sometimes the wanderers, we

We are violence. We know we are. We are always aliens furthest from each other, neither bright, nor left behind. These uneasy, mercurial shadows cast from fingertips, and acid on teeth, always—always—looking in mirrors. We lose our voice, and we sing so loud. There is always another song in need of silence.

(structures are important to us, anything to cling to, silently stare on.)

We swallow days. I imagine cracks, where cracks cannot go.

(always try to find some order to it, but never—always shifting.)

Could we accept anything? Or do we cave so simply? Is that it? Well, it is refused. They don't understand. They have not yet—always have not yet—have not yet.

(thumb dragged across a cheek.)

So it must get frustrating for you, a million worlds inside a single thought, and spreading out. It could be a vast worry, but we still hold out for the spark, how clear a mind can be.

(three fingers, to lips, like mud.)

like mud.

I am sorry. I am still hiding, here. I want to say "we". I am so aware—so painfully aware—that it needs to be "we". I am not alone, and I don't want to be alone in this. And it's not the rest of the world that's "we", and it's not him, but it's you, and all of the others—far aliens, mercurial in pain, uneasy, acid bite—always—cracking—mirrors. It is you. You would understand, in some small way, if you ever saw. The violence becomes shapes, and recognisable feats of colour. But start small—start close. So we are always falling inwards, but we try.

It is just these periods, without the spark, and we cannot be assembled properly. So we are thinking, but it all comes out upside-down, shuddering colour, a bright sound. So we don't need anyone.

(but we need each other).

But how else can the spark be generated? There are small moments, always, but the battle is large. Looking out a train window can't keep you safe forever.

I struggle—the most—with communicating—without the spark.

I only want to share things that are felt. So you will feel. So all of my journal entries. So no one. And so much of it.

But if we are looking for hope, for each other, and not for the crash—if we are looking for hope, we sometimes drift away with it.

It would be that story of midnight, and her rotting eyes, and she stays. She fucking stays.

It would be the aeroplane, and he saves him.

It would be someone here made of mending.

So, just remember, the thick chlorine of the memories, in those places of, steam, and water, and holding your mother's hand. She loved so fucking much.