I was the lowest scoring student, and yet art class was entirely therapeutic for me. My inability to achieve a satisfactory grade meant that She left me alone, almost to my own devices, whereas my peers had their creativity sucked from their very soul with her critical manner and archaic philosophies.
I was eventually pulled from the lesson and placed back in Latin, for the purpose of ensuring I got straight As. But I didn't need to learn how to draw, I was a writer you see, even then. They wanted to paint the world red; but I wanted scarlet, cherry, ruby, blood, cardinal.. But art class did teach me one thing; that there is beauty in this world regardless of whether you understand it or not. And your lack of understanding doesn't make it wrong. So as she bellowed at me in her shrill voice, "I don't understand what this is saying to me!" I'd simply reply, "That's because it's speaking to me, not you". An offering of teenage art, plagued by lack of talent and a heavy dose of not-really-giving-a-fuck:
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My writing has been rather serious of late, most likely due to bitter loneliness and the fear of my vagina closing up. So, in the spirit of tomfoolery, here is LIFE ACCORDING TO JOSEPHINE
I never used to cry
Not even when Robert Woodcock asked me to be his girlfriend seven hours before dumping me at the school disco Not even when I learnt that grown men do evil things to innocent little girls Not even when my best friend chose death over her depression Not even when he created scars on my arms with his fiery cigarette stub, that shall remain a blight on my creamy skin forevermore Not even when, time after time, I was reminded that I would never be someone's first choice Not even when she, he, they died. But now. Now I cry all the time. At everything. The sadness of opening the fridge and realising that there are no pickles left. The video of the dog doing that thing, or the man rescuing the cute bundle of fluff. The deep depression of discovering baby ducklings surrounding their dead mother. The sorrow of finding out that the little old lady down the street, who I never once spoke to, passed away. Rain. Sunshine. Cooking for one. The guilt of eating all the profiteroles. The acute inability to make the perfect cheesecake. Finding a hole in my stripy tights. Watching them flirt, hold hands, whisper sweet nothings in one another's ear. When the box-set ends but they didn't make another series. Sit ups and squats and lunges and running. Getting home from the supermarket and realising that I didn’t purchase pickles. Menopausal, they said. Fuck right off, said I. And then I cried. I’ve never been able to keep my hands to myself
Nor my mouth Or my words The beautiful chaos of curiosity taking a peek at the pretty atrocity that is my life Making sense of the monstrosity like a blissful purging explosion of knowledge bursting into the sky with every touch or taste or the feel of your face against mine It’s a wonder don’t you think? The mundane mixed in with the glassed rosy tint? But an unfortunate case of over thinking creating an unblinking devastation releasing the clasp of discipline undoing the buttons of my self control and burning the tips of my delicate fingers "Too short", he growled, as he looked down at her face, startling green eyes staring back up at him. What was it about this incorrigible girl?
He was forced to use all his strength to be gentle as he placed his hands firmly around her soft waist and lifted her onto the vanity unit, the mirror behind her illuminating on her long, red hair like a siren warning him of the stormy dangers ahead. She hadn't uttered a word for several minutes which was both disarming and unexpected. She always had something to say, especially to him, and mostly filled with profanity and detestation. That mouth; that beautiful fucking smart mouth. He pushed her legs open and stepped closer. Her breathe hitched, the only sign so far that she was as affected by him as he was of her. There was that one freckle, just above her plump lips, that drove him crazy and he bent slightly to lick it before his need took over and his tongue traced her bottom lip. She tasted like fruity cider, strawberries and limes, and he wanted more. Her fingers gripped his forearms as his hands roamed her body, restricted by the Stone Roses t-shirt that stretched tightly round her tits and had caused an involuntary hard-on on too many occasions. Her head tilted back ever so slightly, her glossy mane swaying, distracting him from her lips. His hands immediately reached round and pulled her hair, her head tilting back even further, as he forcefully claimed her mouth, groaning as she moaned, tasting apple orchards and feisty sex. *** She couldn't get enough of him. He tasted like scotch and fire and a multitude of sins. His hands had moved back to her waist but she wanted them on her breasts, kneeding and pulling on her nipples. Too many clothes. Fuck, she needed to see him naked. Her hands were in his hair and his tongue was in her mouth and, by god, it all felt so right. He pulled his head back and cupped her face, her disappointment obvious as she scowled at the removal of his lips from hers. But he looked at her with such a fervent hunger that she knew he hadn't finished with her just yet. A quick flick of her erect nipples and his hands were back on her waist, gently lifting her and placing her back on her unsteady feet. His large hand grabbed her small one and he turned towards the door, pulling her alongside him. "I'm not fucking you in the pub toilets. You're coming home with me." Monsters exists.
They don’t live under your bed or inside your closet, they don’t just come out in the dark like a nocturnal animal afraid of the sunrise They look like you and me, and use their smiles to disarm you even at your strongest hour and yes you disarmed me with your succession of seductive admiration but as you stubbed cigarettes out on my arms you made me forget all that was beautiful in this world; like daisies and cheesecake and the smell of mangoes You created jade and violent storms on my skin with your bare hands and I would watch them curiously as the colours flowed to and fro And is my love of violent sex because you taught me that I deserve to be punished? Used Violated with hands around my neck and fear in my eyes as you sang to me sweetly ‘hush little lady, don’t you cry’ But every time I gave you an inch, you would drag me for miles like a raggedy doll that you threw against the wall uncared for, reviled All friendships had long since withered as we played out this broken dance not the nice kind with ballgowns and happy ever afters but the dance of avoidance and suspicion and fear where I would stand very still every time you were near The number of sorrys defied mathematics almost as many as the strikes across my face that hurt so fucking much that I couldn’t even cry before you smothered me in the sweetest embrace Fading Failing Flinching Perhaps it was the bitterness of my own blood, pooling at the tip of my tongue that made me realise that this was not the flavour of love. |
AuthorThe tornado of roses, with all the chaos and less of the beauty.. Archives
December 2017
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