I'M RESIGNING AS A POET TO WRITE GREETING CARDS

I’m trying to learn how to write when I’m happy. It would seem I’ve associated the writer in me, with me at my most unwell. And I’m having a hard time undoing it. I’ve decided I’m only interesting when suffering— capable of being interesting while suffering— and am in the process of proving myself otherwise. Rather depressing that I can think of an infinite number of metaphors for sorrow, and only one and a half for love. Honest, reciprocated, love. Longing does not count, longing I know well. Longing inspires me like no other feeling. As does nostalgia, which always turns to missing (and missing is but a synonym for longing.) But present, pulsing, adoration… I have nothing to say. For why? If my happiness cannot be put into words, it will not be remembered. And for this reason my memory is always cast in blue— all the pink days suspended in brain fog— like laughing gas delirium. You make me inarticulate, my thinking face has never been a smile, so, I can’t think. I’d said the happiest of people are often sort of stupid, and I think that I was right. Grinning like an idiot, with an empty, open, word doc. 

A LOVE LETTER TO MY SCABS

Our bodies want to (overwhelmingly) heal. I watch the scabs on my skin, change every day, with a deep fascination. Sutures of hardened red, criss crossing my wound, forming from thin air, from my very own cells. The two sides of the splitting skin, kissing. Teeth digging into lips. Holding on for dear life. Our bodies are our most enduring relationship, aren’t they? No matter how much we abuse, dilute, misuse, refute them, they defend us, against sickness, and cold, against virus, and mold. Our skin refuses to rot. I write so often about this strange magic. At my most depressed it always felt like a challenge, an experiment of sorts, yet— my studies always leading to the same conclusion— scab forming. Wound closing. Skin growing. Healing. Healing. Healing. You are predisposed to healing. You are built to get better. Socks wet, and wetter, feet cold— see the blood flow, again, to the tips of your toes. Whether you feel them quite yet. You will, once more. Invisible will to live.  And you will, live.

THE CEREMONY OF LIVING (WITH US)

There are few things peppermint tea can’t fix. And no shower is too long. Every object has feelings, it can have a name too, if you’d like. You can sit and think, without question, if you begin to cry, that’s alright. Think of it like a prayer, without god eavesdropping. If you can’t sleep, or sleep too late, no judgment, rest is medicine, and we all handshake that we’ll heal. And sometimes you’ll find stray socks in your load. Dinner time is sacred. Dishes are washed before we sleep, a confession to the sink. Discarded leftovers a sin. Candles burning. And always say goodnight, I’ll see you in the morning. All the things you’ve learnt living in this home. A home built from stray fabric, and memories in its stitching, and it is cherished always cherished, and even if routine does not come easy, our rituals exist. And this is ritualistic bliss. Have you learnt them in the living room? Whispered from the bathroom, like a secret sermon, the rooms are really only suggested, privacy is but an oath— divine witness in my kitchen. But did you feel right at home? I hope you did. I think rituals are made in love, the first something to call your own. The way every home has a scent that is not easily described—here on the walls, and on the floors, unspokenly inscribed— a rulebook, anthology, of living, just us two, or three— ceremony.