I am armed
I am armed.
Armed with my moleskin and pen in the early hours of the morning - 1AM till 2AM, hand racing towards the final pages.
I am armed with three white bin bags in the late morning. Three bin bags and a duster. I am being ruthless. Everything must go. That and that, which takes up space, and this which I haven't found a need for since I was thirteen. And these cinema tickets, 23 little blue squares. This one I saw on my twelth birthday. This one I cried at for two hours, stumbling from the screen with tiny eyes and wobbling lip. This poster I rip from the wall, taking delight in peeling off the yellow tack with my thumb nail. This picture and that DVD, these jumpers (I imagine burying nose into shoulder) and this necklace, this drawing, these teddies, they are contained on a pile by the foot of my bed, waiting for the bin bag.
I am armed with music. New music. Send me songs, I need something which does not remind of being 14 and in love, waiting by the phone. Music not suited for the time of day. William Shatner's Common People at 11PM. Reel Big Fish's Take On Me. Wheatus' Little Respect. Sounds I never would have considered listening to a few weeks ago blast from my computer speakers at an ear-piercing volume. My head does that thing where it pounds, "no no no no no no no no" over and over again in time with my heart, but I won't listen to it.
I am armed with coffee. Mug after mug. No sugar, as little milk as possible. The bitterness pleases me, as does the way I feel two hours later, buzzing at my keyboard. I have never been a coffee person, but maybe now, I will start. It's the smell I can't stand, reminding me of stumbling from bed at 4AM, burning the toaster (flames almost licking the white ceiling tiles) and crawling into the car an hour later to drive to Germany with five in the car. Sickly sweet perfume mingling with coffee aroma. Maybe now is the time to start holding my nose.
I am armed with stinging, weeping ears. I went on a whim yesterday with a friend. "She wants you to mutilate her," the woman behind the one till said disapprovingly to the guy behind the other. Seven holes now. Perhaps I will stop there, or there will be nothing left of me.
Armed with the knowledge that there is something to be done every day. Revision. Painting over the grey fingerprints on my white walls, and the smudged, blue pen mark by my bed. Reading my way through the books on my to-read shelf. Making myself into some other person, because now there is no-one to really define me anymore.
I am always armed with something, because when I am not, there is nothing to do but to sit here and think about what was and why it is best this way and not the other way, about what we said and how we cried together standing before the mirror looking at each other's bodies standing so close for the very last time. And about how we tried to laugh but failed, a little sound starting at the back of our throats, a curl of a smile lasting for all but three seconds before it collapsed again.
Armed with my moleskin and pen in the early hours of the morning - 1AM till 2AM, hand racing towards the final pages.
I am armed with three white bin bags in the late morning. Three bin bags and a duster. I am being ruthless. Everything must go. That and that, which takes up space, and this which I haven't found a need for since I was thirteen. And these cinema tickets, 23 little blue squares. This one I saw on my twelth birthday. This one I cried at for two hours, stumbling from the screen with tiny eyes and wobbling lip. This poster I rip from the wall, taking delight in peeling off the yellow tack with my thumb nail. This picture and that DVD, these jumpers (I imagine burying nose into shoulder) and this necklace, this drawing, these teddies, they are contained on a pile by the foot of my bed, waiting for the bin bag.
I am armed with music. New music. Send me songs, I need something which does not remind of being 14 and in love, waiting by the phone. Music not suited for the time of day. William Shatner's Common People at 11PM. Reel Big Fish's Take On Me. Wheatus' Little Respect. Sounds I never would have considered listening to a few weeks ago blast from my computer speakers at an ear-piercing volume. My head does that thing where it pounds, "no no no no no no no no" over and over again in time with my heart, but I won't listen to it.
I am armed with coffee. Mug after mug. No sugar, as little milk as possible. The bitterness pleases me, as does the way I feel two hours later, buzzing at my keyboard. I have never been a coffee person, but maybe now, I will start. It's the smell I can't stand, reminding me of stumbling from bed at 4AM, burning the toaster (flames almost licking the white ceiling tiles) and crawling into the car an hour later to drive to Germany with five in the car. Sickly sweet perfume mingling with coffee aroma. Maybe now is the time to start holding my nose.
I am armed with stinging, weeping ears. I went on a whim yesterday with a friend. "She wants you to mutilate her," the woman behind the one till said disapprovingly to the guy behind the other. Seven holes now. Perhaps I will stop there, or there will be nothing left of me.
Armed with the knowledge that there is something to be done every day. Revision. Painting over the grey fingerprints on my white walls, and the smudged, blue pen mark by my bed. Reading my way through the books on my to-read shelf. Making myself into some other person, because now there is no-one to really define me anymore.
I am always armed with something, because when I am not, there is nothing to do but to sit here and think about what was and why it is best this way and not the other way, about what we said and how we cried together standing before the mirror looking at each other's bodies standing so close for the very last time. And about how we tried to laugh but failed, a little sound starting at the back of our throats, a curl of a smile lasting for all but three seconds before it collapsed again.
kiwiqueen - 11. Apr, 12:46
<3s and hugs.