Static In The Margins

[staticinthemargin]

Furled

Furled. alone. purgatory. limbo?

Nighttime: a looping hellscape.

Daytime: fashionably late.

Shadows creeping, twitches uncontrolled.

Overstimulating silence compounding chaos.

The balance doesn't fit.

Questioning words: turning themselves upside down.

Glaring at the phone like it's the enemy.

How do I find a balance that fits?

Solace found unexpectedly in numbers –

they don't lie, can't deceive.

Honest confusion – no games – truth.

Venturing into the world: no longer needed.

Ignoring friends. Safer for them – and me.

It's the only way to find my balance.

Monstrous white pills to keep the monsters away.

Mist turns to fog and darkness – can't think.

Never finding balance – not really.

Furled and waiting for the pendulum to swing—

bring me into the light.

Maybe soon.

[staticinthemargin]

All they need to see

I died again recently.

For days,

I was a corpse –

it was necessary. Essential.

I rotted some too.

Just enough.

To delay

the next

inevitable

demise.

The tomb: a self-constructed,

airless vault;

delaying re animation.

Drawing out numbness.

On the surface,

I haven’t changed –

camouflage-smiles.

That’s all they need to see.

[staticinthemargin]

Only a veg knife

TW: retelling of child abuse, no detail, representative of trauma processing, possible dissociation.

“What was it like growing up?” He asked.

His voice was measured, gentle, kind.

My heart should’ve been loud.

I should have gasped.

But instead I laughed.

Almost.

“Not great. But not that bad.” I replied.

A soft smile. A sigh. His eyes turned sad.

Like he knew.

“Grounding was hard,” I told him.

“They locked me in a room

No key needed.

– I had a bucket though!”

His face did a million different things.

“I wasn’t an easy child,” was all I could add.

He stood and washed some pots.

Glancing at me.

Plotting.

“You said you were stabbed.”

I swallowed. Did he notice?

“Yeah. I tried to help her.

Made him mad.

Left home that night.”

“It was only a veg knife.”

He stopped what he was doing.

Shook his head as he dried his hands.

“Only a veg knife.”

He repeats to himself more than me.

He flicks the kettle on.

“Is it hard to talk about?”

He’s so calm and soft

and caring.

“It’s only facts. Facts without emotion.”

I almost sing as my eyes burn.

He nods in a way that

disagrees.

“Tell me what it was like for you.”

I whisper. And swallow. And smile.

Did my voice break?

“I like to hear happy stories.”

[staticinthemargin]

Untitled

She was beautiful –

on the outside.

She was a victim.

And I was hers.

Her laugh was magical…

But scary.

Her hair was perfect.

Devilish red with a hint of grey.

He was tall, young and handsome.

A loud brute.

He listened to music.

When it was safe.

He had trauma –

he paid it forward.

She was worshipped,

by a child who knew no better.

He was feared.

By everyone who knew him well…enough.

She was smart –

except with him.

He was stupid.

That’s what people thought.

My life was happy.

On occasion.

My life was normal.

a lie I refuse to give up.

My life was hell.

The truth I need to learn.

[staticinthemargin]

Open door

There’s an open door

I refuse to close.

Just in case…

We’ll revisit.

It’s been agreed.

Love was enough,

wasn’t it?

Nope.

That was wrong.

In this moment

anyway.

Distance became the enemy.

So did love.

And work.

And time.

And life.

Home felt like a cage:

Too small.

Too far.

Too empty.

Love made me lonely.

How does that work?

I missed his smell.

His touch.

His voice.

His smile.

Love is still there –

clinging to us both.

Is this purgatory?

An open door

that I refuse

to close.

[the-silent-troubadour]

i will

hold you

up

if you

hold me

down

cause

there’ll be times when

i’ll fly too high

to come back down

[serendipityscrible-deactivated2]

Missing you comes in waves, and tonight, I’m drowning in them.

[quaintobsessions]

Brigid’s Forge

The light changes at a liminal hour in another time zone.

Brigid, goddess with a healer's face, watches from her mural over sparse traffic

as a woman crosses, her bare hands stained purple.

If you savoured me like a ripe fruit –

a blackberry, fresh-picked from among protective thorns –

the aftertaste would alter your voice

the way brambles change the mountainside;

the way crude metal is changed by flame.

Something shifts when you think in one another’s phrases.

Shared tongue, shared rhythms, shared care –

before dawn, vivid colour

trickles, like a tart burst of juice, into your greyscale dream –

and I walk on, hypnotised by the light in Brigid’s eyes.

[staticinthemargin]

Untitled

What does mental health mean to you?

For me it's the happy days.

The sad days –

the days I wish I wasn't.

It's every day, every minute, every micro second.

Looking at the clutter building.

Hearing my voice change.

Seeing people look at me different…

With concern.

My bath being delayed… for days.

Organising everything: books, clothes, cupboards.

Cleaning carpets every week.

Writing becomes ritual – escapism.

Jobs half started before distraction

then dropped for something new

Thinking the world is against me

Or everyone in it loves me

Forgetting to eat

Eating too much

Sleeping

Watching people live their lives

Being cautious

Suddenly silent

Can't trust

Can't sleep

Mental health for me is never knowing.

Is today good or bad or meh?

[staticinthemargin]

Memories of you

Jars of screws

floating

under shelves

of tools.

Forks and spades

hanging

neatly on a

wall.

Books.

Stacked.

Tall.

On.

Every.

Surface.

Polo wrappers

scat-

terd

amongst the

clutter.

A desk

so clean

it looks

out of place.

[staticinthemargin]

Rumination

Worse than night terrors

Rumination each long night

Sleep leaves me restless

[thertg]

we scratch against a river

that flows out of our chests

as a mountain of melancholy

grows within every breath

we whisper into ourselves.

—RTG

[staticinthemargin]

Annotations

I take Sharpie to skin:

writing,

doodling,

making notes.

Adding to his ink.

He watches

smiling

laughing –

saying sorry

when I’m nudged.

His fingers

Run though my hair:

soft,

gentle,

comforting.

We call them annotations.

Scribbles about the day.

How it felt.

What was done.

What wasn’t?

Today was good –

mostly…

I watch him breathe.

Watch him flinch –

he’s sensitive there.

I smile.

He replies.

Nonsense added

to skin.

Secrets shared –

but safe.

They’ll be hidden.

Then washed away.

Cleansed from my mind.

Cleansed from his body.

Cleansed from the world.

Less thinking.

[wordx]

[staticinthemargin]

...

I'm torn.

Hopeful but wary.

Hardened but soft.

Confident

but waiting

for the other

shoe to

drop.

I lead.

Control in a gentle way.

Mostly.

Trusting but withheld.

Giving

but expecting

to be

denied.

I'm smitten.

Loving you

with

more volume

than

I need.

It's loud.

Deafening.

Do I smother?

I deserve to be loved –

so I'm told.

But it scares me.

I'd rather

do the loving

and get

nothing

in return.

That's safe.

But…

I want it

so much –

what you want

to give.

I'd hold it.

Grasp it.

Wouldn't let go.

Do I hand over the reins?

Do I truly let you in?

Can I trust you with that part of me?

[staticinthemargin]

He's Back

Watching him become.

My greatest privilege.

Handsome becomes pretty.

Shy becomes daring.

Confidence screams across an ocean.

I want to hold him.

Pull him close.

Whisper in his ear.

Place gentle kisses in his hair.

The pull is killing me – as it should.

Hearing it thrills me.

Tonal changes filling spaces.

Pitch shifts ringing around me.

Healing audibly evident.

My confident boy’s demure.

Movements change visibly.

He sits taller.

Head held proud.

Posture almost… tight.

Perfection personified.

A deep breath.

Tears.

Joy.

Smiles and giggles.

He's back.

[somewordsarebiggerthanothers]