isn’t it strange to read?
to read those stupid, pathetic old diaries.
and then I cried a bit less
I felt the rays seep through me, the strawberries taste of something, the music play on Christmas Eve, the good marks praise me, the showers reacquire music, the kitchen open onto a balcony, the smiles in the station, the laughing at musicals, the tasting the wanting the seeing the exploring, the losing but learning, the needing, the listening
and the learning,
… the learning.
that distance does not break, that your town did not shake.
that there are more sheeps in New Zealand than human beings
and that one day scuba diving near the great barrier reef will happen,
that time brings a plaster to souls that have been attempting to plaster themselves and that strength comes out of hibernation like a bear
(but flowers never wilt and bears never sleep! death is a lie, time lies in a heap!)
do you really believe those things?
because pain thrusts maturity and understanding upon the most stubborn,
and nightmares are only ever temporary
I can see you with that box of plasters, you know. I’m spying on you.
I see you from a window next door, paler, thinned hair, shadowed.
throw them away.
The sun has come in through the windows,
so take your heart in your hands and push your head into a cupboard,
those holes, push the holes together yourself
or you can watch, as they slowly reassemble alone, and sunflowers bloom.
and you know what? it’s all you.