Fallen Leaves

Winter has come and my tree of life is beginning to wilt. Bowing to the thunderous storms that threaten to uproot it. Summer brought me evergreen leaves but their shine grew dull and they then turned into beautiful emeralds in autumn.

But now the emeralds have turned into corpses strewn across the yard. A ghost of their former glory. And I find myself down here, rustling with the wet leaves as if I could ever return their green or their shine. Pitying their fall from grace. Lamenting that something once so noble could now be nothing but dirt. Unwanted.

I’m dabbling in the darkness instead of looking up at my tree and realising that these parts of me needed to die in order for newer ones to take their place. Greener ones. Shinier ones.

There is no reason to wallow in their demise when the change of season heralds brighter skies and greener branches.

I don’t want to rustle with wet leaves anymore.



The bleached white sand hurts my eyes as I turn my face away from the blistering sun. I have taken the scenic route, which basically means I’ve been walking around in circles for the last hour.

I asked for freedom, and I got it.


Freedom means having no-one with me to figure out where I’m going.

Freedom means having no-one with me to rant about the weather and the people and the small town.

Freedom means having no-one to understand me. To help me.


I feel so lost, wandering without a purpose. Having people rambling streams of directions at me in a language I don’t quite understand. And yet, I act like I do. To prevent myself from falling into the full scale panic I seem to be teetering on the edge of.


At some point, the rambles turn into words inside my slow translating head. At some point, I find where I’m supposed to be going. The same building I’ve passed five times in my pointless search for meaning in all the road sides printed in an unknown language pointing me in directions I can’t decipher. I feel so exhausted, both mentally and physically. I feel so drained and irritable. I feel so alone.


This place is so confusing and scorching and disorienting and lonely. This place is so different and strange. This place is what I asked for. This place is freedom.


Once I’ve completed my task, I find my way back to the apartment, burnt  four shades darker than when I left it. My apartment . But this place does not feel like home. This is my couch, I picked it out myself. My couch, my bed, my coffee table. Everything is mine, and yet, somehow, it all feels so foreign to me.


I collapse onto the bed, unable to think of anything but how badly my feet hurt, how badly my eyes hurt, how badly my skin hurts, how badly my heart hurts. Longing for a home I cannot find here. Longing for a home that is familiar. Longing for a home I’ve left far behind. This place is not home.


Home is waking up in the same bed I’ve slept in since I was 10 years old.

Home is a hot, cooked meal waiting for me when I step into the door.

Home is my mother disapproving of my piercings and looking disdainfully at my tattoos.

Home is full of joy, laughter, tension, anger, love.


But this place, this place is cold and strange and empty. This place is what I’ve always wanted. Independence. But, everything comes with strings.


In this place, I have no protection, no support. In this place, I am afraid. This place is scary and huge and small and full of people I have no desire to know, people who will never know me. But this is the place that I chose. This place is freedom.


And so, here I am, in the town I asked for, in this apartment that I chose:

Alone. Afraid. And free.

Life Beyond The Wall

Life beyond the wall seems to go on oblivious to those who live improsoned.

Everything else becomes “other” and I become “jusr me.” It’s just me here suffering, bound in a hell that I created. This hell that makes me wonder if I’ll ever know what life is like beyond the wall, or even if I deserve to.

I wonder how easily those beyond the wall manage to continue living knowing we’re all trapped in here. Cut off from humanity, medicating our insanity, theraputically unraveling our insecurity.

I wonder if those beyond the wall see us as a dumping place for the defective. A defective product being taken back to the factory to be poked and prodded and psychoanalysed until they can decipher why we aren’t like all of the other people.

The people beyond the wall.

I’ve never known whar life is like beyond this wall. Even as I painstakingly laid each brick that was forced upon me. Building. Breakinh. Building agaiun. I built 4 walls and called it a home. We wonder what life is like beyond the wall but perhapswe shouldn’t. I’m quite satisfied to sit here and gaze longingly at those who live freely beyond the wall. To imagine them living the kinds of lives I can only dream of.

This wall is in my mind and I can’t get out of it, or over it, or through it.

This wall I built to keep myself safe, distant. A mere spectator of life.

There is no life beyond the wall.

Not for me.

Save Me

There’s a creaming in my head

Why can’t anyone hear it?

There’s a hole inside my heart

Why won’t anyone go near it?

There is sorrow in my eyes

Why can’t anyone see it?

Bondaged hope within my mind

Why won’t anyone free it?

There’s a blade inside my hand

Why can’t anyone take it?

Blood won’t stop running down my arm

Why won’t anyone make it?

There’s an answer to my prayers

Don’t you wonder what gave it?

A final ending to my life

Why didn’t anyone save it?

I love you

I say “I love you” as if I’m trying it on for size.

I say it because I’ve reached a point in my life where I should start loving someone,

and why can’t it be you?

I say “I love you” and I question myself even as the words slip like silk from my tongue.

I say it because you can’t hurt me if I don’t really care.

I say “I love you” because it’s easier than saying “You’re convenient and I don’t have the energy to put effort into finding someone new.”

I say “I love you” because it’s the most palatable excuse for my actions.

Because I don’t really want to explain myself.

I say “I love you” because lies flow easier from my mind than sincerity.

Because I know that, if I meant it, I’d never be able to say it to you so easily.

I say “I love you” because I hope someday I will.

I say “I love you” but I don’t.


Did your mother not teach you that women are good for more than just stroking your fragile ego?

Or is your father the reason you grew up to be such a wretched man?

You have but to caress my face to know my skin is not as thick as yours and yet you still throw your words like daggers.



Piercing my soft flesh.

Tainting the purity of my porcelain with your hatred.

Leaving me scarred

and bruised

and broken

and bleeding.

And then you dare to ask me

why I am no longer beautiful.

Innocence Lost

It was a union born of lust and smothered in sin.

Sweat drenched torso’s colliding desperately in the kind of dance not often seen outside of seedy, small-town brothels.

He was her first but she was just his latest.

She mindlessly shed her innocence hoping the shadows would hold her secrets and her intoxication would hide her shame.

His body beat a rhythm into hers that rocked her to the core.

His hands gripped her skin the way an alcoholic grips a bottle of gin.



She left with the memory of his moans still ringing in her ears, with no intention of ever seeing him again.

And she’d already forgotten his name.