even my head wasn't safe, they told me. so where was I to go?

the real world wasn’t
good enough
anymore.
the leaves lacked their sparkle
and trees ceased their dancing
whenever I turned to look

they did it on purpose, I was
sure, because the malignant spirits
amused themselves through
tormenting mortal children.

the real world wasn’t
good enough
anymore,
and I didn’t want to be mortal.
the adventures which inspired me
had me jaded and questioning my perception of magic.

reality was dull, and there was nothing, nothing,
nothing at all I could do to change it.
imagination only spins so far before it
crumbles into bitter disappointment.

the real world wasn’t
good enough
anymore
for where were the elves and the witches and the
long-forgotten magic which would transport me away
from this dull grey cul-de-sac
and the green plastic swing
and the tree that wasn’t actually
inhabited by wood faeries?

my magic wasn’t real
the labyrinth wasn’t real
Hogwarts wasn’t real
the shire wasn’t real –
my imagination had lied to me without
apology
and the only thing left was
reality, which simply wouldn’t do.

the real world wasn’t
good enough
anymore
and though my dream catchers tried in vain to make it less so,
there was no escape, no reprieve
for an old soul in a child’s
body who wanted nothing more than to leave
behind mediocrity before fully comprehending what it meant:
wholly and entirely trapped, with the solid comfort of awakeness
no longer reassuring

the real world wasn’t
good enough
anymore
though the tendrils of hopelessness and
boredom were worse than any cruel sprite
my imagination might have conjured.

they bite at my tongue and scratch my eyes raw, teasing.

now, there are potions to make them all stop
but I’d miss the last remnants
of a real world that was good enough.

a failed exercise in stoicism.

her mind is a blur,
possibly because her hands
are unsteady, with their slight
shaking, and
her eyes don’t focus as well as they should
in the early morning.

she repeats the same sayings,
the same jokes, like mantras, so as to
give her body the rhythm it so
dreadfully lacks

she dresses
and faithfully turns down the sleeves
of her blouse
piecing herself together by
breaking herself apart –
is believing in something so
darkly insignificant a crime?

the promises she makes are hard
and shiny like tumbled stones
yet their jagged qualities can’t be
tumbled away.
they remain brittle.

she practices printing, then
script in fine red ink,
trailing her y’s and making the
sharpest of v’s
mostly she wishes her facial features were
phonetic
so she could pronounce her emotions
instead of puncturing them.

she is a weaver, and with orchid-scented
palms she hooks and threads and
nimbly orchestrates the digits at the end
of her weakening arms.
these tapestries of elaborate
hope are nothing more than gossamer,
light and fleeting,
and she uses them in defense, allowing
them to settle over those who would rescue her
to comfort, and cover, and fool.

there are lies, which she
harmoniously practices at the jewelry
counter, or the river, or on those she loves.
for when she tells the truth,
it tastes like plastic.

and comfort is better than worry and truth;
they may have grown, but she can
still shield them
from the harsher aspects
of the world –
how no one ever really “gets
better”
and we’re all just survivors
of our own personalities

she’ll continue surviving
unless she doesn’t
but the more they try to silence her ramblings
and still her unrelenting hands
the less they’ll remember of how
they thought they solved her
in the first place.

a haiku for your reading pleasure.

sniffle sniff sniffle

sniffle sniffle sniff sniff sniff

I sniff am sniff sick.

achieving that sleepy-eyed look.

so valuable
so
rare
with the coffee and eyeliner and
metallic formulas
going into the efforts of aliveness
and appearing confident in such a way that
is less passively twisted, if possible

so vulnerable
the nights spent with the coffee
and the sitting in this chair, this
one right here
with the velvet brocade
the moon reflecting and blending
pale skin and ivory dressing gown into
a washed-out, drained pastel
image

the doe eyes
caught in headlights and alarm clocks
murmuring, sleight of hand, lashes dipping
forward
into a cup of all the expectations
smudged views and tripping feet
signal the courage to do what
must be done

the signature
namely
in highlight-like tangerine
the flavours and colours blend
when a tired mind tries
logic, that bane.
the look of the sleepless
the look of the successful
the look of the suffering.

affective.

her snow-boots trample through
piles of snow
stained in bitterness, and twinkling
ominously

her hand-knit gloves brush lightly
along evergreen branches
weighed down with this season’s
trials

her mouth exhales, a flushed O
emitting spirals of half-condensed air
clawing up towards the upper
atmosphere

her heart thuds dutifully,
perpetuating the music of her body
music which has been set on pause
as

her mind flutters carefully, frightfully,
a million miles away, or only four
to where smoke echoes her ragged breathing
and brittle anger shatters, slowly seeping
into the snow.

no one else's.

he
when he made the world turn
slowly, and
managed to push away
all her petty thoughts of hatred
he held her fragile hands
like teardrops, or
        weapons
and brushed them far away
from tracing lonely scars

tall
the grass they’d lose themselves in and
find each other again, only to
realise
that the other was different,
slightly changed, because
too many secrets can be hiding
in a field of wheat

bright
as the indigo outlaws they watched
dazzling, the sky, or another word
they never quite remembered
because there were more important
things to do
boats to catch
hearts to juice
beneath almond-tasting fireworks
bending quietly above picnic blankets

where
always a question of character
anyplace, just
far away
lady’s choice, see.
but Nowhere doesn’t quite make sense
and who could decide
between the boy with the
fireworks,
and her secret teardrop scars?

only whelmed.

shuffling the pages as
she gazes out across a tumultuous façade
she keeps wondering why he could never
drown himself:
he would always come up
                        gasping
choking on the words he’d already
spoken, and the thoughts he held tight
through the deluge

frankly, she thinks the coming storm
looks horribly calming, but
the azaleas think the purple-gray is wrong.
while raindrops freckle the
stone
she reasons that water must be
the angel of life and death:
she stomps out the reflections

too quickly, for if she had held
eyes toward the shimmering surface
seconds more
she would have seen him spinning
and not have flinched quite so horribly
when she turned, and
            he turned
to face the drenched, empty eyes
before the barely-afloat girl.

where we need.

what we’ve seen tumble

through the stars
and bounce off mirrors – no breaking
only bending
that motion out of the
corner of your eye –
you know you see it
you know it sees you

for ever is a long time
a twisted, tangled fragment of
eternity
but ever passes slowly
once hope
through mirrored glass
has fled

the waving crimson
your tarnished eyes
the hopeless encounters we’ve shared,
seemingly,
flow together in a haze of remembrance
a mixture of dusty tears
and bright blue readiness

the traveler may yet dream
while perhaps we fly onward
along our own mundane adventure
aching for a purpose
and reaching for a glimpse.

three wishes.

one
of fire and burning and silver
candlesticks
reflecting on the closed eyes
of the wishing
for only a moment, golden and
complicated and sad,
before the eyes are opened
            the fire is doused
only embers remain

two
for tumbling and dancing and
ever-flowing
never ceasing pursuit of what lies
just ahead
relentless searching for the unknown
and all that accompanies
the threat and thrill of
adventure, when
only questions remain

three
what with ringing and quietly
shouting for help
or for solitude, sometimes more
potent, and yet
of the trees, monumental
and inconsequential to any, as
only paper remains

there
and this is the longing
and the wishing
        the waiting
        the solemnly searching
for hope in a place
where no purpose ignites:
for the wishing is simple
when only silence remains.