Author Archives: garlandofpearl

virtue

she extolled unto me these virtues of purity
jesus’s little namesake, the girl who carried
all of the world on her tiny shoulders
she fell in love with my father because he
took care of himself and loved his own company
she created me and poured me into her mould
of self-flagellation and crucifixed guilt
I take responsibility for my childhood actions
somehow still believing I could have
controlled what I understood at the tenderest age
be merciful and meek, Jesus said
lie down in the dirt and open your heart for
those who scorn and deride you
be quiet, content and suffer, he said to the child
with the imagination gifted from heaven
or risk burning and writhing in the pit of agony
for all eternity and more, sin sinner.
well all children’s stories have a moral to keep
I suppose I kept those ones especially close to my
little heart and kind, and let them reave me deeply
all of us are bad by nature of existence, my Sunday fathers told me
only the good Lord can save your sinner’s soul, little beauty.
meanwhile, my father stayed in his shed, dying
of cancerous ravages, tinkering with boiler parts
fixing his stereo, and considering the Kew steam
engines that came on every second Sunday.
God, what have you done?
what tortured women are you trying to create?
I escaped out of that adult world I inhabited
that world of emotional torment and suffering and fear
into my own internalised mind fantasy clutches
swirling and whirling on the badness of my character
well
at least I had my dolls and their hundreds of outfits
there were no adults in their world to fuck things up

trip

six months of an acid trip
life is full of revelations now
little epiphanies woven in
to my days
threads so glittering wind
through the halls and
stairwells, turning
cobwebs and dust into
pretty paper chains

“girl,” he says
looking up from the ground floor
“why are you always so
guilty?
let go of that conscience, girl”

I say fuck
I always had the words to
describe myself but
I placed them on the page like
newspaper cutouts
a ransom letter to myself
I never glued them
down, so they blew away
into the wind
and I shut my windows hoping for
sense

I sink into my trip
but I’m not in a daze anymore
not a passive witness
not a powerless princess by
the closed window willing
my hair to grow a little longer
this trip is mine now
I embrace the others
that join me
and kiss the ones that
leave me to soar

and I don’t feel
a stitch of remorse
or pain
or shame
not anymore, girl

caves

the water washes over me
the wave cleanses me
i was a shipwreck
but there is no
longer any driftwood
splitting from my keel
the currents are warm
rough
calm
exciting
new
old
all at once

i looked out onto
that bay and its
frostwhite-tipped waves
for so many
years, never really
knowing it at all
instead I preferred to stare
at the grotted river bank in
the next town
heaving corpses from
the mud with my bare
hands and bones
trying desperately to
bring them to life
what a thing
to see such an ocean from
my own window
to pass it no thought
other than a drink at
a beach cafe table
now and then in summer

what a thing that
something so known
could be so new
could be such an adventure
could be so full of
fear and magic

i praise mother earth
my own bay
may not be in any
tourist guides or
hiking holiday books,
but it is here
at my window
and it is mine
to explore,
from the lapping shallows
that kiss my feet and ankles
to the deep and dark
storm-waves that crash
between my breasts
to the doors and caves in dripping rocks
full of natural treasures
that I can discover

all of it
has been here
all along
and what a joy of luck
that only now
have I begun to see it

within

I am of him,
that’s for sure
this stubbornness
so ingrained, it must be
woven into my genes
somewhere near the ones
that gave me
eyes the size of saucers.
as I become who
I always needed to be,
I let him drift out
to the ocean to rest,
finally releasing the corpse
I’ve been carrying
on my back for so long –
I find a new set of
superpowers in my heart.
it beats like his now
and always should have,
really.
I was not to know,
but now I do.
and his spirit weighs nothing
no more than a breath

I let it burst

from within,

to taste freedom for

the first time in

twenty two years.

amber

she won’t tell me her name
her eyes roll from
side to side when I ask
so I ask her what
names she likes
and she says amber
so amber is her name now.
she likes brooke too, with an e
or saffron because
she loves ab fab, though
it’s been a good fucking while
since she’s watched the telly.
she left home at thirteen or
fourteen, for a bloke
she doesn’t tell me much about
him, but she says she
thought they would marry
for a little while
then she got hard on the e’s
and lost
where she was for a little while
she asks me for a cigarette and
a cold drink
I sit with her by the bars for hours
she keeps her nails clean
but her hair is thin and
she has no back teeth
amber, you are
so intelligent, I tell her
and she laughs and
then adrian passes by
with half a spliff and she
tells him to share
she’s not interested in
him though, only in me
she makes me feel
like I am the centre of
the universe
she could be so angry
but she isn’t
she wanted to be an air
hostess when she was young
(I wonder, how young
because although she is
grey from the london air,
her soul doesn’t seem old)
she likes her doctor
he used to give her the valium
before she messed up
the script
and he tells her not to
sleep by the tube vents
because she’s giving herself
carbon monoxide poisoning
but she’s cold
and there are blokes everywhere else
she doesn’t sleep anyway
not for long
amber, I say
you are so full of
stories and imagination
she’s never been in trouble,
bar once
when she stole from a shop to
get arrested so she could
get a probation officer to help her
with getting a giro
they didn’t help her
but she got free coffee and a bed in the station
I have to go at 2am
but she won’t let me
leave without giving me
tobacco wrapped in a
receipt
I go to my bed and bemoan
that I’ve been too lazy to
buy fruit
and she sleeps by the vent
breathing in poison
amber,
life is so fucking unfair
I am sorry you have to be cold
I am sorry that dirty man stole your new jacket
and made it stink
when can I see you again, amber?
I promise I’ll buy you
another jacket

 

be

If I look back, I am lost.

the above is a quote from the ever-popular character of daenerys targaryen in the song of ice and fire books written by george r. r. martin. throughout the books, we go on a journey with daenerys, as she is thrust unceremoniously into a very adult (albiet highly fantastical) life. we follow her as she attempts to navigate not only her hostile environment but the people who surround her, their intentions and what, if any, end goals she should be focusing on.

the phrase touched me when I read the books, resonating with me as I wander through my own journey of self-discovery and healing. I have a large tendency to over-analyse and dissect in an unhealthy way; I attempt to break these negative thought patterns using things I learn in therapy, though a lot of the time it feels like replacing one over-analytical stream of thought with another. at present it feels like my thoughts are just an endless barrage of questions; whys, what ifs and hows chatter relentlessly away as I try to navigate grown-up life.

a recent obsession that has been festering away is the fear that I will never “cope” with life, that I will never “get better”, that I will continue to be hurled and burled through life on an emotional rollercoaster, with no semblance of achievement or satisfaction to be found, no more true loves to be had, no enjoyment of anything for too long lest it become too stressful, too difficult, too triggering. the mere thought absolutely terrifies me to say the least, and my anxious brain works its hardest to find unequivocal proof that this is certainly the path I will be forced to tread. attempts to control and relieve the anxiety brought by this particular stream of thought generally manifest in hours spent googling and researching, desperately throwing unanswerable questions into the echo chamber of the internet, hoping to find some magic words, some proven theory that will provide me with the reassurance I so urgently crave. psychological theory, psychiatry research papers, comments sections and self-help articles of varying quality; they all get consumed, processed, churned out and considered as evidence. I think back to the very darkest times of my life and constantly self-assess to see whether I’m feeling now as I felt then, whether I’m hurtling head-first back into that terrifying black chasm of helplessness and despair.

it is prudent to remind myself that self-assessment was not my strong point when I was stuck in the aforementioned chasm; I had no questions, because I had almost completely accepted my “fate”, my fate being that the only real answer to my emotional suffering was death. It is quite the opposite now. the questions nowadays never seem to stop coming, but none of those questions are “how to tie a noose” or “painless ways to die”. recalling memories of that time are utterly painful, and I feel sad for myself, and those who lived through it with me. I have come a long way, but it appears there are still hurdles to jump over and knots to unpick.

so I shall keep going forward. I shall keep trying. if I look back, I am lost, and playing psycho-detective will amount to nothing if not further pathologizing of perfectly normal human experience, which I don’t think is a good thing (although at this point I could probably sit a Bachelors psychology paper and pass it, so that’s something). I’m just a human; a big soggy bag of flesh and bones and organs and electricity; and I truly believe that nothing except personal peace and happiness are important. we are one tiny dot, in a vast ocean-sky of planets and solar systems and galaxies and possibly universes. our lifetimes are breath on the skin of the world, let alone the universe; our supposed failure and suffering are eternally meaningless in the scheme of things. we feel important, but that doesn’t make us happy or peaceful. we should do for the pleasure of doing; be kind for the pleasure of kindness. to be clear, this is not some hedonistic analogy; you won’t be happy or peaceful if you spend your days chasing chemical highs and being a cunt to people you sleep with in the name of “absolute pleasure”. cruel people are cruel, and lost people are lost, because they suffer inwardly and place excessive responsibility on external experiences and objects (and their effects) for their inner own peace and happiness.

the key, I believe, is to live outwardly, and reap inwardly. to absorb the joy of the world, of living, of being here, now, at this very moment. to be child-like, to accept the utterly bizarre systems humans have brought upon themselves (like council tax) and fret not over what you achieve, but what you learn, and just be.

just be.

when your brain starts ticking with questions, with self-doubt, with suffering and memory;

remember, just to be.

jetty

he grips my arm around the wrist
heavy-knuckled fingers all adorned
with my favourite jewellery,
digging into my sweet skin and
child-like bone.
“oh,
what a pretty ring!”
I exclaim,
although he cannot hear me
because I am underwater,
and my mouth is so full and
wet, that no sounds can escape.
he grips stagnantly,
with no intention of letting go
and I suppose that I feel safe
even as I feel cold salt water
filling both of my lungs and
the sting of blood where the
silver scrapes and bruises me.
“I’m drowning,
so let me
go!”
he doesn’t hear.
I attempt to protest
and scratch away at him with my
free arm, like a crazed
rat in a trap.
he doesn’t let go.
the water is distorting my vision
but I can see his eyes
(which are still
full of hurt,
by the way)
staring down at me through
the slop and crash of waves.
he must be cold
or getting tired, at the
very least.
my legs are thrashing now,
and I know I want to sink
and see the sea-bed.
“let
go!”
he seems confused.
does he?
I can’t see.
my wrist doesn’t hurt and
he seems confused.
I breathe a great load of water
it’s all white
is he there?
I can’t see him
no
there’s no noise
my bracelet
it’s stuck to the jetty
I can’t get it off
where did
he go
I can’t
get it off
he’s gone

torches

yes, she brings me flowers
wrapped tight in a tesco bag
more than one smile
dances on her face, and
so I look and learn there
in that great establishment of education

she never grieves
she lives
she puts pain in the
wicker basket on her bicycle
and cycles into the sun
no matter how heavy it may be

she is a stream, river
and a fountain waterfall all
together at once, not
without mud or silt but
flowing, flowing, flowing always
washing us clean of
our sins and sorrows

with this power of water
she could erode us
but she chooses to make us float
she could drown us
but she chooses to cleanse us
she could guide us foolish sailors to our deaths
but she chooses to hold great torches up as guides

thank god,
thank god for her
I think as milk comes out of my nose
while I snort and shriek with laughter