The Op Shop Raiders

I have a friend. He writes. He writes about a girl. I haven’t met her but I know she’s made him a better man. Not in drastic ways, it’s subtle, he smiles more often and it’s more genuine. He’s a musician too, this friend of mine. It inspires me and I picked up my guitar for the first time in years because of it. He loves his God and I hope he’s loving himself. I’ve written about him before. He’s part of a trio, they’re always together.

Another friend. He also writes about a girl. But he doesn’t show anyone the words he strings together for her. He’s never met her, but he cares about her more than she could ever know. Sometimes I hate her, for the way she disappears off the face of the earth without any warning at all, it’s as though she doesn’t appreciate him as I feel she should. But he tells me there’s more than meets the eye. He talks to me and lets me talk; about the friends who we can’t stop giving second chances, about the things we watch, about whatever is on my mind. He shows me that one bad friend does not mean all friends are bad. He encourages me to open my heart. I hope that heart allows me to write about him soon. He’s part of that trio, the ones that are always together.

A third friend. He is always seeing the world through a view finder. He captures moments that I want to live in forever, of beautiful things. He brings out that little bit of asshole in me. It’s refreshing to not have anything expected of me. He brings feelings of spring, surrounded by people I wouldn’t have called my friends but enjoyed spending time with more than with those I did. I’m not sure of our friendship, mistakes were made in November, we have not spoken in weeks. But I still trust him with all I have in me. One day I hope I can call him my friend again. Or rather he can call me his. I wrote about him only once. He’s always with the other two, completes the trio.

These boys who I love with all my heart. I don’t tell them how much I appreciate them anywhere near enough. Or how I know I can trust them with almost anything I like.

Their friendship means the world.

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Last Night

Last night at 10,

I sat

on the edge of my bed

with my chin on my knees

and stared at the wall.

I thought about last years winter.

There weren’t enough sweaters

in the world

to warm the heart I had frozen.

Because thats the best way

to preserve meat, to stop it going bad.

But the icy shards stabbed

at my lungs and made breathing painful.

Made laughing painful.

Made living painful.

I thought about the way

I wouldn’t let the love I was shown

thaw my sadness.

At 11,

I reached

to the back of my wardrobe

where lives the onesie I used to curl up in.

I hoped it would warm me

but it smelt of year old tears

and only served as a reminder

that I don’t know how to cry anymore.

I’m not as small as I once was.

And it can no longer cover

the entirety of my blues.

At 12,

I glued pages of positivity

over journal entries from

a year ago, two years ago.

In some desperate attempt

to rewrite the past

and give the illusion I was happy.

I sat on the floor with a lighter

and tried to engulf my written history

in flames.

Thinking it could turn back time

and warm my heart.

I watched the smoke curl up

and settle a foot below my ceiling

without bothering to open the window.

At 2,

I stood in front of my mirror

with my fingers hooked around

the corners of my mouth.

Because the scientists say

smiling in turn makes you happy.

Something about endorphins

and tricking your brain?

But I don’t think scientists

have much experience with

feeling so numb you can’t cry

and so exhausted you don’t bother trying.

And I don’t think I can trick my brain

because my brain is me

and must know I’m trying to trick it.

At 3,

I swallowed two sleeping pills.

I lay spread eagle on my bed

quietly singing Hannah Montana

in one last futile attempt to cheer myself up.

Because you know what else the scientists say?

You shouldn’t go to bed upset.

But for three years of my life

if I didn’t go to bed upset

when was I supposed to sleep?

It’s not socially acceptable

to sleep at parties,

which was the only time I could smile.

As the chemicals forced me to doze off

I wondered what it would be like

to be neurotypical.

To not have most of my life experiences

moulded by chemical imbalances

and all my milestones associated

with how close I was to killing myself.

At 4,

My subconscious

showed me what I needed.

My dreams were filled with tears,

body shaking sobs that hurt my chest.

But my eyes were dry when I opened them.

And the only thing that hurt

was my lungs from the smoke still floating around.

So at 5,

I got up.

I opened the window,

and stripped my bed,

and took a shower,

and made an energy drink

that was ninety percent syrup

and ten percent water

to hide the fact I had barely slept.

Because lately I’ve been doing really well

and I don’t want my parents to worry.

I don’t want my friends to worry.

I don’t want you to worry.

But I’m allowed to have bad days.

Even bad weeks,

as long as they don’t turn into bad months.

They won’t turn into bad months.

I promise.

Messy Thoughts pt 1

I don’t know how to write about you. I can write about anyone else, give me a name and I can whip up something in half an hour. But you take my breath away, you leave me speechless, and you take my words from me.

My thoughts have no correspondence to each other 90% of the time.

Sometimes I love myself and sometimes I don’t and I kinda wish I could all the time but that just doesn’t seem to be possible maybe I just need to run more.

It can take between 18 and 254 days to form a habit so every time I want to form one I will put at least 18 post it notes around my room reminding me to do it and for everyday I complete it I can take one down.

Do people want my friendship? Am I one of those people who you wanna be friends with but they’re kinda intimidating? I don’t want to be intimidating.

I don’t even know what this is I just wanted to get my thoughts out of my head before I explode. Maybe I’ll write about 14/15 year old me. she needs some recognition.

Ignore my ramblings, I’ll write something coherent in a bit.

A Poem On Past Pain

Find the cracks in the wall

And the hairs stuck in the paint.

Stare at where the mirror used to be, 

Now you can see the ceiling 

When you look at the floor

And the bamboo boards

Have little scarlet dots on them.

Remember which was the shoebox

With more than just shoes,

Pull at the all too thick hair

Dead hair

Useless hair

Stupid hair.

Grab oversized thighs,

(Scarred thighs)

And undersized wrists.

(Guilty wrists)

Tear at fingernails

(Jagged fingernails,

Sharp fingernails)

And chew a hole in the bottom lip

(Bitch-face lips,

never-been-kissed lips).

I’m sorry that you don’t look

like the porcelain dolls, given to a child.

That the child cries.

That the child can’t be touched

(Cheeks, neck, legs, hands.)

Without thinking that’s all they are alive for.

Don’t ever touch me.

Disproportioned.

Jackets three sizes wrong; 

No jawline but see the collarbones,

Orange lashes and brows, but hair too.

Comment on tiny wrists 

Never see the shoulders.

Check out the ass and tits

But turn away at the sight of the stomach.

Embarrassment.

See hands covering regret.

See unstoppable laughter, hidden

Behind skeleton hands.

The same skeleton hands 

That raked the leaves from the yards

Of people’s hearts.

That hugged air, when thats all there was

After holding in the terror

Of innocence taken at fourteen years.

You took some things from me that I’d quite like back. But I know that can’t happen. Those events shaped me in ways I wish they hadn’t. And now my sister is the same age I was and it’s like living it all again because of the worry I feel that someone will do to her what you did to me.

For My Sisters

T – Thank you for being my best friend. For the fairy games and the Barbies and the races to the TV remote on Saturday mornings. Thanks for giving me books to read and letting me ramble on about my friends and for all the stolen liquor that you never noticed was gone (I’m sorry). Thanks for all the shared clothes and rolled eyes and wrestling and smashed phones and kitchen singing and never ending payback.

S – Thank you for being my room mate. For letting me boss you around and playing make believe with me and giving 11 year old me something to write in my diary (that’s how annoying you were). Thanks for enjoying my music and being fine with the screaming sessions in our room and listening to my stories that I always hype up too much. Thanks for the shared homework and blanket forts and bike races and skinned knees and the bickering and slap fights and the silent treatment.

C – Thank you for being my mini-me. For always making me laugh and making me play hide-and-seek every single day and all the warm hugs. Thanks for your smile every morning and watching kids programs with me all afternoon and keeping me company even when I don’t want anyone in my room. Thanks for tickle fights and sandcastles and screaming in my ear and morbid comments and standing on me and refusing to kiss me goodbye.

Thank you all for my childhood that you won’t ever let end. For daisy chains and trampolines and climbing trees and bike rides and early morning runs and surfing and inside jokes and teasing and holding hands and all our little adventures.

Who I am today is thanks to you. I love you so much.

Chances

I always give everyone a chance. They all deserve a chance. Even if they have wronged someone I know, they have not wronged me. I give them a chance.

I give second chances to everyone as well. Sometimes when I shouldn’t. But people make mistakes and they deserve second chances, ‘It was mistake, I trust you.’ I have taken many second chances and I find it only fair I give them too.

And I think that’s okay, the chances and second chances I give people. After that I get a little soft.

I give third chances quite frequently. When I’m in denial that I’ve been hurt, ‘You wouldn’t do that to me.’ And when I’m trying to portray a perfect image, ‘Oh, no we’re fine, we’re still friends.’

I’ve found that I’ve also given fourth chances occasionally. When I’m hurting and I’m not sure I can take any more, ‘My heart may not survive if I lose you now.’ Or when I can’t bear to lose myself on top of everything, ‘I’m not really sure who I am without you.’

And now I’m conflicted. Would I be a push over to offer a fifth chance? Will it just turn into ‘I’m sticking around because I feel obligated to’? But all the reasons for giving previous chances still stand.

I’ve been praying about this, and I have a lot to say next time I see you.

Bigger Things

She is sunshine and rain in one.

Her smile could light up any darkness,

Except the one her sadness creates.

She is plants on the veranda,

And smoke turning the afternoon sun a blood red.

She is your favourite book with the corners folded,

And the stuffed bear from your childhood that you still keep on your bed.

She is the grazed knees of childhood,

And river water on sunburnt shoulders.

She is sunshine.

She is tears shed in the corner of a coffee shop,

And fingers rubbing eyes under glasses.

She is panic attacks in parks,

And 10 cents short for the bus ticket home.

She is the death of an admired celebrity discovered over Facebook,

And the crash of your first car.

She is rain.

She lights candles all around her,

In attempts to relight the burning flame inside her,

That he put out when he left.

She loses herself in books where the girl always gets her guy,

Even in times when love shouldn’t matter.

She fights and screams but only to reclaim

A small amount of control of her life.

She is a girl left behind,

And a friend who deserves more time than she is given.

She is a bike ride I keep meaning to go on.

She is a book I should have continued months ago.

She is a half empty journal that I’ve had for years,

But keep replacing when there is no need.

She is a plant in a pot too small,

She is ready to move on to bigger things.