There is a smell on my body
that hovers and leaks
like the tide.
The doormat of a soul stamped in
half-prayers and open wounds;
how do I always end up back here?
I keep having dreams of parties and friends I don’t know. I wake up and it feels so real that I am almost happy. Lying to strangers in my sleep. I’m fine. I’m sad. Did you meet my new boyfriend? We say things like ‘this is what it means to be human’, and necessarily imply the rest. The exigent distance grows and grows. I am learning to un-known myself. I cut myself split myself into decipherable pieces like opening blister packs. Alive and dead at the juncture of inconsequence.
I hold the sun between my fingers,
red-pink and pulsing.
Possibility bottled in that moment
and though I am only half a person
I am feeling real today.
There is a story about healing that is linear and absolute, and then there is my cyclical labour- two steps forward, one step back. We must always grow in one direction. I couldn’t cry in public, but now I ride the bus from heartbreak to heartattack, and my fishbowl heart swells and cracks. The world is made for lovers, and I’m a lover of sorts, but not the kind you need and not the kind you asked for. I wonder if I will ever deserve it.
All this grief
for the idea of a woman.
All these faces I’ve worn so well,
I’m ashamed to be anywhere
but the Delphic grey,
irreconcilable and inhuman.
This is the colourless blood
in the dance of masks,
and this is the shape
Can I have another chance at life? I don’t think I’m doing it right. I’m not ready to share myself, and perhaps I never will be. This is a one-way life, I suppose, and the answers are oblique. The dirty ice melts and invisible stars are born, but I cannot forgive the original sin of myself. As long as I hear their voices, I will hide from everything that makes me feel real. The limbo of hoping and hurting. Crying and searching. Take the heart I was given and make me another in the shape of the stars.
︎Belle is a second year Arts Law student living and writing on Gadigal land with an unlucky compulsion to write about notoriously unwritable things.︎