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,

S.C.C.O.P

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 cringed every time you said it to me before quickly changing the subject. 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. You made me feel invincible.

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 my self-confidence and self-worth 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. A stupid little fool in love. 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. I was a stupid little fool in love.

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 her. 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 little fool 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,

sign-off