Finally rid of you.
You've clung to me for two whole years
like a parasite; fetid, vestigial.
This mild Friday was the surgeon's scalpel,
carving away the rotting flesh
till I could breathe again.
First came giddiness.
Light enough to float with the burden off my shoulders,
ready to sink into the depths of the dog days.
My bag practically emptied itself.
The papers and books interred in a box so I could
finally remember what my tabletop looked like.
Languor overcame me then, and I set about
drowning German recitals in episodes of QI,
burying Hamlet quotes with a controller as my shovel.
A thought crossed my mind as I
gutted the last of my sorting algorithms and Python code,
that I had been destroying part of myself.
Like the ***** that earned his fortune by
pleading for coins and pity from others. I had
forgotten what I was before.
I'm not worried, though.
Now I can write my Name, Centre Number and
Candidate Number on the next paper of my life.
Just remember block capitals. Write within the boxes.
Don't communicate with others. Keep your phone off.
As you can probably tell, I just finished my A-Levels. The relief is real, and I'm in that transitive stage between mid- and post-exam stress where I'm able to write stuff like this. Enjoy.
In lines of age
we find a trace
that come to haunt us
as we are weighed down
by all the gravity
that we have found
in this life,
creases of flesh
molded to express
all of time’s
We earn each line
Until, the end
when death finally
takes its revenge
all the wrinkles
on our face,
and turns them to rot
the last word falls
like a mountain on a dove
a shadow on a child
a bullet through a rose
and no-one knows
quill rests between cold fingers
You’re Running to die and my spirit hurts in places I didn’t know exist
Lord he soars home to You
And there’s nothing about it I can do
You and I were a photo finish
Crossing the line together
Neck and neck like always
And in the end
Neither of us could claim victory
But both of us managed to hoist the trophy of misery
They say “life happens”
and it turns out, death waits.
I am like a bull
charging into his flourish
The matador, opposite of my emotion
I am lucky, for he is patient
It takes two to tango but
it’s just you in this
this dance with death
and as you slip away, into it
becomes running to
becomes running from
and in the end, it’s all just
This bullfight is anything but
escapades are laced with
fear and aggression
impulses are masked by
roars of the crowd.
To them you’re not you, just who they think
they wouldn’t know emotions you don’t even know yourself
It is a fear.
Calves are trained to hate humans
conditioned and cultivated in fear
fight becomes flight
it is a game.
Run free in this coliseum
chase what is the end and what defines the beginning
grieving the loss of a couple family members
Brew tragedy tea
and drink without
Keep checking the meaning of
in case it's been redefined
in less absolute terms.
Shiver through the heatwave and watch
the colour bleed out of the summer.
Dig a hole that won't be deep enough.
Shower off the crazy sweat and grave dirt
and pretend like maybe
you'll do the dishes.
Rupture your inner workings
as you scream at the universe
for ******* up so badly.
Lapse into the cold, sterile embrace
of catatonia, grateful
to feel nothing for a while.
Cry so long and so hard you forget
why you're crying,
then remember and cry
longer and harder.
Try brokering a deal with fate's
Appeals Department: offer
your organs, your eyesight,
however many years off your life,
to get him back.
Search for meaning and find none.
Rage against the perversity of it all.
Howl that death shouldn't feel derivative.
Remind yourself that this
isn't just a sick joke.
Hate Elisabeth Kübler-Ross for being right
and yourself for being so generically human.
Realise how little
Reacquaint yourself with anhedonia.
Try not to hate the blue sky
or the birds who have returned
to sing in his back garden.
Just lost a really good cat friend. Grieving pretty ******* hard, if utterly unoriginally.