I want my face resting restless against your clavicle

I want to feel your breath leave slow and shallow at the edges of sleep

I want your hand resting restless on my hip and our fingers curled around each other

I want sleep to come upon me, intoxicating

I want sleep to smother me in you

I want sleep to wrap us both, calm

I want your frame to swallow my restless restlessness and wake with you by my side

some days im the only one in my mind.

alone in a way i never am usually.

people think the madness comes from my friends,

the others inside me, inside my head, inside my mind, inside my stories.

but it comes from the times when all those people are scared away by society

and i am left to wonder

who am i without them?

who am i without seven other versions of me waiting to come out?

who am i when im on my own?

some days im the only one in my mind.

and on those days, run from me.

without my others to lean on, i never know what i might do.

i could kiss you, i could beat you half to death, and i wont remember it in the morning.

mad always has two meanings.

rage and crazy.

but for me the two arent all that seperate.

i sometimes dream about violent things.

but among my friends, im the only one,

and killing makes you a monster, no matter what the reason.

....right?

sometimes i dont know who i am.

sometimes thats a good thing,

because whatever lurks under my skin,

i dont want to meet it.

id rather hide behind an alternate version of me, one with a semblance of sanity,

than let loose the monster of identity.

mirror shatters

into thousand pieces

of my perfection,

tread on me

bare feet

let each piece

cut deep into your skin

i’ll taste your pain

and drink myself

into a stupor

on your bad blood.

trip on my worth

fall on your knees

take a better look

at my high standing

from where you

crawl your ground

in agony and

lose your grip

on my vanity.

open your eyes,

self-righteousness

never blind me

even in the brightest truth

and the darkest side of me

i still can see

that your low quality

and inferiority

are the triggers

to an extension

of my dark,

you can never see

that i’m right.

flawless sinner, fucking peasant.

Pic: ©Fabrizio Ara

Sweet jasmine’s scent tickles my nose

Sun’s rays caress and pink cheeks

Fresh lavender’s fragrance flows

Coral poppies sway; lotus peeks

Spring breaks the winter chill’s back

Emerging from dismal, cold weeks

Gone are the trees, once with lack

Spring imbues life as she speaks

Flora, awakened; immortal

Baptized in the snow melt and rain

Cascading the canyons; creeks babble

With the birds of song; Spring’s refrain

Mountainsides splashed and adorned

Pastel hues poured, here and there

My heart once impatient; forlorned

Rejoices that Spring’s in the air

As my mind reminisces and ponders

The beauty and true miracle

When nature and seasons, asunder

Resurrect unto life, tangible

Photo Credit: Betty Hall Photography

How do I describe

In seventeen syllables

One who defines me?

#haiku describe love challenge

Tincture: pain and suffering

Steeped in soul's deep waters

Seeping leaves whose fragrance yields

Reminders for the latter

Drink of sorrow’s bitterness

Tinged, once it imbues

Impressing on my senses

Pain’s taste and residue

Searing in my memory

The why, I’m suffering

So when I near the trigger ’gain

I fear that which it brings

Six.

A scream and a crash. Something wasn’t right. The pitch was higher than normal, filled with more fear than anger, and the silence that followed was a nightmare in and of itself.

Six.

She held her eyes tight. If she just kept her eyes closed she couldn’t see. If she couldn’t see then nothing would happen. And naturally, if nothing happened then she couldn’t relive it in her sleep later.

Six.

Glass broke. Her delicate fingers curled into small, fretful fists. More screams. And then the crying in her closet. She squeezed her eyes just a bit tighter to hold back the burning salt water before opening them.

Six.

Her tiny irises slowly focused on the gentle light pouring from the shelf over her bed. A miniature castle all softly lit, light streaming through the rose window panes. Her whole room blushing in the night as it watched her dream.

Six.

Her gaze hung in the sparkling castle windows. If she slept in that castle, it would probably be quiet. Like the world had breathed in and would hold it until the morning. She’d fall to sleep to dream with a rose flush covering her and the walls, and wake to the pale yellow of the sun bathing her in daybreak. And as her eyes opened the world would exhale and she’d take in her first morning breaths.

Six.

Volume poured in from the room down the hall and the crying in the closet picked back up. A heavy sigh and dainty footsteps carried her to the small voice.

Six.

She held onto the petite hands and smiled. Her finger drug gently across the bridge of the nose and her mouth shushed and hushed. The tears slowed and the breathing calmed. And as the storm slowly seemed to quell and pass, the tiny faces began to rest.

Six.

Wood split. Screams echoed through their dreams. Booming, foreign voices tearing into the night. And she woke with a start. And she must see what calamity exploded just past her almost closed door.

Six.

Mama?

Six.

And he sat. Tears streaming. Feet planted squarely on the carpet to the side of the bed. Glittering puddles of glass strewn across the floor. Clothes hung from the drawers in front of him, tangled around each other from being dug through in haste. The tv box playing static, and the lighting low.

Six.

And all around were the men in black. Bright lights held at their waists. Slow, deep voices dangling in the air where there should be the steady, quiet breathing of sleep.

Six.

Mama?!

Six.

And the tears pinched at her eyes. And her voice hung up somewhere in her throbbing chest.

Six.

Six.

No, baby! Go back to your room! Take your sister back, baby! It’s not safe!

Six.

Six.

Six.

Six.

Six.

And with his eyes vacant and staring, he sat. Feet planted squarely on the carpet to the side of the bed. And his hand rested on cold metal, held as tightly as a lifeline, pushing deep into his temple.

Six.

Six.

Six.

Six.

Six.

Six.

And that’s when the dreams ceased and the nightmares became unending.

Stacey stood in the kitchen balancing a variety of chores. Whilst the washing machine was on spin cycle, she washed up and cleaned the surfaces of the kitchen. She kept a watchful eye on her son Davie in the room next door, playing Buckaroo and giggling every time the horse eventually shrugged off the plastic items. He’d requested that ‘mummy play’ with him, but she couldn’t handle the game itself. When she tried playing it with him, her chest constricted and she trembled. The first time the horse bucked on the Christmas day, it rattled her so bad, she’d hurried off to the toilet to hide the tears that the panic caused.

Her husband, Steve, was at work. She felt awful that Davie had no-one to play with and once she’d finished cleaning, she would pull out a less stressful game or a book to spend more time with him. As if aware of her thoughts, Davie turned round and smiled at her, which she returned. The sun shone through the small window in the living room of their terraced house. The rays beamed onto Davie’s head, highlighting the tight blonde curls and making them luminescent. He looked like an angel.

‘Heart of Glass’ by Blondie rang out from the record player she loved. Her friends extolled the virtues of the cassette tape, but she’d stuck with her trusty device. She would stack her singles up on the spindle and one would drop as soon as another finished. She didn’t want a tape dictating what music she listened to in what order. Davie shuffled around on his backside in time to the music occasionally turning back towards her for approval. She again smiled back and returned a little mimicked dance of her own as she sped up the house-work to pay him more attention.

As she placed the crockery back into its assigned places, she noticed Davie had stopped dancing and now stood up, looking around the room with awe. She strained her neck to observe what he looked at, wondering if a bird had flown in. She saw nothing, but Davie appeared intent, checking every wall and corner for something she was unable to perceive. Eventually his eyes rested on her. His eyes filled with tears, but he didn’t make a sound. Usually if he was upset, he would bawl unselfconsciously. He seemed embarrassed and turned away wiping his eyes. She approached as she noticed his tiny fists clenching. She reached him and put her arms round him.

- What’s wrong Davie?

She sensed him tense as she wrapped her arms around him and his body racked with silent sobs as she squeezed tighter. She stroked his head, trying to reassure him as he almost fought to get away. After what seemed like minutes, but merely seconds, he wrapped his arms around her as well. He didn’t say a word or make a noise and her t-shirt grew sodden with his tears. Almost crying herself she repeated her question in a softer, calming tone.

- What’s wrong, kidda?

Davie having seemingly regained his composure, wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He flashed a weak smile back.

- Nothing that a cup of tea can’t fix.

Stacey looked shocked. He sounded like his father.

- Davie, you know you can’t have tea or coffee, you’re only four. Would you like a juice?

- Oh yeah. Right. Juice is fine.

Stacey tried to compose herself. He was acting strange. She poured some Robinson’s cordial into his red teddy bear mug and topped it up with water, sealing it in with the lid containing the flat plastic teat that allowed him to drink from it. She boiled the kettle for herself and returned to the living room, watching Davie glancing around the room again, it was almost as if he’d not been here before.

- Here you go. What upset you Davie?

Davie looked almost quizzically at the doubled handled teddy bear mug and grinned a little. He took a sip and placed the mug down on the table as he continued to peruse the room. He’d stopped crying, but looked sad, although he appeared to be trying to hide it, his face betrayed the fact; something was wrong.

- Thanks Mum.

Stacey’s panic rose higher within her. He never called her Mum. Always mummy. Perhaps he’d heard friends at playschool calling their mothers the same thing. Compared to this helpless feeling, Buckaroo was something she perhaps could brave for a chance to find out what was going on.

- Do you want me to play Buckaroo with you now Davie? Come on, sit down.

- I’m all right thanks Mum. We got a pen around?

- A pen?

- Yeah. A pen and a bit of paper.

- You want to do some drawing?

- No. I need to write something down before I forget.

Curiosity was overtaking her concern as Stacey reached into the drawers for a pen and one of her old exercise books. B. A. Robertson’s ‘Bang Bang’ came onto the record player. She turned the volume down a little as she remained focussed on the bizarre actions of her son. He struggled to grip the pen, trying to use it as she would, but realising that he needed to grip it using his entire fist. He then scrawled, in a surprisingly neat way, a series of numbers separated as if a sequence. One looked like a date, but she wasn’t sure.

- What is this Davie? You trying to do sums?

- No. I need you to keep this. For a long time.

- How long?

- Decades.

- What?

Concern gripped her again. She wondered if Davie was one of the idiot savants she’d read about in Reader’s Digest. They were supposed to be gifted with numbers, but basically, mad. Her eyes welled up again as she contemplated how she would go about raising a crazy kid. She grabbed him and hugged him again. She’d no idea what to do.

- Davie, I’ll look after you. Whatever it takes, I promise.

Davie looked like tears were about to flood from his own eyes again, but his little face scrunched in concentration and he put his hand on his mother’s arm as if to reassure her. A gesture that seemed strange from a little boy, but effective nonetheless.

- I can’t explain. You need to hang on to those numbers. I can’t say what they are for, but you will figure it out in time. You can tell Dad, but no-one else.

- Why can’t you say what they are?

He paused for a while. He seemed to struggle for an answer.

- The butterfly effects.

- What?

- The explanation is something that will also make sense later. These few minutes can be forgotten in time, saying too much can’t be undone.

- Davie, where did you learn to talk like this?

He shrugged.

- TV? It isn’t important. What is important is those numbers. They will have such a part to play later. Please, don’t forget them. Keep them safe.

- Ok I will.

Stacey had no choice but to agree. Davie smiled a sad smile to her and sat down with his juice. They sat in silence, save for the music still playing on the turntable. He listened calmly. Stacey sat next to him, stroking his curls, lost in thought about what was happening. The record player eventually went through the singles she’d organised and fell silent also.

Davie seemed content until suddenly he looked alarmed and began to sob.

- Not yet. Just a little more time!

- What is it Davie? What’s wrong?

Pain etched on his tiny face he stared back into Stacey’s eyes.

- I love you Mum.

- I love you too Davie!

He wiped his eyes and held her gaze for a few seconds before his face screwed up and his eyes closed tightly and he shivered uncontrollably. She clasped him close, chest heaving with cries of her own. Helplessness overwhelmed her and Stacey’s mind was frantic as she puzzled over what to do. The shivering stopped and through her own gasps of frustrated sobbing, Davie wailed.

- Mummy!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Davie unscrewed his eyes. Unable to view anything around him other than shadows. His mind was flooding with changes. The salty film covering his eyes not letting up, disorienting him. A cluster headache seemed to explode inside his head, causing him to stagger a little. He gripped the side of his head, the prickly stubble along the sides where he’d shorn most of his hair chafing his hands. His fingers reached the top of his head where a small area of short tight curls remained.

Images of the post diagnosis conversation remained in his mind, but the bitter recriminations of not being able to afford to treatment overseas faded, being replaced by the timely windfall. He remembered the understanding smile of his mother as the results came in, the piece of paper kept for so long crumpled and disposed of without a word. His spirits lifted as he remembered the family taking a journey they’d never taken before. The treatment beginning and the hope replacing the fatalistic waiting he’d grown too familiar with.

The memories soured as it became clear it was all for nothing. The treatment was a failure and the hope he’d built in an instant was cruelly dashed as the family returned home, perhaps less prepared for what came next than they originally were. He’d not only changed nothing, but in a real sense, made it more painful for everyone concerned by instilling that false hope.

The final day he spent with his mother changed. No longer a silence as he watched her fade, unable to say anything, despite wanting to. This time she looked at him, smiling. She held his hand and told him she understood now what had happened. They exchanged mutual words of love as they’d done on that confusing day thirty-five years earlier.

The cluster headache faded and Davie focused on his surroundings. He was still here. His sister grabbed his arm as if to steady him, both wearing sunglasses despite the grey and overcast weather. A sea of black garb. A casket with a wreath saying ‘Mum’. The event he’d desperately tried to change to no avail. He wanted to go back; to figure if there was anything else at all he could do other than what he’d already tried. He would live his entire life again as a child if need be.

Davie screwed his eyes and tried to go back. He screwed them again and again. He would settle for five more minutes. They never came.