Unspoken

We reword
rephrase,
pause,
and look;
it doesn't make sense now.
Words jumbled
ambiguous,
obscure, hiding
intentions confused
by feelings, emotions,
unspoken thoughts;
and then we part
one right
one left
and that's that then,
all because
we couldn't speak

Vignette #4

The stories I've written are part imagination and part reality. The people within my stories are real and walk, breathe and live in the very same dimension which I am writing and you are reading from. But what these people do and say are based on imagination, the translation of desires and wishes. 

In these stories, I write about you and my imagination navigates your actions, dictating your future within each vignette.

I like these short stories - they are individually little worlds of their own...worlds which are perfect in my eyes. 

Vignette #3

In here, things are perfect. No one doubts each other, no one fights. Everything is perfect.

If only you could look in and see how perfect things really are. 

On a Cold Night

Winter was still barely ebbing away that night. It was cold and the wind whipped at my skin the whole way to the bar and yet when I got in, it still felt cold - to me anyway. I was miraculously offered a seat by an elderly man who insisted I sat on this crooked stool at the end of this table. I felt guiltily obliged.

As the night went on, I could feel the cold from outside finding its way in, maybe perhaps the entrance door left ajar...or perhaps it was all in my head. I shivered and hugged myself to keep in what warmth I had left and swore when more people came in through the door, letting in another wave of cold. What more, I didn't know any of these people and they were walking in my direction.

I should probably end this story there because I made a friend that night by striking some slightly awkward conversations about my career aspirations and my strange interest in minimalism. I guess that was it really. I didn't have to do much more than that and suddenly the room seemed to warm up.

Songs and Minds

Don't play with songs;
they twiddle with your mind
telling you things that
don't exist
in this world. They
aren't lies
but misperceived
non-events
and non-parallels
which everyone hears
and sees.

Silence

Silences hold themselves
in place
for you and me
between fences and distance.
Silences walk with us
through hedges and trees
lying between us
like the front door
which I shut before you.
The key I hid
under my scarf
silently lying over my heart
and you left knowing
it was there
till silence came crashing
in storms - tempestuous
and hidden behind
the door
until it finally flooded
out beyond these walls
only to end, with you
walking away
and me standing behind the door
silent, oh
so deathly silent.

It's almost like waking up

It's almost like waking up
where breath settles heavily
under duvets and pillows
and light burns through windows;
eyes stay open barely,
taking in nothing but
moving shadows and figures
which slither under the covers.
Grabbing at the waist,
it pulls you under
and you're barely awake
drowning unconsciously
and breaths become precious
and the then you resurface
into reality and realise
it's almost like waking up
but really, it isn't at all.

Because You are More Beautiful Now

I don't know if mum ever told you
you were
ugly, stupid
stubborn
unloveable
troublesome
hell.

Well, she was probably right, in her eyes. You did make a mess of your room and never cleaned up after yourself; you did act out in school, causing your teachers to ring home almost every other day; and you did use to throw tantrums over the dining table. All this would happen while the rest of us sat quietly over our roast dinner with our eyes darting between you and mum, looking out for signs of an outburst. And of course, every night, it came - you'd lash out and then mum would lash out; before we knew it, there would be this break out of harshly articulated words and profanity, and then you'd run upstairs, lock yourself up in your room and cry.

But there was that one night when you ran upstairs and locked yourself up in your room and, presumably, cried for some time. I guess that was the night you also had had enough.

Had I known you'd had enough, maybe I would have gone upstairs and pried open your door to see what you were up to. But, I guess, there's no point thinking about that now.


I wish you could see yourself for the way we see you. Mum certainly didn't see it that way until that night when we didn't hear you sobbing in your room. We called your name and then shouted and then screamed - but you didn't open the door. So we pried it open with dad's crowbar and when the door finally swung open, we found that you had gone.



I don't know if mum ever told you
you were
ugly, stupid
stubborn
unloveable
troublesome
hell...

...but I can assure you, she never meant it; and now, more than ever, she wishes she hadn't meant it at the time because, now, you are more beautiful than ever. Your pink chiffon dress falls on you so perfectly and your hair caresses your face so elegantly, so much so, you don't look like the angry girl who stormed off upstairs, locked herself up in her room and, presumably, cried. You look different - you are more beautiful now.

Communication

Talk
to me.

Words die softly on your lips.

Tell me what
you're thinking.

Your mind goes blank
and you fall short on words.

My heart stops
me from holding back tears.

And words die softly as minds go blank.

Insecurities

I fear the words will dwindle over time - I've seen it many times before when contact shrinks, shrivels and dries up.

I like the facade I put on. It makes me think I can laugh and smile and what more, it makes you think I can laugh and smile when actually I can't.

I want to be less detached and less aloof. I want to be caring and warm but I think I am scared to be - scared I will lose something that could have been.

I wish I could wish for more - or rather I wish I were brave enough to wish for more.

Vignette #2

If I had to write a story about you, it wouldn't be autobiographical; it would be about what I thought you were thinking and what I think you would do. 

Between Throat and Tongue

Words trapped between 

throat and tongue - 

they won't move

or be heard.

They die

creeping into your mouth

only to be spat out

in your hand

at the wrong time

at the wrong place;

you never got to say it right

never got to

present it

perfectly.

They now lie here in ruins

left unsaid

for too long

till there isn't much left to do

but sigh and wish

words did not get trapped

between throat and tongue.

Vignette #1

This is where I'd write stories about you - here, in my diary, where you can't read it. It's about you and how good times would waver away silently in the summer heat. It will be like you, fragile and unexpectedly small. 

Shall we begin?