The sky is grey and they cannot tell if that’s the sky or the clouds.
The sky is grey and maybe that’s just through their eyelashes? Half-lidded and beaded with wetness as something wells inside their chest and they cannot breathe for a few moments, holding it tight within and not relinquishing. How does it feel, here under this grey sky, lain bare for anyone to see inside, something aching and arching in their heart. It catches in their throat, forces their head back just to rush in another gasp of frigid air as heat flushes through their body and raises the hairs on their skin.
The sky is grey and marred slightly on their right by a blurred smattering of leaves. Their wide, expensive frames lay to one side, buried away in the grass and not on their nose; the leaves are like flickers on an oil painting. Green (grey) and not much else. Melancholy rushes along their skin with the brush of cool wind, tearing through a worn-out jumper that belongs to someone else, something else, not them, not me. They want to breathe even for once, not be told the second they stand that they are not they. That they are instead he or she or his or her but they are not. They are they. People say, they find, people say not to let someone else define you, to “be who you are and say what you feel”, to “accept no one's definition of you but your own”, but no, you cannot be they. Be whoever you want but don’t be anything but he or she.
The sky is grey and they are not defined. They are confined; oh how they wish they were not. Trapped under white sky and blue trees, anywhere but here under this grey sky and green trees. Here, where a small chain of white flowers rests as a crown atop a head that reels with troubles and cries out for rescue.
The sky is grey and it weeps now. Cries cold tears to wet a damp face, their heat drained away to the sky’s cold and they wish that this rain could wash them away. Clean off what they cannot be but what they are told they must, and they scrub in anger at their skin until it flushes a burning hot red. They rage, rage until they cannot breathe. Not that it was much of an improvement. All they know now is that it was the clouds and not the sky. Maybe they’re reading too deep into what is simply rain, but as it falls and falls and falls and cleans the dirt from their skin, soothes the anger, they determine then to flourish under the fall. Grow from the water, from the tears, tall as the trees beside them and sharp like the grass under. Grow and grow strong, breathe deep again and face “you cannot be they”, determine to fight and yell and not be silenced, demand the respect they deserve because if they do not then who will?
The sky is grey and how dare you say that I cannot be who I am. I will fight against you and rage into the forever, I will not be denied who I am. I will not stand back and be belittled, I will not sit to the side and nod and respond when you call me he or she, I will not answer to anything but who I am.
And here so begins, they; and no-one else. They are the sky.
come away to the water away from the life that you always knew we are calling to you flushed cold in a hot room wants to take the proffered hand and run into a sweet dream full of little blue flowers little lights that mesmerise hypnotise soft on skin this bed of nails can't hear a thing but the rattle of strings can't stay still dazes wishes the light were dimmer wishes to step into a sweet dream treats to something different finally life is sweet in that sweet dream love is sweet in that sweet dream sugary, saccharine. colours mix here flavours mix here until everything is brown and bitter not in that sweet dream byzantium, violet, lavender not... sidelined to rust, sunset, fire not in that sweet dream and the violet missed the black even in that sweet dream
she's back. steps foot into sweltering heat, home again. doesn't know whether she welcomes it or nay; doesn't understand why nothing feels different it's all the same wished for weeks that it wouldn't jealous envious? jealousy is envy according to her dictionary. jealous of "he"s and "she"s and "they"s easy for everyone else but here here she sits lies wallowing in this envy she's got a boyfriend and she's got a girlfriend boyfriend who's not loving enough girlfriend who- who's the point of this jealousy? what does one want, really? a piece of something new or a piece of comfort? she says she's the stray but really really she's firm; not that she has a choice. craves something, of course she doesn't really know what something is. she's quiet, soft and quiet lingers to herself he did this last week oh cool she did this last week? spent hours "wish he would" "wish he didn't" didn't believe that she wished she didn't didn't think that she wished she didn't still doesn't doesn't know what she wants x y or z met him once met him three times? more. met her two years ago met her six. doesn't know how to feel about what how to feel about him or her or him "this trip will be awesome" she hopes its different when she's home again wish for weeks that it will be
first girl I ever loved had blonde hair and blue eyes and didn't think she was real even though she was even though she wasnt first boy I ever loved had brown hair and green eyes loved the first girl died for her thrice and one came back thrice and none second girl I ever loved had blonde hair and blue eyes long hair, and helped me start me didn't finish it dropped me for a little mistake second boy I ever loved had blonde hair and blue eyes i didn't really love him too young to understand old enough to realise third girl I ever loved had blonde hair and blue eyes you think I'd know by now i couldn't love her just like that and now her grandfather is dying third boy I ever loved had no hair and no eyes because he didn't exist imagination or nay he doesn't exist first person I ever loved has brown hair and blue eyes and she glows with life she is close enough to touch she is close enough to be first person who ever loved me back
There are seven apples in the stocking, and the stocking is black. Thin and worn, leaks with the juice from the fruit's flesh. My legs swing, kicking under the seat of the twisted Ferris wheel where they don't touch the ground because I am too high off it. Two figures sit beside me, One gold One brown One blue One black I've never met them before but still I know them. The stocking hangs from my fist, dangling over dirt far below us, dripping slowly without a sound. We are sitting on the wheel, in the evening breeze, with no attendee. not a soul. The fair is alive, yet I cannot quite see the people. Just as I try, the person stands. On my left, they speak, in a language I understand but cannot comprehend. Standing on what? We're on the ground now. There's only two now. An attendee looks over now. They do not look at me as they leave, and red anger pours through my chest Floods out of my throat and I shout, something that I can't seem to hear clearly. My fist swings forward and there, The stocking leaves my hand, I aim for them? But they are simply gone before it reaches, Drifting through the air as though it was water. The apples tumble out, bleeding sugar, Flesh breaking and smashing-- On a porch? Wooden decking. I scream again, watch as the front door doesn't move I will it to, open open open. I want to see more flesh bleed. Of course it doesn't. And there, the porch is gone. I am sitting on the Ferris wheel, swinging my legs. The stocking is in my hand, empty. Words ring in my skull. You'll know when you need me.
these are the moments when I need someone someone (you) the room's half-lit and I can hear the rain over the music the drum rattles my bedframe buzzes up through my feet propped against the mattress there's an empty space left until i roll over into it impatiently (I've left it for you) when home is home and it is without you just as with you how should i stare at my white ceiling disconnected inside barely had a world to find comfort tell me I mean something to someone someone (you)
Whiteness streaks the grey tonight
Soft in its essence, strong in my throat
Cold at a glance, warm on my skin
it drifts, listless and lonely
and we breathe to the tune of helicopter blades
Thrumming overhead like bass guitar undertones
Heavy and dark like the sky littered with the storm
my head is full of clouds
smothering every nerve in my body until I can’t feel your being next to mine
you say it’s bad for me
as you stare up into the clouds that aren’t part of me
Swirling over our heads
I say I don’t care
we’re lit by moonlight
But the orange of the streetlights cuts the cold of the light away
let go let go
I’ve been told it’s a sin
this taste, this smoke
your taste; the smoke from the barrel of your gun
well if im a sinner then strike me down
cause the taste of your lips is the serpent’s apple
but there they go
The clouds in my head
out past my lips to twirl in the night air
you say it’s getting late
I say it’s only early
i’ll tap my fingers on your thigh if you’d like
next time im dressed
dressed to the nines
dolled up and ready for blood
cause im not going to ruin this lipstick
not when we have things to do
for the thrill of your touch i will shamefully lust
as you tell me we're nothing but trouble
my bones are on fire.
could i get any more ridiculous?
you're the cherry on my cigarette
chasing after midnight with you
can we stay here nothing else that i want to do
what am I supposed to say now
now that we're here
like a filled sail, pulling a vessel in the monsoon as we kiss in the rain
i beat like a drum heavy as we kiss in the dry
we kiss in the rain. sweetly.
and then you kiss me in the hall
the air punched from my lungs
your hands on my skin and now i'm losing my mind
it's a wonder to let myself feel
and i close my eyes and you're there
right there
against my lips and my chest and my hips
and you're there
hot and flushed and breathless
and there you take my throat
i swear you've done something to my mind
because i cannot think at all
because everything becomes you
lucky you're holding me as tight as you are
my legs are weak and you haven't let go yet
my eyes are still closed but i feel as open as our lips are
as stupid as this sounds but
you're tearing me apart and holding me together
and i can't put enough words together in my head to even try thanking you
to tell you how incredible this is
and your fingers tighten just
it's an incredible rush you have no idea
(you definitely do)
adrenaline; looking off the ledge and seeing nothing because everything is white
numb pounding that buzzes just below my jaw
i'm hardly surprised but at the same time
The more the storm tonight, the lesser I become. If I am but rain. One would say to such an emotion as one is starlit; fanciful. You're a dreamer. Stars that mark my day they tell me this, remind me I'm too given to tales Tales of "Dear profound," "Dear wonderful," "Dear darling." If I am but liar. Disassociated. What we would like to call it. Cannot do so because such a thing is not to be self-discovered Not to be mocked or thought without cause to think even when one cannot think at all If I am but weak. Muscles burning with exhaustion. Eyes aching with sleep. Ears ringing with noise. If I am but so, so tired.
Isaac. that's my name, isn't it. flipped on it's head on the binary and there it is. i'm Isaac. i've still got an i and an s, and while the double a's aren't dissimilar, i'll have to get used to a c. i don't know if i will. Isaac is short and sweet. straight-backed, he's strong. he knows he can, he knows he will confident in what he does and who he is. he is proud of his steps. Isabella is short and sweet. slouched, she's tired. she knows she can't, knows she won't unsure in what she does and who she is. she is not proud. Izzy is short and sweet. i'm left right up down and backwards, i don't know who i am. i don't know if i'm proud, don't know if i'm cowardice idiot not them again coward i'm left right up down and backwards none of us know which one is best.
I'm so tired, I'm lying in bed and I should be sleeping. School's tomorrow, but technically today because it's 12:08 am. I hardly understand anything about myself anymore, I'm tired, so goddamn tired but I'm annoyingly awake and I can't sleep. I'm tossing and turning under this thin sheet because I'm partially too warm and partially can't be bothered finding my hoodie. My skin itches and crawls as I twist again and again trying and failing to get comfortable. It's not like I don't know why because I do, god I do, and it's driving me crazy. Pants riding low I thumb over my hip and imagine it's your warm hand on my skin, scrape my fingers down my side and imagine they're yours. Finally reach down for my duvet and let it rest close along my back and imagine it's you. It's 12:13 now and I've spent five minutes whining about you, to myself. Pathetic, right? Not that I could possibly tell anyone else without getting that "God would you shut up" look. I'm a hopeless cause, and yet you still turn up, week after week to tell me you love me and kiss me as you mean it. 12:16 now and I've only written two sentences in three minutes and what does that show? I can't even find the words anymore. I hate repeating myself but nothing else will do for now because I hate that I might come across with something I didn't intend and then everything goes to shit but damn I miss you and I love you and I hate that I can't be with you every night even though I know I can't possibly do anything about it for a long while. 12:19 and I miss you and I love you and I hate that I can't hold you.
There's something missing to my bed tonight, and I know that it's you. It's not hard to tell, and I'm not going to sugar it up with some fanciful words or a nostalgic song. You are missing from my side tonight, as you are every Sunday every day that ends in 'y'. I find myself immersed in yesterday's memories as I miss you; the way you bit your lip as my fingernails traced your stomach or that unwitting shiver when I smoothed my palm over your hip. There, and you gasp quietly again, my lips quirking to a smile as I watched the way yours close just as quickly as they parted. I'm a fool in love, I know. But nonetheless this fool wonders if she'll ever see a more beautiful sight as your head tilted back over her thigh, eyes shut gently as she kisses your neck and scrapes her fingers over your abdomen. "To the moon and back," she will say. I will say. Tell you what you've told me, ask you as you've asked me. I've lost track of things now fallen down a rabbit-hole to yesterday's love. Quite as mess I've made here. As per usual. This can't be salvaged anymore, unsurprisingly. But. In an attempt. Here's to goodnight, apart but never quite alone. Here's to almost-discovery, more pattern than profound. Here's to our messes, and possibly the worst way to end a poem.
I want to step back
to see and not seen
to hear and not heard
to witness and not witnessed
I want to step back
and not exist.
just for a while.
drift like an ethereal being
nothing more
nothing less
than a cool breeze
or a deep sigh
so I step back.
I close my eyes
My heart and my lungs
My hands and my fears
and then
I catch her scent;
It's home and it's safe and it's perfect and it's love
I catch his name;
it's calm and it's identity and it's gorgeous and it's their's
I step forward.
back again,
and I exist.
I am seen
I am heard
I am witnessed
I do not drift;
their hand is in mine
thought in my palm like a hot stone
(to the anon who I believe asked me through this blog, I answered on my main one :P and reference for any other anons, I'll probably always answer on there, so)
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