Butterfly stitches

If you need me to,
I can take your heart from you.

If you fear that it may break,
I will take your heart from you.


I will wrap it in soft muslin,
and keep it safe,
inside my chest, beside my own.

If  it is bruised and torn,
I will take your heart from you.

I will bathe it in warm water,
and stitch it back together,
with the gentlest of butterfly stitches.

And when you are ready,
I will give your heart back to you

And it will beat so strong.
And it will feel so right,
sitting warm and safe inside your chest.

Unpleasant

This feeling is unpleasant.
I can't quite pin it down,
but it is unpleasant..

I feel like I am clawing from inside myself
A tiny me,
trying desperately to get out.

My jaw is set,
my brow is sagging
The sides of my mouth are slipping down my face.

I rub my hands over my face,
a little too rough,
again and again.

It's nothing too serious,
it's just an unpleasant feeling,
that I can't quite pin.

Tango

We are learning to tango.

You lead, I follow.
I step backwards, again and again.
You step forward, to the left to the right.
With my chest I follow you, always stepping backwards.

I can't see where we are going.
But you can.
You guide me around other couples,
and sometimes spin me abruptly away from a collision.

I don't notice, until I take them off,
how my feet mold firmly to the shape of the high heels.
When I take them off I forget for a second how to walk normally.
My toes and heel bend backward,  away from the ground.

I can't wait to go again.

Exhaustion

I am exhausted.

The type of exhausted that builds up inside of you until you feel as though you will explode, if you only had the energy.

The type of exhausted that frowns and snaps and that rims your eyes with tears.

The type of exhausted that can't remember how to relax.

The type of exhausted that wont let you sleep.

The type of exhausted that wont let you breath deep.

The type of exhausted that drags on your shoulders until they feel as though they are aflame.

The type of exhausted  that makes you feel as though you are an overfilled water balloon and the world is made of pins.

I am just so fucking exhausted.





But I know it wont last forever.

To sit quietly with you

I want to sit quietly with you.
Side by side.

My hand touching your hand.
Not holding hands,
just the edge of our hands touching.

We don't need to say anything,
we can listen to the sound of our breath.

I will forget which breath is mine,
and which breath is yours.

We don't need to look at one another,
we know each other 'by heart'.

But if your eyes catch mine
we will gently smile,
just the edge of our eyes,
and the edge of our mouths,
curling up slightly.

And then,
when we're ready,
we can do the dishes.

You wash,
I'll dry.

ok

Sometimes I feel it.

Tears in my tummy,
a weight in my chest,
a dragging on my shoulders,
a swimming in my head,
a racing in my veins,
a darting in my eyes.

But it's ok.

But I'm ok.

I am safe.

Things in my world are good,
better than good.

I will give you all I have . .

I will give you all I have
and that wont be enough

I will bleed for you
and I will cry for you,
until my body is dry,
and that wont be enough

But if I share with you
if I smile with you
maybe even cry with you
maybe that will be more than enough

This is not autobiographical, and I don't even like it. I've just had the first two phrases floating around in my head for so long I wanted to get them out!

Same, same, but different

In the past few days I have been sucker punched in the gut with the past.

So much has changed,
I have changed.

So much has stayed the same,
so much I would love to have changed.

So much I need to have stayed the same,
has changed.

But there is us,
sisters,
best friends,
both changed,
but still the same.

Same, same, but different.

There is the sound of our voices,
our laughter,
our tears,
ringing out in the night.

"Glorious, glorious, glorious!"

Today,
after a good lunch,
I went for a little wander around the block,
before going back to work.

I went in to the sweet shop.
I had walked past it longingly before,
One of those glorious old fashioned shops,
with beautiful glass jars of edible treasures.

But the shop had been sold to new owners,
it had lost the magic
that I thought I had seen
all those times before.

But then I decided to look into the boxes of books,
displayed outside the ugly shop beside.
$1 books, they couldn't be any good,
by why not give it a chance.

I knew I should go back to work,
but I couldn't leave those titles and authors,
I ran my fingers along their spines,
I think I started to salivate.

I felt serene.

I found book after book
that I had always wanted to read
or by authors who I had just heard of
and who fascinated me

Feeling naughty,
in that wonderful, mischievous, childlike way
I chose three glorious books
to take home with me.

As I pressed on the door to enter
my heart beat a little fast
wondering if they would accept eftpos.
And then . .

Then I saw the shop,
 It was huge! Well bigger than I expected
as I looked around I saw more and more
walls of books.

I saw another box of $1 books
and this time with frivolity and delicious abandon
I chose another three
to be mine.

I paid at the counter,
only $4,
there was a 3 for $2 special.
and I smiled.

As I left the shop,
to go back to work, late
I clutched the books to my chest
and in my head sang "Glorious, glorious, glorious!"

little daffodil

It is starting to get lighter now.
Sometimes I get home before it is dark.

Our garden has sprouted little daffodils.

First a single bright yellow flower on a delicate green stem,
an intruder in a dark weed covered garden.

Every time I see the little daffodil I slow my step, no matter how late I am
And I am filled with a childlike joy
I feel the bright yellow inside my chest.

Now that single delicate green stem holds five bright yellow flowers,
it sags under the weight but it stays strong.

We have had wind and rain and hail

It's still there.

Again and again I have resisted the urge to clip the green flesh off at it's feet
and carry it inside with me to display in the centre of the kitchen table.

But it is beautiful and alive in the garden.

The other day I found another little daffodil, two flowers hidden amongst a bushel of rosemary.

I feel a little strange.

I feel a little strange.

My head has been aching for days.

Pain relief isn’t working.

My insides are squeezing and twisting, like a wet rag being wrung out between strong, calloused hands, as they are this time each moth.

I fell asleep on the couch last night.

I woke up with a fright, covered in sweat, even though it’s wintery cold, and next to a little puddle of my drool.

My head ached and swam.

I was hot and cold at the same time.

Apparently my eyes were open before I woke, it gave my fella a bit of a fright.

I’m tired.
Tired in a muted, slow way.

I feel a little disconnected, a little lonely.

hormones

Congratulations you have succeeded in making me feel like shit.

My Mum always tells me no one can make you feel anything, only you hold that power.
But I don't wanna admit to letting you hurt me.


It was only a few words, they weren't actually mean.
But they weren't nice.

It could just be those monthly hormones.

But I don't wanna admit I let my hormones hurt me.

No matter whose fault it is, mine, I am hurting and I feel alone. 

I stood out in the rain with my palms outstretched, waiting for rainbows to fall, but catching thunder instead.
The rolling rumbling sound hurts my ears.
The weight of it strains my wrists.

But I held on,
I could have let it fall to the ground and disappear in a grumbling mist,
I didn't.

I sit here with my fist tightly closed around a dull throbbing thunder.

Stupid hormones.

Aches

My head aches but it's not as bad as yesterday.

Yesterday we went for a walk up the hill, it's a big hill.
My legs got shaky and wobbly half way up.

We got up to the very top.

Except then my fella took me further along and further up.
We walked through a little bit of gorse, stinging me just slightly through my thin pants.

We got to the very top, we could see all the way around.
The city, the harbour, the south island with it's snow covered ranges, and my favourite was looking out to the expanse of ocean.

I couldn't believe we got to see this and all we had to do was walk to the top of a hill, a big hill.

My sweat started to cool in the winter wind and my ears ached as they do.
The sun shone so brightly on the sea I had to squint.
My fella smiled at me. We hugged and I breathed him in.

We said our goodbyes and he ran off one way and I walked off another.

As I walked down the big hill my shin ached and my legs wobbled, I wouldn't take a full step but I didn't mind.
I went as fast as I could, taking fast but tiny steps, I even passed a few people. I didn't want my fella to wait and maybe I wanted him to be proud of me too.

I felt good.

He was coming to the end of his path as I was walking down the end of mine, it was a little bit perfect.

But we didn't have any water.
We spent most of the day sharing one bottle of water and apparently that is not enough for either of us.
As the day went on we felt worse and worse, sleepy and achy.
My head started to throb and it didn't stop no matter how much water I had. The panadol made no difference.

But I didn't mind.

Today my legs ache, it hurts to stand up and walking up or down the steps to my office is agony, but it's a happy kind of agony.

I fell over in the dark

I fell over in the dark.
I don't know how it happened.
There was no alcohol involved.
One minute I was walking up our familiar steps, almost home, with a torch in my mouth and my arms full of a days worth of shopping bags, my fella bought me a beautiful dress, one I wouldn't even dream of.
The next minute I was on the ground, shocked, my heart racing, pain in my hand and wrist and shins.
I was carrying our computers, the most valuable thing we own, since everything was taken.
My fella came down to check on me.
He opened the door and let us inside.
I told him to check out computers first.
He did what I sad while I held my hand at an odd angle to prevent blood from dripping on anything.
Then my fella told me to run my hand under the cold water.
He asked me if it was cold enough.
It stung and my hands felt fiery from the cold.
Then I dried my hand very carefully and sat down in the kitchen.
My fella gently put plasters on each of my grazes, tight to stop the bleeding.
The colour came through the plasters.
He asked me how it happened.
I said I had no idea.
He said it was kind of me be worried about our computers.
After a while I asked him when my hand would stop hurting.
He said not to think about it.

My fingers

In the last week, I haven't been kind to my fingers:

• I have jammed my engagement ring finger in our heavy wooden door, I didn't know what to do it ached for hours, I fashioned a protective sleeve out of tissues, plasters and one of those soft rubber thimble thingies, all I have to show for it is a faint red mark under my nail.

• I swung, with all my might, our lighter kitchen door onto my pinky finger, accidentally. This time I stuck it into a bag of frozen peas until it went kind of hard and numb and a funny colour, it was still warm against my face. 

• I got a deep paper cut from grabbing a stack of 19th century coroners inquests. I felt a little nervous about the 19th Century dust. I covered my hands in sanitizer.

• Today I somehow grazed two knuckles, enough for them to bleed and sting, when I was lifting boxes of archives. I didn't bother with sanitizer this time, just plasters. 

Now we are out of plasters.

My fingers are stiff from the plasters covering them, I can imagine the icky white shriveled skin that lies beneath.

My Mum and sister, not to mention Louise L Hay (I think of her as Louisel Hay), would say there must be a reason for so many little injuries on my hands.

I looked it up, fingers represent the details of life.

I don't believe it.

I think I'm just too careless.

 

The small old man

On the way back from an amazing lunch with my fella soaking up what winter sun there was, I saw two people ahead of me.
I couldn't see much but I could see that they weren't quite sitting right, their legs were at the wrong angles and they were bent backwards as if they were about to lie down.
I wondered if everything was ok but then went straight on to thinking about something else.
As I walked past I saw that one was a big man and the other was a small old man with his eyes closed.
I didn't think that the big man seemed too worried.

I kept walking.

As I took another step I realised that the small old man was not ok.
He wasn't just lying down.
Small old men do not lie down in the bark for fun.

But I kept walking.

As I walked into work I wondered if the small old man was dead.
I felt sick and revolted by myself.

I sat down at my desk and chose to think about work and cute baby animals.
Don't upset yourself, I thought.

Then someone came in and said an old man had collapsed outside, he couldn't breathe, it was probably a heart attack.People from my work had taken blankets and pillows to 'keep him comfortable'.
Then I heard the sirens.
An ambulance, 2 cars with flashing lights and a fire engine were right outside my window, 2 floors down,  and then there was just an ambulance.
 I thought about the small old  man, my dad and his heart, I thought about myself and my heart, I thought about how I just kept walking.

The danger of doors

This morning, before I'd really woken up, as I was walking into the kitchen to make my coffee, I caught my finger in the solid wood door.

It is the finger on my left hand. I'm left handed. I'm not sure what the finger is called, but it's the one an engagement ring goes on. I know because I've asked my Mum more than once. Right now, I think I might call it Louisa.

It hurt.

I made a little squeak and all sorts of silly faces.

Then I sat down with my head between my knees and one hand clutching, without actually touching, my finger.

The pain didn't go away, I thought it would.

I am the type of person who gets a little hurt and and is sure it's broken.

My finger isn't broken it just hurts.

And it gets in the way. I struggled to put my, admittedly tight, jeans on this morning. I managed by threading one finger under the belt loops on either side of my hips and pulling up.

I wanted to warn my fella of the dangers of closing doors before fully awake, but I think that might only be a danger for me.

When I did make my coffee, I forgot to empty the drip tray, it dripped into a big murky brown puddle on the kitchen floor. I spent too long trying to soak it up with a cheap cloth, the type that just moves the wet around.

My finger, Louisa, still hurts, but not as much.

Red pen

My job at the moment is to check through thousands of names of people who had corner's inquests.

Sometimes I come across funny names and I giggle to myself.

Sometimes I come across families who died together.

I check the names in big old leather bound books.

The leather has started to rot and if your not careful it comes off on your clothes.
These big decaying books, registers, have the name of the deceased, and the cause of death.

I learned quickly not to be too curious.

On each page there is some red pen in the sea of black, it's still a vibrant red.
It would be dramatic but a little true to say it is the colour of blood, the type that comes up in one perfect bubble when you accidentally prick your finger.

It's hard not to notice the red.
It's hard not to see the red out the corner of your eye and start reading before you can catch yourself.

Written in red pen, in the same delicate script as the black, are the suicides.

I like to sleep against the wall

My fella's mum came to stay. They moved our bed away from the wall, it stops condensation and the blankets feeling icky, apparently.

I like to sleep against the wall. I like to touch the solid cool wall. I will touch it with my knee, or my forearm, or my head.

I love to cuddle my fella, I love the warmth of his body, the scent of his skin, but when it is time for sleep I turn over and wedge myself in the corner, re-acquainting myself with the wall.

It reminds me of what my Dad sometimes jokingly says 'center yourself'. What if I center myself with the reliable solidity of a concrete wall?

For as long as I can remember I have slept up against a wall, I almost never hit my head on it anymore.

My mum used to tell me in the middle of the night she would hear a loud bump, it was just me hitting the wall, nothing to worry about.

Sometimes I sit bolt upright with a look of abject fear on my face,my fella will tell me I'm safe, maybe gently rub my back and I go back to sleep, I don't remember it the next day but he has never complained of bumps in the night.

The night they moved our bed I told myself it was fine. I wrapped myself up in bed, snuggled against my fella, breathing him in and then I turned over and I noticed my breath rising and falling, I tossed and turned a little.

As time went on my head started to race, not anything in particular, just zig zagging from one topic to the next. Then I started to worry, what if  I fall out of bed? I reminded myself again and again that adults don't fall out of bed their bodies or their subconscious stops them, it must,  I haven't heard of an adult falling out of bed.

I don't know what happened next but eventually I got to sleep.

When I woke up in the morning I had taken all the blankets and fed them down my side of the bed, only leaving myself covered, my fella was bare. It's winter.

. . . . .

Last night I went to sleep quickly. We slept through our alarm and when we woke up we were both snuggly and warm and the blankets were where they should be.

There is kindness out there

There is kindness out there.

It is a kindness I didn't know existed. At least not for me.

I have opened out my arms, not in expectation and not in demand, but I hope, in welcoming.

And I have found there is a kindness out there, near and far. It is closer than you would expect and it comes from further afield than I would ever dream of.

It can have a beautiful familiar face, it can have the smiling face of an acquaintance, it can be anonymous but beautiful all the same.

There is pain out there and there is pain in here. There is cruelty and blameless hurt. There is the sharp pinch of an icky surprise. It has many faces, none you'd want to see again, some you can't see and that is a pain in itself.

But there is kindness out there.

I have opened out my arms.

There is a kindness out there for me.

It has come in a warm breeze and I have been enveloped  in a sea of it.

There is a kindness out there

and there is a kindness in here

and I am happy to share it

Not sure of the relevance

Both my arms ache.
They're stiff.
They feel heavy and thick with rock.
Not strong, just sore.

I've been reading, maybe my arms hurt from holding the book to my eye-line, maybe not.

My fella paid off his library fines so I could use his card, mine has too many fines to even consider paying it off. When we go to the library we always seem to be in a hurry, so I rush to the recommended section, first getting sidetracked by the temporary 'books with recipes'. I look over the titles and covers with such delicious enjoyment and pick some at random that 'tickle my fancy', judging the books solely by their covers and the way they light me up.

Anyway, I have been reading and I've just finished a book.  The type of book that makes me smile widely out loud and walk with a visible 'spring'. The type of book that towards the end made my eyes grow bigger and move faster across the page.The type of book that had me silently weeping, my body gently convulsing over it.

The book I was reading said this thing, this thing that sung  to me.

"You are scored on my heart"

I have been thinking about my heart today, the real pumping life giving muscle and that metaphorical but still real one. My fella is scored on my heart in the most beautiful and imaginable way possible, like the most beautiful tattoo on could imagine, a work of art, an etching. Someone else is scored on my heart in a deep itching scar, an old wound that wont heal.

It was his birthday today, not my fella's, someone else's. I texted and sent 'all my love' he replied to say he ha had one  of those turns. One of those turns he had a lot before his heart gave out again and again. He needed a quadruple bypass. Five veins taken from his arms and thighs were put as little bypasses, like the ones you meet when a road is blocked by roadworks or dangerous weather. For some time his heart was replaced my a machine, it lived for him. Today I had to remind myself that his heart was still beating. I ad to remind myself that my own heart is still beating. His blood is in my blood. What if my heart was made up of  a slice of his heart?  I feel selfish.

I told my fella how I feel, how I've always felt selfish for how alone, how much pain and fear I had when he had his bypass', how big a part of my life it has been when he was the one who had his life dependent on a machine. My fella soothed my fear, took away my guilt and made me realise I was no longer alone with a few honest sentences and the right look.

My heart has been scored.

I have been reading.

My arms ache.

I'm not sure of the relevance.

My fella bought me a new coat.

My fella bought me a new coat.

It is woolen and snugly warm. You can pull the collar up around your neck and bury your chin in when you don't feel so bold. The pockets are just the right size for my hands, built in mittens. My perpetually icy hands don't need to be anymore. When I sit in it I feel as though I am wrapped in a blanket,  it's weight and warmth, I feel safe.

It is the colour of soft loved red.

It isn't smooth, it's just a little bumpy, soft curls of wool I run my hands over again and again.

It comes to my knees and lets my legs peep out as I walk sending the sides out like a cape. I feel like a beautiful superhero.

It's from the fifties. I don't know who wore it before me but they would have been warm, I wonder how they felt in it? Did they  run their hands over it's soft woolly curls?

When I take it off I feel a little naked. But my hands are warm and I can almost still feel it's weight on my shoulders, not a bad weight, a good weight, the type of weight that helps you feel your feet on the ground and know you won't drift away with the breeze.

My fella bought me a new coat.

Chamomile and gifts

As I was sipping on chamomile tea, I think of it as calmomile, I think I may have come to a realisation.

The hurt you have given me will not be relieved by protecting you from the same hurts I may give to you.

Perhaps we are too similar, perhaps it's in our blood to gift hurt to one another.

Or perhaps you give me hurt and you have too much hurt already to take the hurt I have to give you.

It's your birthday soon, I've been thinking and thinking of what I can give to you. Maybe you have too much of everything for me to give you anything.

I don't know.

Maybe  you'd like some chamomile tea?

I don't think so.

Want and want not

I dont want to eat.

I want to write.

Writing feels as though it is the only way to soothe the tiger tearing shreds in my insides, exposing raw naked flesh.

Night and morning

Last night I couldn't sleep. My thoughts raced around, not yet fully formed. My onsie twisted up and around on me. My pillow was too warm. My skin felt itchy.

I tried to slow my breath, breathing in to the count of 10 feeling air push my lungs wide open, then I would breath out for a count of 10 feeling my lungs deflate, shriveling at the last few seconds of air being pulled out. It didn't help.

Eventually, I did sleep.

This morning I woke up to the alarm, he wrapped his body around me and I felt warm and relieved. The alarm went off again. He got up turning on the lights and going to run the shower, the sound somehow comforting. I squinted at the lights, my eyes wouldn't open. I wondered why sometimes you could open your eyes to the light with no trouble and other times it felt like torture. I wondered if it was all in my head. With him gone my thoughts raced around. A part of me felt like placing my feet upon the ground, letting them carry the wait of my upright body would be opening myself up to things I did not want to hold. After trying again and again my eyes stayed open, gradually becoming less squinty until they were relaxed, aside from the occasional twitch from my right eye. The light was gently welcoming. Outside light hadn't yet arrived.

A day

I awoke after what seemed like a night saturated in nightmares.

I burnt the milk in my coffee, so poured it down the sink, chastising myself for wastefulness. I made another coffee, this time the milk a little too cool. With little time left to drink it, I took one slow gulp, closing my eyes and taking in the rich bitterness. I took a few, more rapid, gulps. I tipped the rest down the sink, in my mind giving my apologies to the innocent liquid.

On the way down our path my ankle ached sending an uncomfortable heat up my calve. I looked to the sky and worried we would be late, it was getting light. Somehow I had confused light with dark or dark with light or day with night or night with day, I'm not sure. Whatever it was we were early, when I saw the time I let out a little laugh.

At morning tea time, on the way out, I saw a group of people standing around, looking overly upset. As I walked a little further I saw what they saw, someone lay on a couch, mostly blocked from my view by concerned bystanders. A paramedic fluttered around. My mind froze and my heart sped up as I kept walking. I got outside and saw the ambulance. I crossed the road and crossed another road then I walked into a cafe and back out I walked to the curb then went back into the cafe. The line was long, I took my place. I asked myself why I was acting so stupidly, I wasn't the one who needed an ambulance, I had no right being upset. I realised I hadn't taken my pill. I took it there standing in line. I ordered a muffin and a large latte take away. On reflection the coffee was not good for my racing heart. I thought about my dad and his heart attack, his quintuple bypass, as I seem to think of it. I tell myself not to be stupid for bringing up old hurts, ones that weren't even mine to own.When I saw the ambulance had gone I left the cafe I crossed the road and crossed another road and went back into work. After listening to someone talk for a while about something I cant remember I asked tentatively if she knew what had happened that needed the ambulance. Someone at work had had a mini stroke, she couldn't speak. It's happened before, multiple times. Eventually she was able to speak again. I used to sit near this woman, she would talk to herself as she worked, she'd reprimand herself, calling herself a stupid bitch. It made me flinch and smile. The person I was talking to called her an Iron lady, she always comes back to work in a few days, reprimanding herself for having another stroke.

At 2.30 we have stretching time. I crossed my legs, one on top of the other. I stretched out my arms in front of me, pulling my belly to my knees. I drifted away from the office. Then someone called my name. Apparently my stretching was 'next level'. The teenager that I work with wanted to tr, her younger legs seeming so stiff, flinging themselves away from her. She kept trying and trying falling over backwards and sideways. Eventually, lying on her back she managed, someone else had to try and pull her onto her bum, there was lots of giggling. We warned her to be careful of ripping her pants. Two other people easy wrapped one leg over the other. The teenager couldn't understand why her body was so disobedient. We then got talking about walking on our knees with our legs still crossed. I'm sure we used to do it in Primary school. I got talked into (it didn't require much talking) trying it. I warned I might fall on my face, but I would give it a go. I swung my bum upwards, my whole body rocked forwards and swung back, I tried again this time I ended on my knees. I lifted one knee up and pulled it forward, then I did the other. I moved across the floor. There were a lot of giggles. I felt a little proud, but my knees hurt, it reminded me of when I used to go to church, kneeling on the pews, pews is that what they're called? I never enjoyed kneeling.

Later I went to eat the rest of my muffin, it felt thick and gluey in my mouth, like peanut butter. I left a quarter, maybe I'll eat it later.

I wonder how I will sleep tonight.

I guess it's a start, of sorts

They came into our house when we weren't here. 

They broke open our doors, not just one, two.

They left one open exposing everything  to the rain.

It was pissing down that day. I had got completely soaking wet walking from Charlie's work to my own. It was his first day at his new job. Although I was freezing, I was happy.

When we came home we thought the weather had blown the door open. It hadn't.

The box for the tv was  in the kitchen, I couldn't figure out why Charlie had brought it out,  or when he had, I was with him the whole time.

I went into the lounge. . . 

It's here where my voice shakes and the tears rise up in my throat forming a tight angry ball stopping me from making a sound. 

It was rainy today. My heart was racing a little too fast all day. When we came home our doors were shut, just as we left them. The dishes were just where we left them and my dirty washing was just where I left it, in the corner. 

I have made it from then to now, my heart races a little too fast. My find doesn't stay where I want it. My head aches. My stomach churns. Something doesn't feel right down below. I haven't cried that much but I feel the tears in my blood stream. 

I feel as if I have been cut open. And I have no idea of, or how I will heal.