Let me leave these words here, and never speak of them again.
Once upon a summertime, I burst into splendiferous flame; amidst the fear and suspicion of letting someone in, despite my lifetime of protestations, I was filled with petals and teardrops, lustful cries of unfathomable proportions, craving skin and words and blankets and you. 6 months. Six tiny little months. The deep cavernous walls of the stories we built, the gripping elation and unforced smiles. Gosh, you taught me so very much about how to love, and how to be loved. You left me like a leaf floating in the wind with no direction. I wonder what I did. Should I weep? Should I be sad? Should I at least be a little bitter, even if only to attach a momentary glimpse of ordinary cliché? No. I shan’t. I shall just say thank you for giving me something that no one else ever bothered to. Myself. May your days be filled with sunshine and perfect waves. May your mind only ever be filled with the certainty that you were loved, unexpectedly, and without expectation. And may your smile always brighten the day of whoever is fortunate enough to be stood in its view. Yours, Jx
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We’ve just bumped into one another at the Supermarket and, after an awkward 7 minutes of ‘catching up’, we say our goodbyes and start to stare intensely at the canned goods until one of us is brave enough to walk away. But then we see one another in the next aisle, and the next, and possibly at the checkout.. not through any fault of our own but social standards dictate that one must travel through the supermarket in a certain way so as to not upset the flow of shoppers. Do we need to nod at one another in every aisle? What if I have bumped into several people and my consistent nodding causes me to abandon the weekly shop and choose to starve? Is it ok for me to pop my headphones back in, continue to ignore the world, and purchase my cheese stash in ignorant isolation?
I’m sat picking at my panini after bumping into you at the supermarket and accidentally making a lunch date, and my phone rings. You look pointedly at my phone and you raise your voice whilst continuing to talk at me (you haven’t stopped since I got here) in an attempt to make me ignore the ringing. Why can’t I interrupt you, apologise, and take the call? What is so socially disturbing about speaking to someone else quickly before returning to the conversation? What if I have now had 7 missed calls from my mum and she is in the process of sending the British Army to track down her missing daughter? If I hold my hand over my mouth whilst I yawn, why do I also need to back that up with an ‘excuse me’? Why do you assume that you are boring me (you are) and why do I have to explain why I’m super tired? And do I really even need to say ‘excuse me’ or am I confusing myself with burping? And as we leave my half eaten panini, when exactly can I stop holding the door for you and the plethora of people who decide that they, too, will stroll on through? Is it socially acceptable to hold the door open for 27 people and then slam it in the delectable face of the 28th? Is this my new job now? And as we (finally) step outside and say our goodbyes and you place a kiss on my cheek, why on earth would you go for the double cheek kiss when you were brought up on a council estate in Clacton-on-Sea rather than the rounded hills of Tuscany? And .. wait .. three cheek kisses? Where will it end? Do we now need to proceed into full snogging territory? And when you shout ‘CALL ME!’ as my little legs move as quickly as they can up the High Street, why can’t I turn round, look you square in the eye and say “No, I won’t be calling you. We are exceptionally incompatible in every way and I don’t think it’s fair for you to assume that I would like to do this again. Farewell and good luck in your future endeavours (you absolute troglodyte, I’d rather hit myself in the face with a chair than endure your fucking company ever again..)?" “Do you want it?” he says in his low, hungry voice; the rope coiled around his hand, staring me down as he attempts to control his own hitched breathing.
My nakedness and inexperience scares me but I nod as his gaze sweeps over my lips. I watch as he prowls toward me, fully clothed yet more exposed than I have ever seen him, and my need to lose myself in him, lose myself in something other than my own suffering, makes me impatient. He asks for my wrists and as I hand myself over to his cravings his smile warms the extremes of my cold heart like the scorch of a distant summer and I lean towards his chest as my tongue sweeps out, just barely touching his skin, and he tastes like his demons wrapped around him when he was a boy and never let go. The rope binds me as he pulls me down to the floor and I can feel the throbbing of his heart between us – or is it mine? I can’t tell anymore, I have no idea where he ends and I begin. He loves me
He loves me not He loves me He loves me not Petals scattered across the floor like haphazard question marks querying his silence and fucking with my mind He loves me He loves me not He loves me He loves me not Plucking frantically but with caution Thoughts of his smile between every heartbeat echoing around my ribcage He loves me He loves me not Tap-dancing on my heart He loves me He loves me not Whispering along my inner thigh He loves me He loves me not Licking my lip with anticipation He loves me He loves me not Fuck! I ran out of petals! For every group of overly cheery carol singers, there's a person who will happily slam a door in their face. That'd be me. I mean, what's so special about Christmas anyway?
I'm an out and out atheist who categorically lies my big fat face off and 'believes' in Baby Jesus for the entirety of the festive period. I once attended midnight mass after being in the pub all night because "I've had too much tequila and I really like singing carols". I am a self confessed hypocrite that has jumped on the Christmas bandwagon with absolutely no respect for the religious connotations and I am here to confess my sins. But in my humble defence, I'm not the only one, and Christmas has been getting out of control for some time. There are rather too many Christmas traditions that are entirely appalling. I'll give you a piece of folded card, and you'll give me a piece of folded card, and we'll pretend that they are the complete meaning of Christmas whilst secretly being a bit pissed off that the neighbour has more pieces of folded card than you, and bringing out last years to up the numbers.. It's a time of greed, and high electricity bills to pay for the outside lights because your front garden has turned into Las Vegas. It's also a time of hating Mariah Carey even though you know all the words, and having to spend time with people that you don't really like. And who decided to heat up red wine and fill it with sugar, lower the alcohol content and then sell it at double the price? The shops are full to the brim with stress and anxiety and fighting and crying and sneaky sips from the hip flask .. ok perhaps that's just me .. but the lengthy queue for the checkout whilst pressed up against a stranger's armpit is not the epitome of festivity. I've been practising my present-loving-face since September, about the same time that the supermarkets started stocking mince pies. And turkeys. What's the fascination with turkey anyhow, and how did it become the chosen one? It's dry and dull and the far inferior cousin of the chicken. I once served salmon and almost started a revolution. And kids are complete little shits at Christmas; acting like they are on crack and hyped up on excitement and lies and then playing with the cardboard box and disregarding the £100 gift you have deigned them with. A present that will cost £30 the very second that Christmas is over. And don't get me started on so called 'Christmas films' .. A film set during the winter with a fluttering of fake snow doth not make a Christmas movie. And yes, John McClane, I'm talking to you! But it's not ALL bad, because today I get to put up my chintzy decorations whilst belting out All I Want For Christmas with a lovely warming mulled wine until the tree looks like I vomited tinsel on it and I've strangled myself with the lights. |
AuthorThe tornado of roses, with all the chaos and less of the beauty.. Archives
December 2017
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