Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

I Have Emptied Out All My Anxieties and Presented Them In A Long Ramble, For The Ease Of My Long Suffering Therapist

I miss being bankrupted by my local cinema for a small popcorn and a milkshake. I miss being alone in the dark, as monsters make chaos on the screen before my eyes, while I imagine an arm around my shoulder and a kiss upon my cheek. I miss being kissed. Kissed by him specifically. The way he pulls away when it is over, but pulls me back closer, as if it will never end. It did end, and now I wait, with great impatience for it to begin again.

More and more of them get infected all the time, spreading it around, building it up like the walls of a prison, and it won’t stop. It never stops. I never stop pointing the finger at the public, because the government has guided me in that direction. It’s definitely not government incompetence, the greed of employers who don’t actually need staff in but insist on it anyway, or the failings of a money first, people last society. No. It’s the people who are wrong. It’s the poor, the worker bees, wings flapping around me, arranging in formation like bars. The Health Secretary, who is often wrong, is definitely not wrong about this. There’s no way out, because every time I get close to the door, it moves, slinking away like a snake, and then I can’t breathe, because the walls are so high, and so devoid of light.

I hate this cold and cruel imitation of life. I know it has to happen, I see endless death and sickness in the late afternoon, every day, and I know, but it doesn’t help. Maybe I’m selfish? But so is everyone else, and I still do as I’m told, so maybe it’s okay if I’m selfish, as long as it stays inside my head? It could be worse. I could see more than the statistics. I could see the end of life, in the flesh. The endless endings that haunt hospital corridors, broken staff who do all they can, but still feel so many numbers, that are in fact real, living, breathing humans slip through their hands. It could be worse. I know it could be worse. I am the worst.

I am a selfish girl. I always knew I was, because I always saw the world through my own lens, with my own inner monologue as the omnipotent (and kind of sultry) voice of God. I am locked up, but I am lucky, because I’m not dead and I’m not sick, and I know that currently, everyone I know is fine too, but I’m losing my mind because I’m locked away and I just want to be… somewhere else.

I just want to be someone else, and fuck, I’m scared that telling the truth is a one way ticket to being sectioned, because there’s no in between in this country, when it comes to that kind of thing. It’s okay not to be okay, but if you say you’re not okay, your family can have you locked away, and I’m already locked away, so I’d rather not be put in more padlocks, because of the lack of nuance by the National Health Service. Talk about your mental health! But not too loudly, or some overworked counsellor that it took you months to get an appointment with might get the wrong idea and tell your doctor that you’re in danger, then it’s off to the madhouse with you, because just needing a break makes you mad, these days. Needing to see the sun with somebody special makes you mad these days. Being despondent after a decade of austerity makes you mad these days. Being tired of simply existing makes you mad these days.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

We Did Everything That We Could

His face is full of lines.

He says a line,

as he frowns, down towards the podium.

His voice, meek and mousy

“I am deeply sorry.”

Not sorry enough to have brushed his hair,

of course,

because the cringe dad brand comes before all else.

Not sorry enough to have halted the brakes on the big summer of spending,

or the repeat of it during the winter.

Not sorry enough to have held up his hands days before,

weeks before,

months before,

and said

“Enough is enough.”

One hundred thousand is enough,

but ninety nine thousand wasn’t,

apparently.

One is enough for most people.

One voice that fades a little more each day.

One smile that they pray they’ll never forget.

One part of their heart that is now just a memory, and a grave they visit every now and again (lockdown rules permitting).

One person, that they loved, who is gone.

One person, that they loved, who can’t return, even if the prime minister is deeply sorry.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Empty Chairs

Empty chairs,

kept in the cupboard under the stairs,

far away from me,

and my solitary celebration.

Don’t cry for me,

because this ship can’t stand any more tears,

dearly departed plans,

that never had a chance of staying above icy depths.

You know I’m going to drink too much,

neat and neurotic,

fading from fine to finality,

back again,

then forwards.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Tired Arms

The night is late and lonely,

tired arms craving a connection,

the moon is making memories with the stars,

but I am bound for bed,

with nobody but the sheets and my bad dreams for company.

I put on a record,

bracing myself for the barrenness of the cold air around me,

dancing in darkness,

with tired, trembling arms,

that are hungry,

hysterical,

halfway to giving up all together.

I hold it together,

for a second,

then I am crestfallen,

crumbling on the kitchen floor,

tears fall,

and for a second,

my arms believe that someone will hold them again,

one day.