2011

Sitting on the edge of the kerb, arms wrapped around bare legs, thoughts like wavy lines on paper pale skin, a walking electroencephalogram, the scratchy feel of scabs on knees rubbing against the inside of wrists, feet stuck right through treacle mud—straight through to the other side of the world, bus number thirteen-twenty-five and drawing the numbers into my forearm with my fingertip: 1-3-2-5. 1-3-2-5. 1-3-2-5. My legs like a tumble through rosebushes and the psychiatrist’s dubious stare and ‘the worst thing you have ever been through has always been a fair fight.’ Learning for the future instead of living it and will I ever learn to live where I am? Weak ankles and losing all the parts of who I am (was? will be?) and seeing who I could be. Late night milk and sugar, hiding beneath Henry’s old bomber jacket and burning my toes on the radiator, watching blue whales under bedsheets and it’s my death, my dawn, my blushing hour. Buttered toast and sweetcorn warmed on the stove for supper and eaten on the doorstep and terrified of being a sociopath, of cars, of swimming pools. Hiding on the corner outside MOCA, ill-timed crying. Screaming between the two Ls and the opposing force between my feet and concrete cracks and begging myself to open the door because I’m late, late, late. The word C O U R A G E carved into a fallen tree in the middle of the courtyard—a reminder or an imploration? Pure-hearted Tallie bearing a ceramic chess board, tiny sculpted bishops and knights and forgetting to comb my hair. ‘You don’t have to wonder what it’s like to be beautiful’ and ‘You don’t have to wonder what it’s like to be good.’

xxx