This is just to say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

- William Carlos Williams 

I thought once how Theocritus had sung

Of the sweet years, the dear and 
wished-for years,

Who each one in a gracious hand appears

To bear a gift for mortals, old 
or young:

And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,

I saw, in gradual vision through 
my tears,

The sweet, sad years, the 
melancholy years,

Those of my own life, who by 
turns had flung

A shadow across me. Straightway I 
was 'ware,

So weeping, how a mystic Shape 
did move

Behind me, and drew me backward 
by the hair;

And a voice said in mastery, 
while I strove, ---

'Guess now who holds 
thee?' --- 'Death,' I said. But, there,

The silver answer rang, --- 
'Not Death, but Love.' 

- Elizabeth Barrett Browning 

This is me, talking

I don't think it's the truth but it's the easiest way to put it. Easy is the last thing this exercise in emotional attachment has been. But oh, so worth it. So worth it, my darling boy. I can smile at the memory of your head on my chest. And those eyes. I didn't know what colour they were at first because I didn't spend enough time gazing into them and stroking your chin, hardly impeded by your day-old stubble.

Luckily, I learned my lesson in time. And I can still feel your chin graze my thighs, like a phantom limb. That's precisely what we were; phantom. But oh, so worth it. So worth it, dearest one. Do you remember when you kissed my neck? I drove home, drunk and giddy with desire. I didn't know that you were not ready. And truthfully, you aren't ready now. You were not ready when you drew me in after I had erased you from my mind. And you were not ready when you tugged at my clothes and lay in awe of my flabby, confident body.

As you traced my spine on what I had decided was the final night, for the final time, I allowed myself to imagine a time when we would be not only right for each other but right, at the right time. It has been unbelievable, in the best and worst of ways. And oh, so worth it. So worth it.

T

Unrelated extracts

How do I perform? How do you perform?
Pandora's box and floodgates.
Words rush out and actions, too, that I can't take back.
You'd think we were two little trees trapped in two separate boxes
but we're really not.
I am merely obsession and avarice,
The other is disinterest and lust.
Strategies fail and succeed but bring no joy and
I'd really rather lie on the grass in the sun.
The sun doesn't have quite the same feeling as your hand on my back or
your lips on my neck but it'll do.

*******************

We have an annoying tendency towards the superlative. A night out is no longer 'great' or 'fun', it's the best time you've had in years. Your response to that joke is the hardest you've laughed in ages. A sports star cannot just be amazing s/he has to be the best living athlete, the most talented the sport has ever seen.

And so badly made films are the worst pieces of work you've ever seen. 'Ew' will no longer suffice, if you're disgusted you vomit in your mouth a little. And so when it comes to love.

Andrew, this boy you like, is the cutest. You've never felt like this before. There is something very special about Andrew that means he far surpasses all previous boys. And then it all comes crashing down and you're not just sad, you're heartbroken.

Do you ever realise?

*******************

I've tried to write this story many times. I've chosen exotic names, origins, settings though often close to home and revealing of my own self loathing. The many unfinished short stories and novels I've written are great testimony to that. Now I've woken up in the wee hours of the fourth day of a novel-writing challenge to set down the truth. To finally use my own name, age, origins and experiences to tell my own story. I am _________ and I'm a 21-year-old BA student and a nervous wreck. I can't sleep because I am thinking about someone I shouldn't as I tend to do; desire the impossible, fall for the out of reach. The story of my life, one could say.

This is me in all my glory, fat but with a die-hard refusal to do something about it and ashamed. Of who I ought to be and what I'm not. I was born in England and have always wanted to call myself English but know I'll never be able to. In my stories I am often of mixed race which is most certainly not true. I am ashamed to admit that I'd like to be, because I associate it with beauty, balance and, most important of all 'good hair'. Something I lack, of course.

I often call myself unconventionally attractive but the truth is I'm pretty. Not as pretty or fit as the top five percent of the population we adore but...I'll do.

I am scared. Of being alone. Of not being loved. Of lacking in the intellectual stakes. Of being a mediocre writer. But I keep going, mixed tenses, unpredictable bad grammar and all. I advise you to take me as I am though I haven't quite managed it myself.

-Trish

Untitled

Old feelings.
They're outside of me,
I've written them into existence
and now read them into memory.
They'll be in the background of my dreams,
they'll be wooden bureaus and dated wallpaper.
There is no deeper meaning,
it just is.
Old feelings are crawling on my skin,
settling in places my bitten nails cannot reach.
Maybe tonight is the night.
Maybe tonight I pick up my mother's habit of grinding her teeth.
I'll finally have a reason to.
Please new feelings, please
Please win.

- Trish

"I have nothing to give. I have so much to lose."

Fear
sits on my shoulders like a cosy blanket in the heat of summer.
It's a shroud, a guide to living.
Small steps and tinier sips,
Leaping heart enclosed in a bony cage.
"Settle down," you say,
Breathe in and fold into yourself.
I'm a little ball of wool, wound tight.
It takes courage to pull a loose thread
to float above, to extend.
Courage is only a broach, fear is a second skin.

- Trish

conflict.

And it all comes down to the fact that it doesn’t really matter
That we are just set to accumulate dust and anguish over years
We are set to rally and rage
To impale ourselves on our beliefs
We sit and stand and crouch in anger

Conflict burning deep set wrinkles there
Some internal struggle in your bedroom
Slam the phone down
Storm out the room huffing and puffing

We love this drama
This real-life silver screen
Pounding on our temples like a punch in the head
We have to fight like this to feel reality
Let it engage us and raze our flowery ideas to the ground
Just dust like our bodies
And float away like them too.



P x

Cat

Is there a metaphor for it?
Can I call it a cat and make you understand?
Striped and wounded, she languishes in curiosity,
She's a scaredy cat, for sure.
And far too clever for her own good.
So she scratches, yawns, sleeps, dreams,
Inescapable curiosity, a chill hovering around her little cat heart.
A heart that beats fast inside a slow moving body,
Dreams that make leaps she couldn't even fathom,
Eyes closed and then open.
Maybe a simile instead.

- Trish