3am

3am home again
i've been up the coast, scraping my knees on rocks watching dolphins and drinking wine sneaking into hotel pools eating ice cream and mouth fulls of salt water plucking mosquitos out of my hair and burning my feet on hot sand and holding hands underwater and sharing a coffee watching the surf come in come out come in come out
It's good to be home in this crumbling manor of broken plumbing and a warm fridge and my gypsy twin and kassie my kisster and zoe is warm and snoring by my side.
Things are changing so quickly all around us
Things are changing
Things are changing

We're all so much stronger now, and maybe it took a year to figure out how to look in the mirror
and see what's real
i drew my self one hundred times
to remind me, i remember

This is my mind

I was on the bus.

Full of piss and vinegar but

Pride.

Matthew’s on the phone to the doctor sayin

Don’t take away my ____________________

It’s all I have when I’m down and out feelin

Down and out don’t cry about

Pride.

I heard the birds outside my window whispering your name they said you’d call me back they said you’d call my name you don’t come round here no more.

She took the seat behind me and leaned with her hair spilling over and said-

I’m not really here.

Bones and bone dust do you remember that dream I told you about it happens sometimes and

I’m four and it’s my birthday soon and I’m making a cake with my mum and I’m putting flour on the kitchen bench I’m standing on a stool and the flour is on my hands and I move them in a way that makes patterns and I lay my face down in it it’s cool and soft like feathers and when I straighten up there is an imprint and it’s my cheek and the flour in my hair feels rough now like sand and my mum says good girl and shows me how to make snow with the sieve and I like the pictures in the cookbook and I look at them

Winter. 

Your mouth is hungry and I am an empty house and you say self destruction is your religion well mine is making enemies you are a light I have to turn away from your eyes are door frames that make me feel homeless my mind is a trap I set up long ago for intruders and myself and I'm paying for it now I tell ya

We were in an ambulance

I could see the sky

And she said-

We’re not really here.

you know i'm no good

I once knew a girl who, upon the hearing the news that i was taking up a desk job, told me I was selling out, settling down, giving up, because people like me shouldn't be trapped in mundane work clothes and nine to five slabs of time stolen from a would be wondrous day and instead sold to a menial cause that was undeserving of my attention which would otherwise be so passionately dedicated to something else, some other cause, like myself, like the slow but steady unravelment of the tightly bound moral code that years of private schooling and heavy societal pressures had built up within me and the unleashing of something deeper and primal that drove me away from my home and the ones I loved and into something terrifyingly exhilarating and self destructive and yet also beautiful and perhaps the only thing worth doing which is moving on, wandering, some might call it abandoning, perhaps, abandoning responsibilities and expectations and crushing any hopes or dreams for normality or mediocrity that certain people may have wanted, needed, me to adhere to because, she said, people like me scare others, because people like me are born to do things differently and perhaps differently means for the wrong reasons or perhaps it means hurting others or leaving people that shouldn't be left or giving up instead of sticking around or perhaps it means finding my own way without help or directions and nearly drowning in the process but rising up singing in the end because people like me can endure these things that others perhaps cant, and that's not a strength of character it's more a biological defect, because surviving the worst doesn't always lead you to the best, in fact, sometimes all it serves to do is build a defence mechanism that involves a packed suitcase and a goodbye letter and, she said, people like me, and people like her, have a knack of slipping through the fingers of others like grains of sand because we can't be kept or caged or owned, because we only own ourselves and if ourselves are all we own we'll always have nothing to lose, and in the end perhaps all we desperately want is something - to lose, i mean, but perhaps we'll never have it, at least nothing substantial, only each other, she said, and even then, nothing is forever.