My little empire
My little empire
Rejection, my lifelong torment. It’s only relative, but suddenly everything feels like loss. In the anguish of James Dean Bradfield’s voice, in the shivering raindrops scattering my skin under this lamppost, waiting, waiting for something to happen. In the endlessly beautiful blue I disappear into every 4am; writing until five, a slate-grey rain-stained sky. When The Gorgeous Boy leaves, not knowing where or why.
Ignoring the social nature of the occasion, I drank the bottle she gave me in an hour, steadily submerging the trauma of strangers. Her husband scorns the young, incapable of real experience, yet I react differently to anyone I’ve ever known. He couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t handle me. And though unseemly, this soon, it’s joyful to be free. The intense detail of moments that nobody seems to see.
Fragments, unfinished symphonies, drift from essay drafts, comparing you two again. The thought of choice kills. Unsatisfactory explanations, the usual evasions; a thick opaque glass with a pursed lip. You visit Paris, and the irony makes me laugh out loud. Peccata gallica forgotten, emphatically past.
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose leaves
The way I feel today - 10 July 2004
Just seventeen - 17 March 2004
Roads to freedom - 25 February 2004
Confessions of a failed self-harmer - 25 February 2004
Manchester, united - 25 February 2004