bow

when i was about six i did a presentation

up in front of the class with a sort-of-friend

he had red henna in his hair

or maybe that hadn't happened yet

i was always annoyed by him

the fact that he was ahead of me in reading

i didn't know, standing next to him

that we came from similar places

that we were different to the other kids

who watched as we attempted to bow

the back of his head collided with my eye

that decision to bow in front of our class

to make the other kids laugh

put us in the office with a bruise and a black eye

two ice packs and excessive complaining

11 years and several more concussions later

my eyes are damaged once again

from excessive scrubbing at one in the morning

after screaming our guts out at a stage

in the city, a two hour train trip out of town

we stumbled home with our arms around each other

sitting on the floor of the train compartment

laughing despite our shattered throats

red stars in our eyes that only blinked to the other

this is a different kind of butterfly effect

in the way we emerged from our harsh chrysalis

and watched each other change

i have looked on so many faces in my life

so many beautiful people have exhaled at the same time

love is as stagnant a concept as the mountains weather

i am sure i've loved many people in many ways

in many different capacities and volumes

i have loved a handful unconditionally for a very long time

i have loved a bucketful very hard for not so long

and i have loved a mountain of people in passing

to think of someone every day, to go out of your way

is the desire to love someone not a kind of love in itself

the peace on my shoulder

lies there in melancholy

i've grown into acceptance

of some type

i still bargain with the sky

for more but i know

that it will not come

it's a reluctant acceptance

i want to be kissed

now at 6pm on the train station

but it will not happen

i will not be loved

randomly and ferociously

i accept this

with a bent neck

and melancholy peace

some paintings never make it to the museum

some paintings never even get out of the house

some artists are so good they will never finish

can never be satisfied by what becomes mediocre

the constant striving for true irrefutable brilliance

in the corridor of a museum of just trying

some painters stop and look at all the art

at the effortlessness or at how others try harder

some artists are turned away by other art

that is better than theirs or worse than theirs

some paintings become afraid they are a hobby

something fun that everyone else does too

something that will be replaced by a real job

a career in education or hospitality, something practical

what makes a painting special amongst other paintings

what makes a painting worthy of a museum

people change over time

it's a harsh and unkind reality

people change over a decade

love can turn routine and sour

they stop writing love letters

overflowing with grand details

about the ways they miss you

the dot of white face cream

on the end of your nose

turns from a reason to be loved

into something to be begrudged

"our room" becomes "my room"

becomes "your room?" becomes arguing

long nights in your twenties

spent outside or in someone's garage

becomes substance abuse

becomes trying for the kids

becomes a single mother

working seven days a week

i have never seen my mother in love

maybe somewhere she is

i hope she glows with it

the grey duplo cat behind the couch

i would have been about two at the time

one of those memories that sticks around

for no apparent reason to a grown mind

but something important to a small girl

it must have been the last summer

that my family still functioned as such

i was experiencing blisters for the first time

my heels had been rubbing the backs

of my red shoes and making small wounds

mum told me to stop picking them

i don't know where dad was

i travelled through the lounge room

across the whole world as far as i was concerned

to see my favourite toy on the ground

my little grey cat lying under the grey couch

she had dark stripes on her back

and big paws stuck together by plastic

no one else remembers her

i don't know if i told anyone where she was

that was the last time i saw her

it will always be the last time i saw her

real true honest consuming loneliness

is like a migraine that comes and goes

in the absence of it i forget it entirely

i can't remember how cold it feels

to be surrounded completely by warmth

i feel temperate and protected and alive

until it eases back in like a warning

the first symptom of sickness, a sore throat

a cough, a runny nose, shortness of breath

it lies with me in bed while i tell it to go

to leave me alone, that i'm done with it

but it stays because it's afraid i'm lonely

my solitude hates to leave my alone

and brings it's party of other companions

i knew they were coming and said please no

but here they are, more reliable than i am

it starts with the loneliness, a sore throat

it brings the cold and morbidity of winter

a real true honest consuming loneliness

is sometimes all you can count on

i forget a lot of the time

that i was in love with you

it's become a story

it's become a heartbreak

worst of all, it's become a joke

it's easy to forget

when i act like i already have

when i pretend it's whatever

i don't really think of you anymore

what a fucking lie

i accidentally remembered

how much i loved you

and how blindly you cut me

how much i have wished to hate you

to have an ounce of self respect

selfish and self loathing girl

it's not really that funny is it?

it's not funny

jealousy is a lonely feeling

it’s wriggly like worms

and possessive like a bad crush

i never want this part

it seems to love me though

i suppose it’s good to be loved

to be selectively honest

and kind in secret

it must be better to be alone

in your brain than your body

to be jealous of deserving

to keep it close to your blue heart

instead of throwing stones

you can’t get back later

it’s the mortifying ordeal

of being known

that i fear i will never understand

she couldn’t stay the same if she tried

it’s not in her nature to stay the same

losing pieces of herself to the universe

every day getting eaten away at

and every other day being restored

cyclical like cynical debate on the cosmos

she can’t hear you from all the way up there

she has to chip away at herself

and reinvent herself in vain

alone but for the stars

tearing apart and coming back together

spending her life chasing the largest star

the most beautiful star she ever saw

making herself smaller and bigger

to try to cheat the big blue planet blocking her sun