prosecco effervescence in fancy glasses on bar tables I'm not invited to join.

Never was anyone's first in line which didn't matter until I realised how much time there is to fill as the days stretch on and nights begin to warm offering ample opportunity for connection and yet I sit satellite orbiting a world reopening for some and remain on the outside, cold and distant.

Vulnerability is the essence of connection and connection is the lifesource of happiness, now engineered quasi-chonologically; machine-picked priority in heart buttons and view counts as we no longer value the time spent thinking, mere lingering hesitation- am I worth no more than a momentary pause as your thumb swipes upward?

It's easier to publish vulnerability on social media platforms whose algorithms inherently work against visibility of raw honesty and hurt than risking rejection from the people I desperately want to hold me, see the cracks in my facade and enjoy me in my dilapidation while my world edges crumble.

Isn't that something