See, the test of someone who’s truly great is the empowerment they give you to just be yourself. As organic and broken and heart strangled as you come. And you’ll find, in someone that monumental, you’ll be given the freedom to be strong as well.
We all have bent little corners in us, dings in the metal, scratches on our lens, but you can’t ask a lover to fix that. And trust me, when you find someone amazing, someone who over a simple cup of coffee and conversation, starts melting the fat that is clogging your heart, you’ll find the health you were seeking.
- “Cholesterol levels”, Eli’s Last Will
A big thank you to everyone who sent supportive messages and comments over the past few days. It is much appreciated.
I always thought wife-beater was a stupid name for a singlet
It’s the first warm day of Spring, and you’re happy. When you arrive at work, you see that your decision to ditch the stockings and go bare-legged in a dress for the first time in six months has also been embraced by the girls in the office. They all look beautiful and it seems that everyone has made a little extra effort in the first flush of warmer weather.
After work you travel to the city to meet up with a lovely girl you’ve followed on Twitter for almost two years, but not yet had the chance to meet. She arrives and you’re both nervous to meet each other - she is a bit quiet at first, and you talk a little too much but soon the conversation is flowing and the giggles are coming thick and fast. She’s just as much of a sweetheart as you imagined from her online personality, and you hug warmly a couple of hours later, glad that you made the effort to see her.
Since it’s still pretty early you figure you will jump on the train and walk the 20 minutes home from the station. It is a major station near a university, and the walk home is along a very busy and well lit road. You have done it a thousand times before.
There is still traffic on the road, but not much foot traffic. You see a guy riding his bike along the footpath towards you and he slows and gives you a cheeky grin and a “hello!” as he rides past. You smile and flush a little, feeling the cooling air on your legs and pulling your jacket a little tighter around you.
Still about 15 minutes from home, you trot past the Pancake Parlour and marvel that this is actually a thing. 24 hour pancakes. Who even knew? You check a message on your phone so although you catch the ute pulling up beside you, you don’t really see him coming. When he starts speaking loudly, angrily, at first you do not realise it is directed at you.
“What I want to know,” he slurs slightly in a rough okka Australian accent, “is why you’re so fucking dressed up to walk down the street?”. In your shock, you start to mumble something before your brain kicks in and tells you not to answer him. Get the hell away from him. Now.
You dodge past him, walking as quick as your heels will allow. “Why are you RUDE?” he snarls, as you fight the urge to snap something back at him, eyeballing his ute as you walk past it, wondering if you should use the phone in your hand to dial the police.
Luckily, the traffic light works with you, giving you the green man to speed across to the other side of the road. You look back and see the man in his dirty jeans and off-white wife-beater singlet pacing back and forth in anguish. “Fucking bitch!” he yells, “Fucking SLUT!”.
You put a block between you. These heels have never pounded pavement this hard before, and you’re normally a damn fast walker. You reach the next set of lights and have to stop, looking back to see him kicking something on the nature strip. He looks up at you menacingly.
Then he starts coming after you.
You bolt across the lights, heart racing as you dig into your bag to pull out your keys. You splay them through your fingers, forming a fist. If that motherfucker catches up with you and tries to touch you, he’ll be getting a face full of sharp metal.
A furtive glance over your shoulder lets you know your aggressor is still steadily following you, and he doesn’t seem to be breaking a sweat. Your mind goes to his ute with its large cargo tray, and you shudder. You think of the beautiful girl whose rape and murder shocked the city several months ago. She was walking home to her husband after a night out. She died mere metres from their front door. You push that firmly from your mind and try to focus on getting your ass home before this creep catches up with you.
Finally, you see the overpass you must ascend before you get into the maze of back streets, around the corner and safely into your street. You are walking fast up the overpass, but not running. Something tells you that if you run, he will too.
You reach the top of the overpass and you know that due to the incline, you will now be out of his sight. This, girl, this is the time to run.
You tear down the other side like a freaking bat out of hell, the smack of the your shoes hitting the asphalt and your breath coming in ragged, desperate heaves. You just need to reach that corner before he comes up the overpass - then it will be as if you disappeared clean into the night.
You turn your head wildly as you round the corner and almost sob with relief when you don’t see him. He will be faced with three possible directions you could have gone when he reaches the top. Being out of his sight also means (you think with a grimace) that you won’t lead the wretched degenerate straight to your door.
The stretch of road to your house has never seemed so long, and you run the whole way. Hands trembling, you almost can’t get the key in the lock but you do eventually, like you’ve done a thousand times before, and you fiercely lock the door behind you. The girl in the hallway mirror looks like a wild-eyed, crazed banshee.
Exhausted, pissed off and fearful, you peel off the offending clothes, kicking them to the floor and take a long shower.
After a while, you even stop shaking.
This happened to me on Wednesday night.
I have lived in this neighbourhood for nearly a year and never felt unsafe until this incident. Part of me wanted to stand up to the man when he questioned my clothing in such a hateful manner, but if I had done that, I might not be here to write about it.
Buzz words like “rape culture” come to mind, but I’m not writing this as a feminist rant. This is a personal post to air and hopefully alleviate the distress I felt at being harassed and stalked to the point of complete and utter panic, apparently all because it was the first warm day of Spring, and I chose to wear a dress.
I cannot use words I associate with you -
even though they are great ones
like l____ and v____.
Curse you for claiming them, unwittingly
wiping them clean from my future
vocabulary in the process.
Silence at Mount Parnassus
Take caution of my silence,
child - fear Pythia
for where I do not speak
there is always some horrific truth
laying in wait,
plotting to destroy worlds.
Alone, where you left me - what could I do but write?
I wrote of violent things; of abhorrent revenge and the twisted skin of rejection. You will think I have become a stranger creature in the years that have passed, but that is an untruth.
I was a shadow of love, then. A mirage of the purity I wanted you to see reflected in me. Demons always dwelt in this
body temple of ruin - and I kept them from you. I guarded my secret, sullied self with icy perfection, so that when you left I could tell myself that you didn’t really know me. There was a sad solace in that.
You damned me for a few words of honesty I spoke to you at a party once, cuttingly polite, drunk with the strain of pretending not to want you. I made a mistake that night. I finally revealed something of my true self; something dark that shattered the pretty world you had built upon your denial.
Something that made you spend all these moons giving chase… tracking me to my hiding place.
Now you stand at my door, and I’m without my pen, without my armour and I’m deeply afraid, without any desire to keep running from you.
You and me and never us: a complicated series of almost-connections.
She wanted to run,
or to close her eyes
like she’d always done,
but love confounded her.
“As I read,” he whispered, “I thought of you, and your darkness.”
He handed me his gift: his book of magick. He caressed the back of my hand as he placed it in my upturned palm and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck startle to attention.
“I thought that this might help it grow.”
“I killed my muse,” I said, with more vehemence than perhaps I intended. “I suffocated him and then buried him deep.”
I was lying through my teeth.
He must have known, but he said nothing to challenge me. He began speaking of his enduring muse. “She was beautiful and cunning and evil and now she’s cold and loveless. Every time I touch pen to paper, her memory haunts me. What did yours do to you?”
“He wanted me,” I replied, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice and failing.
“He wanted to possess me, wanted to possess my love, but he had no intention or capacity to love me back. He seduced me, and when I fell for him he turned cruel. He punished me for loving him.
I curled up inside with rejection and hurt. I didn’t understand how I could have been so mistaken about what we were. How uneven the feelings were between us. I couldn’t recognise it, because I’d never experienced that before.
I kept thinking if I was better; if I were a perfect writer, more twisted, more toxic, thinner, cleaner… he might love me the way I wanted. Realising that I would never be validated in that way by him was how I let it go. I can look at him now and not feel the urge to write.”
“Hence, you say I killed him,” my new friend met my eyes in a kind of covenant that made me feel understood. He took another sip of his whiskey.
“Losing that kind of inspiration is terrible. But here’s the good news - whenever you need to bleed those pretty words, you’ll always have scars to open.”
He smiled at me. “And you don’t worry, they will never heal.”
It was like this: I burned her and she burned me, and we scorched each other up and down with kisses like vicious cigarette singes.
On Dick Pics:
A drunk friend
In the morning light
the gentle caption
soothes the awkwardness
of neither party.
The media asks:
why do men do this?
If they saw the reaction
king kong dong receives -
perhaps they’d understand.
I’d like to order a
No Junk Mail filter
for my social medias,
yes, I’ll also take the unsolicited
A desired pictoral
of a handsome bellend
is lovely, though.
(Yours is lovely, though.)
But that one guy needs to stop texting
his unmetionables to everyone
and settle down. Settle
the entire fuck
I have to remind myself that it’s my own damn fault because I told you everything about myself. I told you in the way I bit my lip, heart pounding in fear and refused to meet your eyes. I told you in every pause between everything I didn’t say to you and how I moved my hips when I would walk away. I told you everything I felt when I surrendered to your arms and it was quiet, but you caught it. That sigh I breathed only for you, only that way for you. So it’s my own damn fault and there is nobody else to blame. I am that transparent guarded one, and I told you everything.
I’ve had a few requests for a spoken word of my last piece, but I may be a bit too shy!