Sand

There's a girl and she's sitting on the beach. Her left hand glides over the fine grains of sand, absentmindedly capturing parts between her long, slender fingers. There's something so familiar about this girl that my immediate thought is that I know her. Something about her resonates so truly in my soul, that I feel like I've been waiting for her for years. I look away for the briefest of moments and when I return, she's gazing across the ocean, eyes fixated on the distant horizon.
I'm not sure if it's the way her mouth is slightly down turned on the left side, or the fact her breathing catches ever so slightly, but I can tell that she's sad.
I know that I'm intruding on a very personal moment, but for some reason I can't look away from her. Something about this girl commands my attention, pulling me into the bubble she's created.
I attempt to walk towards her, but I pause, because I notice what she's doing. From this angle I can see that she's drawing, and the emotion I previously regarded as sadness is actually intense concentration. I continue intruding on her small existence, and I become completely fixated by the way her delicate hands move over the page, as though she holds the entire world on this canvas, bringing galaxies and mountains into creation by just the flick of her wrist.

Just A 'Tomboy'

I was born in the wrong body, this much I know. I came into this world as pretty, popular Jessica Hastings. I have loads of friends, a boyfriend and a family that loves me. Everything really sounds like it’s coming up Jessica doesn’t it? But that’s where you’re wrong. 

At college I’m the bubbly brunette everyone wants to either be with, or be friends with. But little do they know that it’s not the real me walking the hallways every day, smiling with the masses. The real me exists behind the comfort of my closed bedroom door. Where I tuck my long brown locks beneath a baseball cap and throw on an oversized sweater to disguise my feminine figure. Then I stand in front of my mirror analysing each and every part of my body that doesn’t feel truly me. I can’t see Jessica when I look in the mirror. I see Ollie, the boy I always was supposed to be. Only there are things in the way that prevent me fully from being him, curves where there should be straight lines.

Showering is the worst time, the time where I’m completely alone with the body that does not belong to me. I avoid seeing myself naked at all costs, I can’t bare to look in the mirror and see someone else staring back at me. It makes me feel inhuman, almost alien. 

I throw my clothes on the floor as quick as I can, not even pausing as I jump in the shower. The water’s not even warmed up yet, I’m just so desperate to get back inside the comfort of my oversized sweater that covers everything feminine about me. 

I quickly scrub my body with soap that smells too sweet to be used on my skin. I leap out the shower, anxiously reaching for the towel, but in my haste I slip. I grab onto the side of the bath, narrowly missing smacking my head; I look sideways still searching for my towel, but that’s not what I find when I glance to my right. I see a stranger looking back at me, a tall brunette girl with breasts and a narrow waist. I look away quickly, not wanting to acknowledge the alien in the glass; I find the towel and wrap it about myself, taking comfort in the covering. 

It’s been this way for as long as I can remember, I’ve always felt as though my skin doesn’t properly fit me, and no matter what I do to try and force it, I just end up feeling shittier than ever. Even when I was little, I never wanted to be the princess, always the knight, much to my mother’s dismay. She’d try and dress me in cute little dresses when I really just wanted to wear what the boys were wearing. My mum dismissed it as a phase, even thought it was cute and referred to me as her little tomboy. Only I was not playing dress up, I realise that now. It was Ollie bursting through the cracks, trying to tell me who I really was. 

I don’t dare to tell my mother that I still have those feelings, as far as she knows I’ve grown out of it and become yet another Barbie doll in society. She’s part of the reason I tend to dress so girly when I leave the house, a part of me still can’t bear to let her down. 

I could never tell my father about how I feel, he’d disown me for sure. He’s the kind of guy who makes fun of people like me, I’ve even heard to him refer to gay people as ‘god’s greatest mistake’. I think that quote alone is reason enough to why I stay hidden. 

So I wake up every morning, don my prettiest outfit, do my hair and makeup with my plastic smile to match, and pretend to be the little girl they’ve always wanted. 

My Summer Girl

It’s Tuesday, another typical college day, or at least it should be. I got up at the same time, left the house at the same time, but today is different, because I met her for the first time. I was sat in my usual spot on the bus doodling away in my notebook, I looked up for the briefest of moments and there she was, walking straight toward me, all ringlets and freckles and bulging green eyes. I held in my breath as she took the seat next to me, but before I do I inhale her scent. Her perfume, geraniums and patchouli, filling my brain with memories of a perfect summer day. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. I don’t know why the proximity was bothering me so much, possibly because this was likely to be the only time a girl this perfect would ever be in my vicinity again. My eyes drifted down to her hands where they lay in her lap, she was subconsciously worrying at the hem of her dress, eyes fixated on some distant world. Her skin was so impossibly pale, the colour of cream and as delicate as porcelain. I desperately wanted to reach out and take her hand, but that’d be weird considering I hadn't even spoken a single word to her yet. I opened my mouth to say hello, but it was too late, my stop was looming overhead. I hope she’s there tomorrow I thought to myself, I can’t say goodbye to her twice.

Gunmetal Blue

I never realised how much I truly wanted to live until the moment I was staring death straight in the face. I was standing in an empty parking lot at approximately 11pm on a Saturday night, when I heard footsteps on the smooth concrete behind me. Having suffered from serious paranoia my entire life, it took everything I had to convince myself that the footsteps were not in fact, a murderer, but rather just another innocent pedestrian en route to his car. Despite telling myself not to panic, my heart did not adhere to my head, and without my consent my feet began to quicken beneath me, ushering me toward my car, a mere ten feet away. It was at this point I felt the cold hard metal connect with the back of my head, followed by the distinct sound of a gun being cocked.
"I guess it's your unlucky day man." I dared not swivel around to stare my attacker in the face. The sound of my heart in my ears clouding any coherent thought I could muster.
"Now are we going to do this the easy way or the hard way?" The man's voice was thick and husky; his breath smelled of stale cigarettes and ale, assumedly he'd been out drinking tonight. That was the only reason I could conjure up for such an act of stupidity.
I felt the nozzle of the gun press harder into the back of my head, willing an action for me. I assumed he was requesting my wallet, given my knowledge of these situations. I slowly moved my hand to the pocket of my dark denim jeans, careful not to arouse any sudden reactions from the man. I felt my fingers close around the smooth leather of my wallet and carefully began to withdraw it.
"Okay, I'm going to turn around now so I can give this to you. Don't shoot okay?" I added hastily.
The man appeared to grunt in response, which I assumed to be agreement to my request. I turned steadily, for fear that if I moved too quickly I'd cause him to shoot me dead on the spot.
When I had fully turned around I was finally able to look the villain in the face; I was astounded to find that the man looking back at me was not a man at all, but a teenage boy. From the soft curves of his face and slight stubble along his lower jaw, I would have placed the boy at around 17 years old. Not old enough to drink, I pondered, but given his swaying hands and disheveled demeanor, the boy was clearly drunk.
"Come on then, hand it over." The boy demanded, crisp blue eyes boring into my face.
I took one last look at the wallet in my hand, and questioned how much I truly thought my life was worth. £1000? £3000? More? What would I be willing to give up to survive for a few more years on this miserable earth? I slipped my fingers over the soft surface of the wallet, fumbling for the button to open it.
"No, no. I want the whole thing. Hand it over." Blue eyes was clearly getting agitated at my delay.
I began to hand my wallet over to the boy, all the money I currently had stuffed firmly inside. However, as I did so, a gust of wind blew in from across the lot, causing my wallet to flutter open. The motion made me pause and look down at the piece of leather in my hand; that's when I saw you. Gazing up at me with expectant gunmetal blue eyes, promising me of a future that was ripped from us too young; filling me with half lived memories and a deep sorrowful regret. Then I realised, this was the only photo of you I had left, but it was so much more than a photo. It was the day I asked you to dance at the country fair and you said yes, it was the night we shared our first kiss under a blanket of obsidian stars; it was the first time I'd believed in a future that consisted of more than working on my dad's farm, and late nights of the local pub. I knew that I would give up all the money I possessed, for one more moment on this earth. But I couldn't give up you, no matter if it was just a memory.
"No." I whispered, pushing the wallet back into my pocket.
That was the last thing I heard before the sound of gun fire tore through the parking lot.

Rejoice, My Dear Reveller

My body is a broken down fairground; my mind a dazzling carousel of spinning half rendered thoughts. The eyes sunken into my skull are lights that flash too bright in shades of periwinkle, lime and crimson, I struggle to focus. My heart thuds inside my chest; it's a bumper car crashing at full speed, against barriers not strong enough to withstand. My limbs are ferris wheels whirring and flying and I simply cannot sit still. My body feels all at once ethereal and insignificant that I find myself lost in the former beauty of this once animate corpse. 

Then I remember, 

this fairground has been forgotten. 

Lights that once burned so brightly, snuffed out by the world’s cruel breath. 

Arms that used to hold me safely to the earth have fluttered away, 

like dandelions in the wind. 

I stand in the centre of the deserted grounds, the smell of popcorn and pure joy long gone.

I am the only reveller who remains, 

and my time of rejoicing has long departed.  

About Me

What the fuck are you supposed to write in an about me?
Because let me tell you something, they don’t actually want to know about you.
What they’re looking for is something along the lines of,
“Hi my name’s Sunflower and I like coffee coolers and rainbows.”
So I sit there staring at that ominous box, the type cursor flashing, demanding I write something.
But what I have to say, no-one wants to hear.
I take a long deep breath, I start to type. 

Hi, I am a ticking time bomb composed of flesh and bone.
I am paper skin, pulled too tight over brittle bones that threaten to snap under the weight of my own thoughts.
Thoughts that gnaw away at me day and night,
ever since I was 12 years old, and a girl with the world in her pocket told me to go and kill myself.
I carved her words out onto my skin, like they were poetry and I was the paper. 

Turning my life into one long flirtation with razor blade edges and empty smiles
Even now those words still echo around the prison of my mind.
Reminding me that I am worthless, an empty shell without a soul.
That I’m the expendable girl who gets forgotten by everyone.
Because no-one wanted to be friends with the girl who took so damn long to walk home, because the pavement is littered with cracks.
They told me to snap out of it, to get a grip, that they’re just gaps in the cement.
But all I saw were land mines, grenades, my body blown apart as my foot touched the ground.

Those cracks materialised as bittersweet slices on my skin 

I had become the thing that I was most afraid of, what I tried to avoid. 

I locked myself away, I built up walls so high that I couldn’t see past the darkness.
I couldn’t see how anyone could ever love such a broken mind, a pathetic body.
So I locked myself away, a life that was not worth saving.
Locked my emotions in a box, placed it on the top shelf, where I couldn't reach.

But here’s the thing..
I am still so young, and those scars on my skin have faded with time.
But I can still feel them, see them, as the light shines through the trees.
Highlighting the fact that I’m alive, that I’m still standing.
I’m a sore loser, and for the life of me I can’t stand the thought of the bullies winning.

I'll fill the cracks with ink, my canvas to start anew. 

They’ll remain below the surface, a private memory that I survived.
That I was brave enough to stand up and live.
So here’s what I’ll write in your fucking about me,
Hi, I’m Leah, and I survived.

Phantom

I am suffering from phantom limb syndrome, but I appear completely whole. The part that I'm missing, is a part of my soul. I feel you as a twitch in the tips of my fingers, beckoning to be touched. I see you in empty meadows, carpeted in buttercups. Only you're not there. I hear your name whispering on the wind, an echo of your former self. But you're not there. You were taken from me like the cruel tide captures the shore. Stolen before my eyes. Before I even got the chance to utter a final goodbye. Late at night as I drift to sleep, I swear I can hear you breathing. But as my eyelids flutter open, you've disappeared, like a shadow consumed by the night's intense gaze. I look for you in everything I see, in the bottom of empty swimming pools and in the broken down carcasses of warehouses. Only you're not there, you're not there.