You can fill the plate or you can empty it. It’s up to you.
Is it all merely a matter of perspective? You can fill it with nourishment and enrichment heaping upon it lashings of faith and fat sweet dollops of encouragement. You can fill it with the burdening residue of your own failing self worth in tatty proverbial suitcases and your personal rejected luggage. You can empty it through the tender soothsay of reassurance as the unwavering unconditionally of your love eats through their fears. You can empty it with the fiery malice of discontent as you glutton upon their confidence and beauty leaving nothing but smears of who they were and who they could have been.
The plate can break yet be repaired, a little weaker and not as pretty.
It’s fragility can be ignored by its temerity as it’s broken again and again changing its shape, editing its design. It’s resilience is both captivating and terrifying. Piece by piece, chip by chip until it’s unrecognisable. Until it’s irreparable.
Sometimes I’m the plate.
Sometimes I’m the hand that throws it.
Rewriting the autobiographies of our souls with glue.
Kneeling on the shards.
That moment, when you realise you’re about to fall. That slither of time when it could have been prevented, when you could have been saved, evaporated. It’s inevitable.
What if that moment, is continual? Looped. Frozen. A perpetual state of falling.
The moment you realise you’re drowning, too far gone to resurface yet paralyzed with the inevitability.
It’s like waiting to die.
It’s like waiting to live.
Parenting on a tightrope.
Why must it be a battle of push and shove? The petrifying grab or let go?
That tango of wills daring each other to the edge.
I’m terrified I can’t save you.
And that you can’t save yourself.
From being pushed.
Unable to decipher the intentions of my flailing arms.
I’m desperate for them to save you.
I’m stupefied they’ll let you go.
It’s not supposed to be this hard.
To love you.
If you’re waiting for me to stop
I can’t not love you.
I won’t not love you.
People are all losing their shit over the Dr’s genitals and creaming their pants over GoT and I’m just over here pondering why my nose has turned into village of the spots again whilst looking for thundercats t-shirts
One of the worst symptoms of M.E and various mental health issues for me is the brain fog. I used to have an iota of intelligence; of written eloquence. I was reliably articulate. Now I mentally stutter and stumble through paraphrasia and a mild relative of aphasia. I literally sit here hitting my head with my hand trying to knock and shake the words back into my Stream of thought. I know they’re there. Somewhere. Only for them to disappear again before I can catch them. It’s so frustrating. I know what I’m trying to say, the definition and meanings but the actual words? They’re fucking hiding. Words have always played a massive part in who I am. I have so much more to say yet the words quite literally run away.
(That’s also why I edit a lot. That and the fact my thumb magically inputs random words in the middle of my sentences)
So if I don’t make sense, now you know why.
Do you remember? When Casually dressed in that practised nonchalance you’d slip a tape into their hand with awkward shrugs and sentences that were shot with holes (of all the things you couldn’t say) but y’know. It’s cool. It’s all cool.
It’s just some tunes you, err, thought, uhm, they might like.
And as you walked away, they never did see the streamers of string, frazzled and taut, that lead from the tape to your heart circumventing to the deeper, the darker, patient pools within.
You never told them….
That you’d be sat waiting.
Toes dipped in moonlight. Soul trapped in headlights.
In that beautiful agony.
It’s just some tunes.
That they might like to hear.
To the inside of you.
They never knew that you stopped breathing as you walked away.
They’d find you, between the music and the words.
And did you ever know, I’d doodle about you.
In my favourite colour biro.
Beneath the lines
And over the margins
Three pages from the back
& Upside down.
I gave you a key once, wrapped in words and taped with double edged silences.
I hid it within you.
Because I knew it’d be safe.
I’m at the door.
No need to get up.
I’ll put the door mat back in place.
Don’t get up.
Listening doesn’t mean agreeing.
Disagreeing doesn’t mean I’m not listening.
I’m allowed to disagree.
I don’t need your permission. I grant it to myself.
I don’t agree
But I listened.
I am listening
Big thoughts like hand grenades
And my tongue is fellating the pin.