From the dust

Shut it down
Be good
Don’t reach out.

There are many anaesthetics
Chocolate is one of them.
Alone = unsafe

My heartspace is defended
and I can be dangerous
as unsafe to you as I feel to me.

Empathy = not something I could afford.

Rage
looks gentle in contrast.
The fury of the predator
turned inward
On my jaw.

Nails digging into my scalp
Shredding
Shedding, my needs
Shelving my needs
into the forgotten corner
of the darkest cupboard
Forgotten recess.
Archive of the archive.
Only dust settling
Time stands still.

Longing, long-forgotten
buried in the dust
A thick snow of forgetting.

I wade knee-high into the fog.
My heart beats in there somewhere
But I can’t hear it
Silence swallowing sound.

I can’t even think about you
Put it away
Safety = dust
If I dug in the dust….
Only more dust
Dust settling on dust
Can you hear the passion in my words?

Is there an algorhythm for safety?
And risk?
Ice melts in sunlight
But not dust.
Dust only desiccates.
In our desiccated lives we decide
Not to interact.
I have retreated into the fog
Can you hear me?

It’s not safe, you’re not there
It never will be, you never will be
You never were
It’s not. You can’t
No
Absence is safer
Let the dust envelop me
I belong here, I live here, it’s home.

The comfort of dust
My life net-curtained
You – don’t exist
I’m – not here
I – never was
It – never happened
You can’t lose hope if you never really found it.

But somewhere a hole in the ice is forming
It’s only a question of time…

Deep in the dust
Something stirs
Angry, raw, I can see its entrails
pulsing
The tearing begins again
Shredding
Raw = alive
Shred it until it buries itself
Back into a thick blanket of dust
Can you hear the passion in my words?

Can you hear me?
Can you feel me?
Can you see me?
Do I exist in the dust?
Does time exist in the dust?
Does hope exist amongst the dead flies
littering my windowsill.

You – Father
Kneeling to you
Crying
Feeling – only Father
Here, at the windowpane
Nose pressed against the glass
As the dust mounts, enfolding me.

In the small hours
My soul awakens me.
It’s time
Time to pack your bags
The journey begins at night
Alone.

There’s nobody there
I thought I saw something the other side of the glass…
a hand
I don’t believe in that hand
It won’t come back
You don’t wait in the dust.
There’s no concept of waiting
Time does not exist.

Waiting implies hope
That someone might come
Might rub on the window
try to look through…
Might see me
in the dust! Impossible –
It’s far too deep.
I’m buried standing

But somehow the hand
Or the thought of the hand
Or the imprint of the touch of your hand
Flesh-memory
won’t go away
Even though I’m buried standing
In dust.

Dust belongs in a dustbin
And so, consigned to dust, to cupboards,
to darkness
with dead flies for company
(and the memory of a hand, somewhere in the fog)

Knowing my place
This is where I belong
Dust – home – safety

You
It’s not that you are special or anything
But you are special to me:
You breathed on the window
and rubbed with your sleeve.
The light comes in dimly, and
I can see your face.
Our eyes might have met, briefly.

If you knew the chasm, the abyss
that is held at bay…
Held back by a thick wall of dust.

Make a run for it now
While there’s still time.

The dust is heavy:
a blanket to sleep under.

You can’t play at this
I need commitment
I need it in writing
In triplicate
Before we even start to discuss terms,
and rules of engagement
I ache for this
For you
For me

Are you there?