i have never felt safe in my purple framed mind.
i lay on my side with my brain wide open, hoping love
will blow through my window. the door swings
open from the emptiness of the wind, and creaks
gently at me, before it slams to a frigid stop.
as if to remind me that i am more alone than he.
he has his handle, his screws and bolts, and his frame
to fall safely and comfortably back into.
i have nothing but my restless mind,
and some dull furniture that shines brighter than i.
even the roses outside in the neighbours garden have had
more growth than i in these past few years. Growth.
a word that floats in a wavering gold liquid on my tongue.
i want to touch it, taste it, embrace it. and i do. it is disgusting. tiresome. cold.
it saturates my mouth like curdled summer ice cream,
melting in mid air. the taste of another dreaded friday enters my mind.
reminding me that i have a whole new week ahead of me to feel
low again. to feel stunted. to feel grey, not gay.
i wish i was a somnambulist. i would do all that i needed to do in my sleep
washing myself, eating, exercise, perhaps even act polite and social.
without the pain and bore of it all. without having to actually do it.
without being myself. without being by myself. alone. cold. Icy.
About the author:
My name is Hannah Myers. I am originally from British Columbia and grew up in Glasgow. I am studying for an MA in creative writing at UCC. I adore writing poetry, game narrative, flash, scripts and ‘dirty rap’. Authors I am interested in and influenced by are Ludmilla Petrushevskaya, Raold Dahl and Sylvia Plath.
Discussing disabled characters in fairy tales and folklore!