A gentle buzzing and then the ringing begins, however, it's stopped almost simultaneously. At this point I can turn my alarm off I my sleep - my fingers don't fumble - they slip up to the ledge, swiftly tugging the chord and muting the alarm for another five minutes. I repeat this seven times, sometimes more. I force my eyes open, luring myself out of the quilt; leaving only with the promise of coffee. I lope heavily, dragging my limbs to the kitchen. I fill the kettle, flick it to boil and stand, impatiently waiting. Some would use this time to urinate, or shower-or-something. I don't. I cannot function until my cup is brimmed with milky-brown liquid. I slowly ready myself, alarms periodicaly chiming to let me know how fast I need to move. I slip out, cigarette bent between two fingers, lit before the door has even closed behind me. Gingerly pacing, I chug along to the train station, where I stand in line, in my place; the same place; and I continue chugging, until I reach the glassy, revolving doors. I'll take a deep breath, like I'm preparing to dive deep - and I guess I am, because I'll stay here for 9 hours of my day. Squashed behind three screens, knees bent akwardly, squirming in my seat. At five-fifty-nine, I type goodbye and eagerly wait to hit enter, smashing my laptop closed. In one swift motion, my arms are draped through my coat sleeves and my bag has mounted my back - and I'm gone. No looking back, the glass doors are already revolving behind me. I'm practically running, giddy with time, over-flowing with the countless prospects of how to use my diminishing minutes. I clamber up six flights of stairs, too impatient to wait for the elevator to touch down. I colapse for an hour or so. Drained, the day running through my brain. I wash clothes. I clean tupperware. I cook food. I eat. I shower. I cry. I laugh. I cry again. I crawl into bed, and somehow, I repeat. There's some small variations but more or less I do this day-in-day-out. Over and over and over, again and again and again. A gentle buzzing and then the ringing begins, however, it's stopped almost simultaneously. At this point I can turn my alarm off I my sleep - I swing my legs out of bed, and plant both feet on the ground. I feel purpose. I feel good. I skip coffee. I urinate. I shower-or-something. I slip out. My skin is tingling. I'm giddy with time. I'm actually running. Heels padding to the ground, rhythmically gaining speed. I can see the the sun peaking over the horizon. It's getting closer, warm rays spilling into the sky. I'm crying, still running. I see the waters edge. I'm crying, still running. Treading water until I'm forced to bow down. I swim. I'm angry. I swim. I can't. I swim. I've had enough. I swim. I cry. I swim. I scream. I swim... I swim, until I can't feel anymore. I feel so much nothing, that suddenly, I feel everything. The whole world comes pouring in. I can feel it all, every single drop of liquid sunshine in my veins. Every morsel consumed and released back into open air, drifting -

And then, there's nothing. Not even me.

I can still hear the sharp acridity in your voice. The lemon-edged blade, bringing me to my brink -

But it's the syrupy tones of the aftermath that haunt me the most. The dulcet lick of your tongue, whipping words together like Chantilly cream. You're the cat, but I'm the one with my tail in between my legs; rolling over and surrendering my pink under-belly so you can scratch it and call me a good girl.

Tripping down the tippling floral lane

Tumbling forward like daisys on a chain

Turning over and over

Rolling stones and clovers

Salty sun kisses

Blessing my cheeks

I miss alot

But I look forward to more

When one window closes

I can open a door

I'm holding up so much more

than I can carry

Down down

Down down

Burst wide

Open

Split at my seams

Pouring out sunshine

Light rays and beams

It's not my job to fix you

It's not yours to fix me

We start again as separates

Now let's be free

I wear my noose like a necklace,

depression hanging limply,

anxiety draping heavily.

LOOK AT MY PAIN!!

LOOK HOW I COPE!!

LOOK HOW I WEAR MY NOOSE LIKE A NECKLACE!

- so pretty, so diseased.

Tell me I’m strong,

tell me I’m so good for holding on.

Tell me you don’t know how you would cope,

as I tie the knot on my noose,

on my pretty little rope.

Choking gently

on your praise.

nobody hurts like me.

That’s what I was like

I think

Begging to be told I’m strong

A reason for feeling all these things

a reason to feel like I belong.

Confirmation from outward sources,

because I can’t soothe myself.

But I’m learning.

I’ll hang my noose, early

not with death,

but on the coat stand,

a safety rope if I need it

to regress

but I’m going to move forward,

leave that life behind.

Self love - a crown of daisy chains

a necklace made of hope

a happier peace of mind

God, that was hard.

We left it until the very end.

Dividing up the polaroids.

Sitting outside the airport, tears flowing down our faces.

Our cheeks stained with salt from the past week.

Our eyes, red as could be.

So many memories,

and so many more that we never photographed.

We always got too lost in the moment to remember.

We sifted through them, one-by-one,

reminiscing about all those tender times,

the rollercoaster, that had been our lives.

We each kept our favourites.

It's hard to choose just one.

As I recall them on my own,

without you by my side,

tears streaming down my cheeks,

on my own,

my favourite is the one where we are baking.

I love-love-loved cooking together.

I have always been a chef,

and I was supposed to teach you how to cook,

but you were the one who taught me about food.

You gave me the ability to nourish, and feed myself,

gave me the courage, to love myself.

You helped me on my way to repairing my relationship

with food.

So, yes, I taught you how to cook, but you taught me how to eat.

And for that, I will forever be grateful.

The polaroid is of us, laughing, giddily.

My sister is behind the camera, with her now fiance.

I'm pretending to hit you with a spoon,

your hands out-stretched, and up-high,

your face wide with fake-fear.

I can see that smile in your eyes.

It makes me laugh everytime.

And cry,

but with happiness.

I can smell that house. The incense burning in the background.

The smell of coconut oil, and lavender.

The smell of you.

I'm trying not to rememeber

all of our moments

through rose-tinted glasses.

It's hard.

I think because we shared so much joy.

We laughed so hard.

We were so silly, and light,

for people touched by such darkness and plight.

Nostalgia is a funny thing.

Happy tinged with sad.

Or is it sad tinged with happy?

I don't know. I dosn't matter really.

I do know, that as much as I miss these moments,

and as much as I miss you,

we will make more memories.

More photographs will be taken.

Just not yet.

I need not be sad, when

there is so much happy to come.

Patience will be our virtue.

I will keep collecting memories,

so that we have things to share,

when we are ready to be part of eachothers lives again.

I will always remember my tiny basement room. Our cave.

We spent hours, days, weeks - hiding away.

It was not long after it all happened..

After she tried to kill herself,

that we moved in.

You were so tall, and the walls were so low.

But it was perfect. It was what we needed.

A little space to call our own.

But that’s when the changes began. The deepness rolling through your bones.

Death, and almost-death, changes you. I should know.

Trauma. Traumatic events, making you bend and bow.

Folding into your head.

You screamed - “DON’T LOOK AT ME!!”

- and hid under a pile of blankets and pillows.

I wasn’t allowed to touch you sometimes. So fragile, so tender.

Other times, you couldn’t bare not to be held. So delicate and subdued.

You melted into yourself, as I mothered and cared for you.

Holding you while you cried. Bathing together in a smoke-filled tub.

Loving you, even when you became manic, and depressive,

needing every part of me.

I poured my light over and through you, completly.

Sometimes, it feels so unfair; that I carried you through this, and myself;

and you still left me.

You couldn’t handle me.

You got better. Well, maybe?

You got different.

There was a space she made that night, inside of you,

that I just couldn’t fill.

I just can’t fill.

I’m proud of you, really, for finally giving yourself this time.

For trying to pour your own light into yourself.

But it still hurts, I’m still in pain.

I hold no blame. This is life. This is love.

But it still hurts.

and I’m still in pain.

Sleeping on our floor bed, playing toss the ball in the hole.

We tried so many things, took up so many hobbies in that room.

We would trapes around charity shops, collecting games, and things to do.

Dim music, and reading in softly lit corners.

Blanket forts and talking about the deepest parts of ourselves.

The silence, that was always comfortable.

I loved it all. Every part of it.

Even our darkest moments.

It was real. It was us.

Our foundations were strong, but the land on which we chose to build,

was soft and low-slung. Even the people with the greenest fingers would have struggled to grow something lasting here.

One of my fondest memories, is making origami.

I watched, as you’d chew your tounge with concentration.

You were so good at it, and I was terrible.

Your brain worked like that- intricately and steps ahead.

You showed me how. Step-by-step, we would fold together.

Once a teacher, always a teacher. You had such patience.

We sat for hours, in our glowing cave, folding, crimping, crumpling;

crumbling together.

You were so delicate. Just like those pieces of paper.

Once you make a fold, you can’t unfold it. Well, you can, but you will always see that first fold. It will always be there, visible to the trained eye.

And I suppose that’s like a trauma brain -

once the trauma has been made, you can’t undo it.

You can flatten it, and it can be unfolded, but that dent,

that dent, will always be there.

You will always see the trauma, in some form.

It will change, and lessen, but it will always be there.

And that is why, I can wish you the best.

That is why I can understand.

Why I can let you go, so peacefully.

Why I can’t hold you back.

I have to let you find your spark again.

I have to let you grow.

To find a new groove, that fits this era of your life.

Maybe one day, we will find eachother again.

Maybe we can find new land, to place our foundations and build.

But maybe not.

I know that we will see eachother on the otherside, when we are older and wiser.

A spark reignited in us both.

We will come full-circle, as you so fondly say.

Just in a different way.

So, until then,

I will hold my poorly folded penguin, so close to my heart,

and remember the sweetness of our love,

the sweetness of our possibilities.

Always.

Everybody thinks I'm doing well.

Resilient and forward thinking.

And I am.

But oh

my

god

this hurts.

I cant deal with my pain right now.

I'll sink and drown at the bottom of my ocean

if I sit for too long

soaking in my salty sea.

Self-preserving four.

Let them think youre happy.

Help them with there problems

so they dont know how much

youre struggling.

Get out of my head to

get out of my bed.

Early rising.

Fix my sleep.

Fix my eyes so

they cant peep

into your life

where I want to be.

Traumatic dramatics.

I am at peace.

But I am also

losing pieces

of myself.

I'll fix the holes with gold

and new

and old

and I will be what I will be -

that smoothie-drinking-hippy

who's oh-so-happy

It's a strange and peculiar feeling;

to sit with ones demons,

so comfortably.

I bathe in the waters of my afflictions

with a great stillness.

A calming sense of love, and fullness

- comforted by my demons.

To wallow in the pain,

to stew in my own filth and dirt,

to be oh-so-comfy with disgust.

It's how I've always been

- comfortable with my own discomfort -

a place all of my own

where no-one dares to trudge.

My soul lays bare,

for me to see,

and now,

my demons are free

to be,

whoever they wish,

away from me,

but they sit, in comfort,

by my side,

and in my mind.

I'm thankful.

Why do I keep playing the victim?

God.

I wish I knew.

It's all I've ever known.

This pain.

I don't know where I acquired it,

but it found me,

at birth.

Bore with a heavy heart.

It has taken me so long,

to realise,

the toxicity of these patterns,

but I'm ready to change.

To use myself in a more positive manner.

Creating

not destroying.

Building.

No longer the victim

I will play.

This is life.

It's a game,

but I'm choosing a new story,

a new role to play.

We have always been so separate.

There is me,

and my body.

The vessel in which my soul chose to reside.

We would coincide

-occasionaly,

one over-riding the other.

I've always been in my head.

Living half a life.

The dissociation,

cutting us up,

pulling our gummy strings on reality.

The slow beating of our drums,

dulling,

waiting to reach crescendo,

but never quite getting there in the right way.

Loud booming emotions,

crashing together

like a storm.

But here we are,

gradualy building ourselves up,

as one.

we need to be one to survive.

to LIVE.

and be ALIVE.

We are ready to join forces.

Make the perfect storm.

We are the peace before,

the crashing winds during,

and the tranquility after.

WE ARE ONE.

WE ARE WHOLE.

Welcoming eachother home,

to reside as lovers

of ourself.

Passionatly,

we fall

head

over

heels

in love

with our own truth.

Finally,

We can breath,

and love,

and be loved in return.