I Do Not Belong Here

Mastodon

Atlantic Road meets Coldharbour Lane, I wait to turn the corner here, hiding in the shade of the railway bridge. Looking out at the blue sky backed buildings, that stand, and I imagine are really flat, like a scenery backdrop.

Coldharbour Lane on a baking hot day. I grew up just off of Coldharbour Lane. Which is a lie, but also the truth, I fled here. It was them or me, life or death. It saved me, here I first tasted life, and learned to be. I learned to breathe on Coldharbour Lane. The light changes. I cross the street and turn the corner.

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Men will caress an old whiskey with the kind of tenderness they never have for older women.

The Word

The world is made of words future, past, and here and now. Language is the glue that holds the mess together.

Love and Hate are made of words, —you can’t have one without the other. Thats not to say that hate is right, the past has tried in many ways to warn us that it isn’t.

But men will build their lives on it and argue round and round, “you’re too obtuse to see the truth…”‘ “That Hate is Love and Love is Hate…”

They would rather burn the world, than admit that they were wrong and guard their hate with guns and words as if it was their Mum.

Content note, mention of childbirth, and related interventions, and medical procedures. Some nsfw language.

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She writes and writes to calm the restless sea, and soothe her restless soul.

Like a pebble trying to resist a desert wind. The wind that erases and abrades whole mountain ranges down to dust.

She writes to leave a sun-bleached way marker poking up from a hollow in the desert floor that says; “I was here once, but am no more.”

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