When you’re scared you run away
When I’m scared I clarify
Imagine what we’d be
if we weren’t scared
writing
Pieces
I am the in between one
a bridge between two others
I will gather all your pieces
when you thought them lost
painstakingly discover them
through long conversations
filled with hair stroking
kissed fingertips, tears
and all of my labour
and once I find all the parts
I’ll glue you back together
Make you see how perfect you are
how perfect you were already
perfect enough for you to thank me
and to float on to the next
and for me, tomorrow
there’ll be another almost-whole
to discover, collect and embrace
but what about my pieces?
Precious.
He’s a tall man. A full two heads closer to the sky than she is. She turns her head when they hug or else she’d suffocate on his sternum. He makes her belly ache with laughter and with butterflies. Often at the same time.
When he holds her she feels like a tiny gift. He tells her she’s small when he holds her feet in his hands or when she wraps her arm around his waist. It’s endearing in a way she’s not felt for a long time.
What a precious thing – to be precious – she thinks. What a skill to make someone else feel that way.
Can only small people be made to feel precious? Or does she have a chance to affect him in the same way? There’s all the time in the world to try.
Trying.
With tears in his eyes, he angrily told me I didn’t understand him. I could tell he was pushing for me to challenge; to prove him wrong. I knew he wanted desperately to be heard, to not feel alone. I wanted so badly to be the one to give him that.
I wondered, then, as I looked at the furrowed brow that had always been so soft and loving before now, whether he was saying this to me or his ex girlfriend.
I agreed that I didn’t understand. I wouldn’t dare argue with his truth. All the same my heart broke; I didn’t understand him even though I tried more than he realised. I tried as hard as I could. But trying isn’t enough.
Crazy.
The city was an actual nightmare this morning. Thousands of people, swarming into all of the empty space, searching for Boxing Day sales and somewhere to sit. I braved the sun, wearing an open back dress that I’d never worn before. Behind me I overheard “I’m glad I don’t look like that” and of course I assumed they were talking about me. I wanted to turn around and ask them what they said, dare them to say it again, ask them if they were referring to the back I had uncovered, but I didn’t. Because that would be crazy. It was 25 degrees by 11am but I put a cardigan on. That’s less crazy, right?
Advance Australia Fair.
Australia has been an absolute cluster fuck of morals this year.
Our country has blood on it’s hands. The blood of those who sought safety at our very, very privileged doorstep – who we shipped away and turned our backs on.
For those who’ve come across the seas; we’ve boundless plains to share.
Tomorrow we hear the opinions of those who chose to vote on whether same sex marriages should be acceptable in the eyes of the law.
In history’s page, let every stage, Advance Australia Fair.
I am ashamed and I am deeply saddened. I am afraid. I don’t know who we are or what we stand for.
With courage, let us all combine to Advance Australia Fair.
I’m sure I’m not alone. That’s something.
Two weeks
Two weeks and you were like a new lover
with curves and a taste I had yet to discover
Maybe distance makes the heart grow fonder
Or maybe it just makes it wonder
How it might feel, if I was alone
How it might feel, without a home
I wasn’t sure what we were meant to do
I didn’t want a new lover; I just wanted you
Tell me you love me.
Black as night, clear as day
I’m misunderstanding
in every way
what you don’t say; but do
I never hear
don’t have a clue
— —
Sometimes people tell you that they love you, in a language you don’t understand.
You’re looking for the universe and missing the stars.
Support.
She was always so stoic and still, sitting in her chair across from me. A piece of furniture with piercing eyes and listening ears. It seems odd to realise how little expression she had when I was telling her my most vulnerable feelings, and how safe I felt doing just that. Maybe the lack of expression allowed me to feel safe because I could not read on her face what she was thinking. She was excellent at her job.
She told me once that my Mother needed to be my Mother. That I was the child and I couldn’t support her in the way that she was asking. I felt sad about that even though I knew she was right. I wanted to rebel against that idea because I knew of – but could never understand – all the sacrifices my Mother had made to make me who I am. It seemed unfair to me that I could just say “no. I can’t help you” when she could never do that. Not to me; my siblings; my Father.
I can’t help but wonder who is there for the Mothers when they need that support. Do they just ask and ask and have everyone say “no. I can’t help you” every time they open their arms?
notesfromstrangers 