Glass Flesh

Depression's not a five letter word,

does being a 'freak' mean being unheard?

No one left to hear you speak.

Cause you're the black sheep,

but the beetles will creep, yes, seep an oozing oil to your breast

or to your cheek.

Does seeing a ghost mean you're merely a host

for 2^nd class citizen, weak adjective's criticsm?

Cause It makes you mad,

that being a 'little sad'

is what they call it when you drink your feelings

right

down,

you're no more than a frown

when you unzip your veins

and the budget for your pains

trickles down the Tory's drains.

Depression's not a five letter word,

you're not a 'schizo' or a 'loone'

just cause you've gone out of tune;

you need someone to pick you up.

Not pluck at your strings,

you're so used to abuse being everything.

So swallow your pills like a good little boy,

turn into their toy,

become part of their ploy.

Cause their solution to your mental revolution is to be in an institution.

You're a stain on their surveys,

a wine drop on their cliches.

But white spirit won't clean you,

til' they've ink-blot tested and brayed you.

Then you're out.

Depression's not a five letter word,

do they think we're the terrorists?

Polluting their air with scars, shooting-needles and “therapists”.

We're the end of 2-poles, 'nut-jobs',

'Why won't you eat hot-dogs?',

unemployed little bastards who are purely disasters,

living off vodka and plasters.

But would they understand if we got up and run?

Carving into our arms 3 new ladder-rungs.

You think this is fun?

Do we choose to see figments

or separate food into calorie segments,

does this look like a fucking contract agreement?

Stop using us as an excuse cause we're

use-less.

Depression's not a five letter word,

let us free our own thoughts,

don't set fly-traps and fish-hook consonants.

We don't want to be caught.

And if the talking cure is your minute mission,

then

L-I-S-T-E-N

Lung Monsters

'Suspicious'. It was an ominous word, a word that; once it had slithered its way out of Dr. Turner's thin lips, had latched onto my chest and used it as a feeding source.
       Papa was worse today, perhaps the serpentine word was also devouring the remains of his consciousness. His hollowing cheek bones stood to attention when he faltered from sleep that dusky midday, somehow over night his skin had sallow-ed more;  his features now were pasted with the jaundiced hue of an old bruise.

"Has he phoned?" Papa spluttered, his voice spilling over with fatigue and a pinch of fear. I wearily shook my head. His eyes held such comfort, childhood laughs coloured his pupils; weekend picnics tinted his irises. A tangle of seemingly unimportant hours and bedtime stories that now I ached for.

Then the noise came.

The piercing shrill penetrated both of us and we shared a glance of unspoken bewilderment.

"Hello..." I muttered into the receiver reluctantly. The words that returned were heavy, they clumsily tripped over one another as I processed the facts. It's odd how specific words paint your day. That day was painted dim grey pastel by a battle ground of 'CAT scan', 'inoperable' and 'metastasised'. They tasted of dust when I regurgitated them to Papa's walking ghost.

So there we were, a zombie-man, a monster in his lungs and a frozen young son. We let the chilling minutes tick past as we pondered on the next weighted steps that were to come.

Oh Captain, My Captain.

Oh Captain, My Captain. You've gone to make the angels laugh,
You lit up the world with your vigour, being so fiery and daft.
Oh Captain, My Captain. You were a father figure to so many,
Just your shadow on a screen touched lives, oh Peter whisk us to a tranquil place; any.
Oh Captain, My Captain. The demons you hid so well, they hid in your laughs; under your bed.
But you drew from their poison, you turned it into smiles; no one knew there were no smiles in your head.
Oh Captain, My Captain. Just to hear that hello or that distinct good morning made us grin,
If only you could view the love and grief flowing down the streets, maybe you'd begin...
To see the childlike hope you painted on everyone,
From Peter to Genie, you were always a presence.
Your genius and soul will be stamped upon time,
Everlasting with your acrylic laugh that I hold dear as mine.
I grew up with you, my unknown friend;
I feel like i've known you and you've helped me to mend.
I hope now my prince that you find peace at last,
Such brilliance, such tears of laughter that will never slip into the past.

RIP to a man of utter brilliance, Robin Williams. 

89

89. That was all I saw. All I felt as I timidly brushed the dense skin. I instantly withdrew my touch, mortified by having any contact with the repugnant object. The walls seemed denser now, more intimidating; with just one touch. In a panic I rocked my legs faster, sporadically bouncing them. I glanced down at the trembling fat upon my calves, I only shook faster; as if at any moment the fat would detach from the bones. The adipose tissue dancing in mid-air. I wish.

“Hazel, just eat one piece. You used to like bananas.” My mum muttered calmly. 89. I used to like myself too, things change. I merely continued to rock and stroke the curved object upon my lap. As I tugged a clump of my thin, black bob behind my ear; I could sense the terror boiling within me, terror not just at the numbers coiled within the textured flesh but at the knowledge that if I swallowed a morsel I would not be able to prevent myself from having another bite. Until just the empty husk lay despondent within my palms.

“I can’t.” I muttered, my forearms flexing and casting the fruit on to the navy carpet. 89, 52, 42; the numbers that control my thoughts. The tense atmosphere suddenly evaporated as both mum and Zoey breathed a frustrated sigh. The sigh initiated a fury within me, a blistering rage ascending. They have no right to hold a spec of frustration in their polluted air. They’re the ones forcing me to ram platefuls of thick, coagulated, repulsive calories down my searing throat. The anger pierced the edges of my flesh until my fingertips burnt, the navy seat irritating the skin it found. They have no idea how much I yearn for proper food, food without self-loathing. Life is grey without it. Bleak and dull.  Colourless.

“Maybe we’ll try next time then. But I want you to eat when you get home. Do you promise me?” Zoey asked, adjusting her position and brushing her ginger/grey curls back from her portly shoulders. I merely nodded.

“Right, let’s go weigh you then.”

Mum gave an encouraging smile as I stood, a faintness washing over me; I welcomed the well-known delirium as it tingled down to my numb finger tips. With a light sigh, I followed my gargantuan eating disorder consultant through the equally large door and into the seemingly infinite hallway. This building always disturbs me with its oddly sized rooms and walls, as if they want you to feel even more disconcerted.

            We entered room 7 and I was greeted with the familiar scene, the clinical bed on my left; the various units and cupboards coated in a collage of puerile drawings and demeaning diagrams, seeming to mock me. Odd pictures placed on each wall, certain words prominent within the frames. Hope. Freedom. Happiness. Finally my eyes wandered to the height chart, the tall mirror and of course the focal point of the room. The scales. The little machine that seems so pompous and pious. I felt guilty just glancing at it.

“Jumper off then, and slip your shoes off.”

I reluctantly fiddled with the hem of my oversized, green jumper and tugged it over my shoulders before chucking it aside. The cold instantly hit me. Assaulting my frame and winding me. Before slipping my pumps off I glared at the figure in the reflection. She was disappointing and belittling. Vile. Disgusting and repulsive just to view. The mini dress seemed as dull as her. The pale pink clashing with her pale complexion. Her hip bones barely visible. Her collar bones not prominent enough. Thighs too close together. Unsatisfactory. I gave up trying to dissociate myself from the image and looked at Zoey, she was scrawling something illegibly onto her clipboard. Of course.

“Anything in your pockets?” I shook my head. I wouldn’t need to hide anything or water load with how much weight I’ll have put on over the past week. With that terrifying musing I stepped upon the black plate. The thick digits rapidly zoomed from 0.00 up and up, rising and rising with my trepidation. Up and up. Bang.

“Okay that’s great.” She mumbled. I stepped off. My brain frozen. My surrounding reality swirling before me, caving in until it gradually, and yet at the same time instantly, drowned me. 48.3kg. 7 stone 6 lbs. I’d stayed the same. Static. Level. I couldn’t quite tell whether the prevailing emotion was contentedness or devastation. Contentedness that I hadn’t put on any weight. Devastation at the fact that I still have 27lbs to lose before I’m happy. 20 at the least. Would I feel happy then? Would she be happy? The thin Hazel imprisoned within this shell, caked in flesh. I am not this person. I am a thin girl engulfed by these layers.

“She’s remained static. So it’s all positive.” Zoey chimed, satisfaction reverberating in her tone. She sounded so proud. Mum’s eyes glistened with relief. As if all the underlying issues in my chaotic mind were instantaneously fixed, mended. A proverbial bandage has been placed over the cracks in my thoughts and the scar tissue is slowly and peacefully binding together. As if.

Mum’s electronic cigarette lit up orange like a miniature traffic light, wisps of the vapour rose to the roof of the car as if I could smudge it across the sky like oil paint.

“I think that was positive. You haven’t lost. That’s good… that’s good…” She repeated the words as if placing a plaster over the invisible wounds between us. I could feel the emotions bubbling up within me, I wanted to beg her; to ask her to help. But I knew that if I reached out, there would be no more concealing of chicken pieces no more hiding within my safety bubble of antacids and zero cokes. I was alone within this self-inflicted coma, this one on one battle. But the thing that I feared the most was that I may never be able to be free of the shrapnel. And the truth was, I was out of ammo. I am merely a rag doll, a shell of a real girl; battered and bruised by the gusts of winds, hitting every rock on the way.

            Before I could control it, all the unsaid words and searing thoughts rose up like a bile within my chest and rolled down my cheeks like acid. My chest heaved, my breath caught on the tears and spluttered out. Mum didn’t say anything, she simply wrapped me in the safe enclosure of her arms, I lay my weary head upon her shoulder and allowed the terror to burst out in sporadic sobs.

“I’m scared…” I muttered through the tremors.

“I know love, but I’m here.” 

The Planet In The Sky

Escape from here, the morose planet, the sonorous ball in the galaxy, the evocative land you can neither love nor control,
Escape to me where your imaginings are not merely a stream of childish thoughts to paint to others the depths of your soul,
Leave that place where happiness once danced, where life and spring sprang from dew,
Run to me where you can be soothed, we welcome you with glistening streams of new,
Be freed,  be you, be rid of the fear, conditions and labels have gone to the past,
You can lay here with the company amongst the stars, be free at last.
The effusion of rivers, of bird song in night, the midnight dreams of wonder and power engulf all possible fright,
Visions of creatures that dwell in the buds with wings that sparkle in light,
Your sight will graze their perfect forms and tears will flutter with the night,
Forget the thoughts of the world that’s of old, allow the boulders of fear to dissolve,
Forget the tint of shame that immersed your cells, leave it succinctly in the cold.
Because sleep here, sleep at peace. Summer in the star that gleams with a breeze,
Here in the sky, the florid world where at last you can be freed.