REBECCA JAYNE HIGGINS

Mid twenties perpetual teenager hailing from the Midlands who writes extremely amateurishly about leaving, mainly. Purveyor of attempting to be funny and/or charming on the internet. Beer drinker. Jack of all trades, master of none.

[rebeccajaynehiggins]

"Sweetheart", she told me, her voice thick with surprised humour and regret; "The world was always going to eat you alive".

[rebeccajaynehiggins]

I don't want you to feign sadness or even apathy at the current state of affairs I am tied to.  I want you to call me, late, surprisingly, wake me from frustrated sleep and tell me the things I imagine, on cold lunch breaks, alone, in March, that I want to hear.  Provide me with the drama that I need so I can rid myself of you, in an over the top manner, in public, in front of sympathetic passersby, cigarette lit, for effect.  I want you to care for me in some way, at least, but if that is too much or not enough for you to stay, then I want you to fuck me over.  I want you to call me on the selfishness that I thrive on.  I want you to forget all of the good times we have had in the ways in which I cannot.  I want you to let me know that it is finally at an end.  I want you to be vicious.  I need you to make a move, because I cannot.  If you stay still, I will leave.  You are smoke, inevitably within me, second hand, inhaled at every opportunity because I need it.  You are toxic and I am vapor. 

[rebeccajaynehiggins]

Moving 250 miles north from the town I knew and safety of the Midlands has made me understand, finally, that it’s okay to take chances, perhaps not thrive in them, and move for the sake of leaving and doing something new, not just for any real or legit reason. It has also made me understand that I need to keep moving because apparently I could never stay in one place for too long, aside from Northampton. And it has made me realize that I will probably end up back right near where I started, in London, because despite trying to argue against it I miss the smog, and the fact that it is totally flat, the stupidly over populated boroughs and never being able to meet the extortionate rent on time. I miss the slightly more tropical weather and not being able to walk across the whole city in less than an hour. I miss being perpetually late, despite leaving in plenty of time. I miss having friends in different pockets scattered throughout and the option of always having someone to go to. I miss the diversity and not following the same routes everyday. I am, in my heart, completely tied to that place and the middle of England. And it always lets me back in.

[rebeccajaynehiggins]

MILES

You tell me that I am unreliable

and that my preference for leaving

is the contention

for you;

but you are distant

from me

in far more

damaging

ways.

[rebeccajaynehiggins]

Untitled

At first

I don’t see you,

just the hospital bed,

tangles of tubes,

wires,

the years we spent distanced

in the air,

thick like tar,

honey.

  The problems I hoard,

leave weathered by claw marks

are insignificant in an instant;

Dissipate when you call

my name.

  I leave you,

the shoulder of my shirt damp,

limbs heavy.

One foot in front

of the other,

but,

barely.

  You will get better.

We will be better.

[rebeccajaynehiggins]

The stories I could tell of how you let me down are ongoing.  The ways in which you make me feel like shit cannot be counted because you will continue to do so, unknowingly. But the thought of you, here, your unapologetic presence, the ways in which you casually let me know that you could leave at any second and not give it another thought - I stand close to the railings, run my fingers across the metal, consider it, fleetingly.

[rebeccajaynehiggins]

The Bed

February ending,

already,

and it's colder

without you,

here.

I used to smoke in your room,

made ashtrays out of

plastic bottles

and made my bed out of your

cold arms.

My pillow was the way my head

would fit too comfortably on your shoulder,

living constantly in the space between your

contentment

and distance.

Two years in limbo

is a long time.

Buying Amber Leaf tobacco for the first time

in as long,

finished in days.

I continue

to refer to myself

as a casual smoker.

It’s not just you

I yearn for.

[rebeccajaynehiggins]

March

Perspective is seldom gained through the rare, good shit

that happens.

[rebeccajaynehiggins]

Hideaway

A good thing

about waking up

this morning

was that at least my body

was still in tact.

I still feel you, hidden,

in the subtlest

of places.

[rebeccajaynehiggins]

The Hymn for Leonard Cohen

Regrettably,

I miss London,

specifically,

South West Sixteen,

South West Nineteen,

North West Five.

Unlike Darren Hayman

we ached and worked too much,

never shared baths in the winter and

never took drugs

in the daytime,

lived too far from the coastline to

pay the fare

to visit.

But we spent our days

not getting up -

avoided that tricky stuff -

our problems soothed and

given merit by the voice of

Leonard Cohen,

warped,

through the record player.

I remember it well.

[rebeccajaynehiggins]

The Distance

You find sanctuary

in avoiding

saying what you need

to

and

I find home in the tangles of

your hair

your hands, cold

from rolling cigarettes in November.

[rebeccajaynehiggins]

What You Don't Learn in Art School

I draw lines because the inexplicable lack of direction

and constant mechanism of repetition

of paper and pen

is a comfort,

a distinct opposition to

you.

A motion that lifts weights.

I do not think.

Hey,

I call, and you're leaving,

a scenario that is ongoing,

inexplicably lacking direction,

I started drawing again.

But not you.

[rebeccajaynehiggins]

Faking It

Morning,

and I wake up,

the same

lack of possibility,

but,

a new dawn.

[rebeccajaynehiggins]

Northampton

I gave myself an ultimatum:

It’s just a simple case of leaving,

and I will not spend another 12 months

listening to ‘This Year’.

Crossing my fingers.

Because you are what you love,

unfortunately,

and I am not

that town.

I will thrive in its absence.

But.

It is constant:

Inevitably in my blood.

I am 250 miles away from where I need

to be,

and I can’t count the hours I have spent missing,

from Northampton.

[rebeccajaynehiggins]

The Natural History

Parked outside of the union of the medical school

that I do not attend but which pays my bills,

almost,

and supports my bad habits,

tobacco, and my Holsten Pils

six packs,

(weekly),

the usual suspects:

the blood truck.

Nobody wants mine.

The passive

aggressive

obsessive

compulsive

anemic

chain smoker,

in my veins,

a hard sell.

Students,

with more money

than sense and more money than me,

questioning:

How do microsporidia import iron?

Why do we hate certain sounds?

Does exposure to maternal obesity and weight gain during pregnancy influence epigenetic profiles in offspring?

Is nicotine rewarding to honeybees?

I am out of my element.