The weight of it

I never expected to be happy. Not in the sense that I would have a big, rich life, a red-like-Christmas life, where every day was tinsel and jolly. I only ever wanted to survive my own heart. To find small moments of light in the dark, to live knowing I’d find that light sometimes, even just a pinprick of it, to guide me.

I never expected to find peace. Not in the sense that I would come to terms, eventually, with what happened to my mother. With what happened to me. I wanted, or hoped instead, to learn to carry what happened, so that I could build some kind of emotional muscle, stronger tissue, and suddenly it wouldn’t all seem so heavy. I’d be able to walk with the weight of it, and just keep going. Like those young women, in their bright cotton dresses and bare feet, who carry water on their heads for miles. The ones who live in those dustbowl places, where everything is far away. If you tried to do that without practice, without years, you’d stagger, you’d spill your water, or crumple at the shoulders from all that weight sitting on your head. But they can do it, because that’s what they do every day. That’s what their muscle has learnt to remember.

I thought perhaps I might get the chance to teach my body what to remember, too.

~ Alice, Into the After

Balloon Girl, Red Heart by Banksy
The Girl with the Red Balloon ~ Banksy

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.

(but)

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

joanne-piechota-rock-bublitz

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