I’ve been too unwell to blog for some time. A lot has changed since then. This blog has been inspired by the song ‘Love love love’ by Of Monsters and Men. I urge you to listen as you read. I also encourage you to take the time to watch the video in its entirety; it’s beautiful.
With love and light,
I was young once, drunk and dizzying amongst fields of glow sticks and sticky trysts. How sweet the taste of ash tray tongues and salted collarbones, girls crying and boys fucking and there I was, slouched upon the rendering, waiting for the picnic to be pulled from beneath my grass stained toes. It was always a gamble as to who would first spy the bones in their midst. One of a pair would soon turn, guppy mouths letting accusations lazily slide from their lips onto the floor.
You aren’t meant to be here.
Ergo? I was not to be loved.
A single red letter would be sewn into my skin, and I would be paraded in front of the lips who but a moment before had wanted to fuck. It was not adultery, but rather a scarlet warning.
Take heed and tread lightly. Shove the bottle down her neck if you must. But to love her is to only slit your own.
And I would swallow my needle and thread.
Well, maybe I’m a crook for stealing your heart away
Yeah, maybe I’m a crook for not caring for it
Yeah, maybe I’m a bad, bad, bad, bad person
Well, baby, I know.
His heart was not mine to own. I hadn’t the right, nor the right scalpel. My own valves leaked and regurgitated, retching their contents into the bucket laying faithfully at the end of my bed. He was the best friend, and I had him resting safely in the knowledge that I could not fuck it up for him too. I ignored the jabs in the elbows, the exaggerated winks from friend’s. I wouldn’t do that to him. He deserved better than that. And by that of course I mean, he deserved better than me.
I was no longer young. My tissues had since degraded beyond recognition, and I now appreciated just what a body like mine does to a man of such standing. He was drunk, and I was dizzy. His poison was a little too much cider, and mine a little too much Oxycodone.
The next morning we woke up.
And I remembered what I had done.
I’m a bad person.
And these fingertips
Will never run through your skin
And those bright blue eyes
Can only meet mine across the room filled with people that are less important than you.
I cannot be the woman I want to be. Which is just a prettier way of saying that I cannot be the woman that he deserves. As a young girl, I once tried to learn to read fingerprints, deep in the throes of my obsession with forensic science and all that it was portrayed to be. Just as no two people’s fingerprints are alike, nor are any of our own. This little piggy went to market, and this little piggy had an angiogram, and that little piggy died. And on it goes, tenfold. I yearn to slip on the women I ought to be as effortlessly as my fingerprints had once done.
I would be the career woman with the peep toe heels, and the mother with the burgeoning belly. I would be the beach runner in the morn, and the licker-sipper-sucker the early Saturday morning after. I would make salads with our families on the Friday, and make love to him during lazy Sunday’s. I would be the wife that trained with him, and the cool-girl that drank beer with him. Finally I would bring home another pay cheque, wear another slinky dress, and we would do it all over again.
But I cannot be all of those women.
I can’t even be one of those women.
And when his eyes meet mine in a room of cardiologists, gastroenterologists, gynaecologists, nephrologists, as he listens to hear what part of my disease is going to kill me first, I will whisper to him that I am sorry.
And that night I will remind him of why they are less important than him when it comes to my survival.
All ’cause you love, love, love
When you know I can’t love
You love, love, love
When you know I can’t love
You love, love, love
When you know I can’t love you
I cannot love him. Not when I am in that place, A place where he is there, and I am not. I am vaguely aware of him as I retch into the depths of a bucket, and swear at a God that left the two of us to work it out by ourselves many months ago. Nor can I love him when my hip abandons socket. I taste red and I breathe heat and I can focus on nothing but trying to understand how to make two world’s one again. I lean into his shoulder’s, and there will be fucks and tears and tears shedding from fucks. Until. A single, shuddering clunk. Sweet, drunken, dizzying relief. But it does not last for long, because there is to be another infection, another faint, another dislocation, another vomit. And so it goes.
Yet each time my world comes into focus once more, I find him there, ready to welcome me back. Ready to remind me how good I am at loving again.
So I think it’s best we both forget before we dwell on it
The way you held me so tight
All through the night
‘Til it was near morning
I cannot be the woman I ought to be. Which just means that we cannot be the couple that we ought to be. Perhaps it should matter. Perhaps we should care.
But we don’t.
There is no time to dwell. Tomorrow we will slouch in another hospital, and he will be taught to relocate my joints. And after that, if I am well enough, we will go to the zoo.
And if I’m not well enough?
He’ll slip the powders down my tongue, throw me over his shoulder, and we’ll go anyway.
In the cold light of day, the drunkeness has worn off. He does not see the woman I was the night before, the woman I ought to have been. He does not recoil in horror at the woman that is left in her place.
He sees me.
The woman that was always meant to be in her place.