The Lightness

I should also mention
that although there is this Darkness
It could not exist without the Light
which tingles warmly in my fingertips
and spills out from the corners of my mouth
honey on my tongue, Honey
It's brass bands in an autumn chill
rock music playing in a hospital ward
It's the feeling the symphony was composed to describe,
that crescendo
that ultimate note
and the peace that follows as my hot human blood
simply turns to running water

The Darkness

On the clear days, it's so small - that sometimes I'm not sure it exists at all. It's hunched, like a field mouse, manageable and harmless in a corner of my mind. Its tiny claws are rolled up tight, no need to worry today. The light is beaming fiercely. I am happy, I am me. This is good, so good...

I don't know what stirs it. Some restless part of me that takes a long bony finger and jabs at it.

Once. The field mouse looks up with wicked eyes, two shots of blackness on a dark and cloudy page.

Twice. It agitates and shrieks, snapping it's jaws, dripping darkness.

Thrice, and it swallows me whole. The darkness unfolds, spilling black ink all over. My thoughts dart and stumble, looking for dry ground, an exit is unfathomable now. The ink begins to fill my mind, as I realize once more I must brace for the flood, hold my breath, and hope it passes quickly.

I'd like to tell you that I was out, under, gone. That I didn't remember what came next. But the reality of the darkness is that somehow time slows, frantically examining my mind for the answer. Why is it in me? Why won't it leave? It isn't a sadness, or a depression. It has no shape. Just a manic pacing, a mind that refuses to be still. The person I am becomes a prisoner to my thoughts, I don't identify myself within it.

I tried to distract my creature with TV, news and people. I offer it coffee. Take it for a walk. Try to stamp it out quietly. I've shown it to some in hopes they might cure it, most of them run. Writing helps. I begin not to care about rhyme. I cough the ink up onto the page. "Better out than in!" My mother says.

Sometimes hours, sometimes days. It leaves eventually, I'm shaken and vulnerable - but I remind myself that your embrace is not the answer. Its grip on my mind loosens, the darkness drains back somewhere deep inside my self.

Perhaps it will shrink to nothing one day. The smallest Russian Doll in the stack of "me".
I read back my writing, I don't recognise it.
I check the weather forecast, clear all week.

The Dancer

Frustrated, the man looked down at his feet

Stubborn and still to the drum of the beat

Heavy and grey, they stood glued to the floor

Anchored with veins to a heart that cried "more"

Each day it would wail with gusto, emotion

To swallow the rhythm, like a boat needs the ocean

He felt it within him, his fingers lay twitching

in a hospital bed, his whole body was itching

His language was fluent, a waltz if you will

In fact, looking back, it was never stood still

The life in his eyes, now that was a thing

to be seen, as they spun into Swing

My heart felt so warm as we tangled our bodies

into tango, now slowdance, our new favourite hobbies

Until winter rolled in like a blue-lit ballet

His feet remained chained, he looked down in dismay

"Oh why can't I dance?" He smiled, hopelessly.

"Must be your shoes," I laughed back

"'cause you've been dancing with me."

The Summit

Understanding my darkness was reaching the summit of a great, stormy climb. Weak and cold, I approached clarity. The clouds began to part, the skies began to clear. My eyes were flooded with sunshine, my feet were greeted with flat earth. I dropped to my knees with tears rolling down my cheeks. I asked "What now? Is this happiness?"
And a kind voice inside me replied "For now."

Roadtrip

We drove three hundred miles one night,
The roads were all just different shades of black
My mind at 70mph
Something about having my hands on the wheel paired
with feeling so out of control, feels like therapy to me
I'd felt it building in my throat for days. Some darkness,
like thick tar lodged in my windpipe
I wretched it all up that night,
there in my hands
out of my heart
I lay it down,
made sense of it
and carried on driving.

I write

I write because I don't understand. Something about laying the words down in front of me, helps me to understand better. I write about love because it is the one question I don't have an answer to, the flavour I can't place, the missing card in my full set. When it comes to love, I don't know how. I either squeeze too tight and kill it fast, or run - run hard until my lungs are empty and all I can feel is my heartbeat pounding and blood filling the empty places inside of me. I am best when I am alone, when you are at arm's length. Or not here at all. I fall asleep easily without you here, my bed sheets and memories remain unstained for now. There are no songs which remind me of you, or streets, or scents. I am whole, I am happy, I collect the days and press them into chapters of heavy books to keep for myself. My kingdom is illuminated with every sunrise, I leave the ivy untrimmed to climb the walls. I like it that way. No one to impress, no one to trim my edges.

And when I feel my heart begin to attach, I panic. My mind floods. I'm out of control, driving on an unfamiliar highway. How wonderful it would be to enjoy the spinning for once, rather than bracing for the crash and the burn...

The Fall

I've come to realize love, for me, was not a smooth, gentle fall

No fluffy clouds or ballet jumps, toes pointed, eyes ahead

I was never going to glide gracefully into his arms

But I was going to clatter down a staircase

With the chaos of a road rage Carnival

Shattering the parts of me I needed

Bruises on my head, my spine

would break, and snap

Just like my words.

and like my heart

This was going

to be serious,

and this was 

going to

hurt.