you make me laugh but it’s not funny (II)

there’s no one to do the feeling for them


Part I here

The newest people believed some of the stars ought to get lonely all alone in the dark, miles from other souls.

But the stars don’t have souls, you see, the Sad would interject. They can’t feel anything, not happy, not lonely–there’s no one to do the feeling for them.

Who does the feeling for us, then. the Desperate would ask. Where do our souls come from?

The Happy told them they were born from a laugh. A person would laugh, and birth twenty-nine new souls that’d whiz about, looking for someone to claim. That’s what the breeze is. Twenty-nine new souls grasping for a heart to ease. Can’t you feel them? And the Happy would stretch out their palms.

From war, the Angry would say. People would wage wars and kill children and sob and each tear would bear thirteen new souls that’d splitter and splatter and fracture and catch on coat-tails and shoes and glistening pearls and seep under our skin over the years until there’s a respectable enough ocean sploshing out our rib cages and we drown in every song we sing for the children we killed. It’s why we still wage wars. In the hopes, we might grow a soul at the end of it. Of course, they sighed, there is no end.

The Sad weren’t very sure but they thought perhaps a soul sprang forth at the touch of a hand that lays you to sleep, along the curved edges of clay pieces you sacrificed sunrises to mould, from the first drop of ink that spreads across the page.

The Desperate thought perhaps they didn’t have souls at all.


in defence of bad art

I think words of longing.
of sand in all my pockets
and the creases of my jeans

of pale trees long gone:
portals to songs and shouts
and paper lights
on warm summer nights
spent fighting sleep

of dust on wooden bookshelves
burning eyes and lazy hands
and records
and records
and records
that serve no purpose
save a quiet joy
I press in between curling pages

of the sound of the earth turning,
and sitting on the cusp of winter

always on the cusp of winter

impossibly young.


Yours Truly,


Said The Chalk To The Duster

Because it isn’t fair.

And yes, I know what you’ll say: Nothing Ever Is, and I’m supposed to just, I don’t know, accept it for what it is. ‘Beautifully tragic’.

Well I’m not, or I don’t want to—can’t? Doesn’t matter, point is, I’m not going to just sit by and let it happen or close my eyes and pretend it isn’t.

You’ll laugh at that last part. And maybe if I wasn’t half dead, I would’ve too. We both know exactly how comfortable I am in the bosom of denial. But well, this isn’t about what’s easy and what’s not and it’s too late for pride or propriety. You never were one for propriety so I suppose that’s all right.

So I’m saying it’s not okay. You’re not allowed to just up and leave, or be “the one who cares less”. You’re not. I won’t have it. I know you probably think you can get away with whatever you want, and maybe that has been true in the past but it’s not anymore because I know I deserve better. I’m not the insecure, bumbling little fool you had me convinced I was.

And I loved you too. I did. Even if I flinched every time you said it to me. I wanted you to mean it. I wanted to mean something to you, and so I waited until the moment you really did mean the words you said before saying them back to you. Even if I knew you never would.

You swept me off my feet when we first met. You picked up the little bits of me that had spilled over, collected them together and kept them close, all the while assuring me it’s all right to make mistakes, everyone does it and that you’ll always be there to clean up the mess. You held all those pieces and promised that even if you couldn’t put me back together, you would still hold on to them for all eternity. And I was done for, right there.

I tried to take it slow. Be cautious and wise, to fall slowly and bit by bit but that isn’t how it works. No, that’d be all too easy. Nothing about us had ever been easy. And so I fell hard and all at once, hurtling through space and time and all the promises made, past all the scepticism and pessimism, shedding all notions of “realistic” expectations. I fell and you didn’t and I was okay. Then. I was okay with it then. Because I was in love and it hardly even mattered. You were there when I needed you. I made you laugh, you said. You thought it was cute how I fumbled every now and then, and I wasn’t afraid of making mistakes.

I didn’t see it then.

Didn’t see how you were always somehow present to watch me fall; how you were slowly chipping away at everything with all your “suggestions”; didn’t see how you were moulding me into what you wanted me to be, how you were laughing at me. I wasn’t adorable; I was a stupid little fool that you took pity on. I was a stupid little fool in love.

All those bits you promised to hold close forever?  You did. But now they became reminders of all my failures. And you knew. You would lord them over me, subtly bringing them up whenever we argued and I knew I was right, reminding me that I’m a blithering idiot who needed you.

Bit by bit you broke me. And I became less and less of who I was. And you said it was a good thing—said it was for my best, that it meant I was learning and becoming so much better than I was. I knew what you were doing, but I stayed anyway.  I broke my own heart, hoping and wishing for things I had no right to hope or wish for. I wasn’t the depressingly realistic, rational creature you hated me for being.

You weren’t all bad, though. I know you tried to love. You did, didn’t you? I think so, anyway. I’d like to think so. You did.

And then you came home with pieces of him. You were still the same, but I could sense it. I knew what you would say if I had ever asked you. You would smile—that infuriating, placating, amused smile—and say that you loved me and ask me not to be so paranoid. Ask me to trust you. And I did. Even if I could see you pulling away.

You did fall in love. Eventually.

Just all too late and with entirely the wrong person.

I was never enough for you, all that you saw were the things I did wrong.

But I stay anyway. Because–and as worthless and pathetic as this makes me—because I’m a stupid girl in love, and you’re my sun. Burning me every time I come close, but pulling me in nevertheless.

As part of an english assignment I was asked to help with.

Yours Truly,