you can walk to the ends of the earth if you'd like. i don't mind. i need you like i need air. it's funny how i can't help myself. i look to the wall and see paris and imagine us under a pastel duvet. i'll bring you marmite on toast in bed every morning, stroke that bit by your ear which sends shivers down your spine and tell you that falling in love with you was my best idea yet
i watched as clouds from the west collided with an aeroplane from the east in the window reflection across the street. dulling rows of red brick marring my view each morning. i did not ask for a perfect panorama. i did not recieve one. in this dirty city i live and breathe. but there is no oxygen. only bulletproof shop- fronts, industrial palaces and Floyd who sits in a filthy puddle of his own lost memories outside the university. i roll him cigarettes and he tells me that i remind him of the wife he once had. it is entirely subjective, this city. i wake up for the day but it is already dark. i still lose my way, but finding things by accident is better. i found myself by accident. i don't get scared anymore walking home at 5am. daddy said i'm a big girl now
she's wilting like a dying rose, just not dead yet, not quite yet; i don't want to be counting down days on fingers - i never had piano hands like yours anyway - i always swallowed my food hard in her presence. but she's a mother and a lover who has lived a life inside a tupperware box NEVERBEENFREE but now she can't get out of bed on her own can't shower without slipping and breaking - so like that fragile soap dish from the charity shop. mother cried and held me this morning and said they're taking her away; she wanted to die at home. cooked meals tasted like plastic my socks stuck to kitchen laminate house looked like christmas but this year was her last and i still haven't seen her
i'm never going to send this; i don't let you read anything because it makes me feel better, but also worse, like the day i read those letters you'd written, hidden away in the dark somewhere in a private folder private from me private from any eyes, but i still read them because
i am a bad daughter; i forgot about Mother's Day this year i forgot to buy you flowers to take you for a walk somewhere quiet, where the brown of the mud on the bottom of your old walking boots matched the colour of the leaves of the oaks and the cedars. i forgot to take you out for lunch where i would pay even though the dessert alone was six pounds twenty and i still hadn't found a job. and this, this is all because i am not a good daughter like i was back then, if i ever even was one
because now i have moved out and i'm cooking my own meals, drinking too much coffee and hiding within the walls of myself; i've lost count of the cigarettes even though i know that the smell of them on his shirt collar makes you sick, you having to sleep in an ashtray for a bed. but i love it here. i love being so far away and not having to be home on time not having to let you use the computer not having to wipe down the table load the dishwasher listen to your arguments sit at the top of the stairs and overhear him screaming at the baby, - she doesn't know any better, does she?
- but this is not to say that i don't miss you. i just prefer it when you treat me like a grown up; talk to me about politics and journalists and his mother's terminal cancer because i do understand, i really do. i like it when we lean against the radiator and i put an arm around you - because i am so much taller now - and i lean in and feel your whisps of grey hair fall against my cheek, and you read me articles about cheap red wine george clooney - your favourite silver fox - and how expensive clothes are from the Saturday paper.
please don't ever believe that you are useless or not worth something because you are, regardless of the things he says sometimes when he's full of Jameson's that make me want to dirty my fists. you are the cleverest person i know. i wish to be like you as strong as you as ever-dissatisfied as you. you have been through more shit than anyone else i know. you are better than anyone else i know, and i want to be able to know what all of these long words mean when my kids are reading Milan Kundera and ask me to be their dictionary. i want them to admire me as i have always admired you,
i hate it when we break down, because W E A R E N O T A B R O K E N F A M I L Y; we just need T I M E and P A T I E N C E and E A R S and H E A R T S to calm down and stop fucking about. i promise to stop if he stops and she stops too,
so please can we not have Christmas this year - can we just learn to love eachother again?
i have been thinking about how recently i have become something new how i have been packed into boxes and driven away from you how one hundred miles of tarmac now stand between us how my body cries out for you in the night and i bite the corners of my duvet and wish that my skin felt as soft as yours how you used to fill up the empty space in my bed each afternoon how we could lie in deafening voids of silence how i could never look in your eyes, and how everything i have just written is completely irrelevant because i want only you