A small stain

It’ll pass. It always does.

Right now, I’m a walking bruise. Staring into space and mirrors, seeing only you.

Right now the days are lost to hours spent. Isn’t that the way it goes? There’s no moving time when she isn’t ready to heal you.

But it’ll pass. It always does.

I’ll wake and dress and stare and smile and laugh and cry and ache, like I’m music you once played, over and over. I’ll be the melody you can’t yet get out of your head.

It’ll pass. It always does.


You left a small stain this time. When you poured your red and drank it from me. Right over the place they put my heart. Like we’d been doing it wrong till then.

And now.

There’s a small stain, you left.

It’ll pass. It always does.

Until we come around again.

Rock Bublitz at body, remember

All I ask is …

Everything I know

I grind the past to dust the first time you make me come. The way your hand slides between my legs, and your words. The electric shock of your desire.

I want to kiss you here.

I forget everything I know.

I bare my teeth at you, a snarl that wants to catch your flesh; for the first time ever, I want to leave my mark. Whatever bound us to the rest of our lives shatters in the explosion that ensues.

Our landscape is forever altered, and you map it as I come.

I will soon covet your body with the intensity of one who borrows and must give back. This constant reaching, this constant touch – it is a need for tactile reassurance that consumes me. You have a wall around you – was that what they used to say? With you I smash this wall myself, frantic, fingers pulling at any barrier between us. I can never get close enough. I bite and scratch and wrap my arms and legs around you. I tell you that you are mine.

I invoke possession as the law.

Together, we draw roads and rivers across the skin, an intricate topography laid down through the trace of thumb, the pressing of palms. Territories are charted, mouths and hands as our guide. You map my heights and my depth; you are the first to discover the parts of me that reside below sea level, and the parts containing the highest of mountains. I spend a hundred nights raising my indelible flags against you, too. Landmarks I can claim as my own. I was here first, this kiss states. I was here, this sliding of my hand declares. I was here, this touch of tongue to nerve blazes.

Those who conquer are so desperate to be known. To be remembered. They forget that maps can disintegrate and borders can change. They forget that with time, every landscape alters.

And how often, where a civilisation once thrived – now, only ruins remain.

~ Maggie Valentine


The hours that change us

The world has shifted in just a few hours. The way it always shifts in just a few hours. It’s not years or decades – that’s simply how we accommodate the axis-shifts, how we adjust and recover from them, before some other hour sets us spinning. We think in years – how was this year, what’s your new year’s resolution, I’m glad to see this year gone – but really it’s the hours that change us.

I was a different person when I got up just a few hours ago.

~ Elliott, Into The After

Melbourne City

Without my permission

Wednesday April 17th, 2013

Today is my last day. Of what? Of being alive? Of being in this world? Not exactly, because I’m here still, in a way. I can see everything and feel everything, although I’ve been trying to get that right, because it’s not exactly feeling, is it? It’s not the same as wrapping your fingers around a warm coffee mug, or flipping the pillow to the cold side, of finding the cool relief on your cheek, before you go back to sleep. It’s not that. It’s not immediate and ephemeral and lost to the next sensation just as you start to feel the first.

It’s something more complete. Something less connected to space and time. A kind of knowing, more than feeling. Sort of how you can swim under water and through it and across its surface all at the same time. Immersed. Perhaps that’s a better word for the way I experience the world now.

I’m here still, in a way. I am immersed.

At any rate, we’ve reached that date. We’ve come to today. I want to tell you about it, because they keep getting it wrong. The way people always get it wrong when they speak for you. When they tell your story.

My story, the one I lived.

Today is my last day. Today is the last day I lived my story. The last day I lived. There was an I, and it was me, and I was at the centre of my story, until someone else decided to take over. Until that man wrote my last pages. Without my permission.

You think you are the centre, that if you hold on tight enough, even when things try to pull you away, you’ll make it. But then someone enters the space you have created for yourself, they take up all the room, and suddenly you’re pushed right out of your skin.

It’s their story now.

There was an I, and now there is a he, a him, a his.

Today is my last day, Elliot. The last day of my story.

~ Alice, Into the After

On the Rocks

Most everybody knows

People die every day. In minutes. Seconds. The closing and re-opening of an eye, and the world changes direction, spins you or him or her away. Out into the nothing or everything, and not here. Not here ever again.

In New York alone, 150 lights go out from one midnight to the next. Cancer, cars, trains, swimming pools. A bottle of pills, or a fall the wrong way. There is some kind of sorrow every second.

Back in the 90’s, there were up to six murders a day. A decade later, and that number dropped down to two. Now, sometimes a whole week goes by without someone dying at another person’s hand. Still, it happens. Strangers, and vigilantes, and lovers with twisted hearts. More often than not, the twisted hearts. Turns out most everybody knows the person who kills them. A fact we close our eyes to when we do our choosing.

Did you know the person who took your life? The one who took your name, and your story, the one who left your body for me to find?

Are we any safer, Jane, with our lit streets and windows barred? Or are we only ever one opened door away from the dark?

I don’t know who to be afraid of, here.

Grand Central, New York

Somewhere else

It begins with a small impatience.

Something about the light. Or the way it has been warm for three days straight. The consistency of it. The knowing.

So it flutters. A quickening under the skin, beginning. The desire for something more. For something less, perhaps. No matter, as long as it isn’t the same. As long as it’s different to this.


Her mother says she has gypsy blood. Something garnet red and restless, warming her veins. Like the sun setting on her horizon, or the rising of it somewhere else.


There. Here.

There is no place (she’s home).

Anais Nin Restless

A place like this

Chewed up. Spit out. That’s what they say about girls like me. In a place like this.

As if the city has jaws. Great, chomping concrete jaws that bite down on new flesh, and then, disgusted at the freshness, spew it back out. As if the streets are littered with lacerated hearts, with open wounds and cardboard stories.

They say I’m bound for such corners. For coffee cups and copper coins, and no way of getting home. But I know it’s the small towns that kill you. I know who takes bite after bite.

Home is where they feast on girls like me. A place like this just might save me.

NYC Walk

~ Alice, Into the After