Spinning

Spinning.

I hit the floor, a sound

of spinning, pinwheeling across sheets

across dishes that just won't clean themselves

white

too much white and grey and black swirling together

spooling, twisting lines across the months

that stream in a calender production line

of missing that throw that hit that fist

trying again and again

the same mistakes again

and again

and again

asking the questions that are blue but insisting

the sliver on the surface is the whole colour.

But dreaming. Dreaming. DREAMING

Big Dreams, alive and kicking, choc full

as chocolate full as I am in my avoidance of what I love

and what I succeed in loving

speaking

with my body, screaming and twisting

spinning

onto the mat

feeling textures in the walls, seeing the light

in faces before they spin away, slippery surfaces says the brain.

No. Full and open and lost

by you.

Thoughts

in colour, running wrings around memories

of home. Of running in cold mornings and not stopping,

my home with my brother in the cold morning air,

running, cycling, running; motion fast

so fast I trust that my body needs to go somewhere,

that all I need to do is follow

there is something important over THERE

no THERE

I can smell it, crisp as apples tasted around the family table

breakfast on the hob for 8

smiling blue eyes, the smell of my sisters hair, the tickle of my dad's beard

on my cheek, of my brother

his laugh and his hands reaching out

over the hills, over, over,

over THERE. Moments sweet and simple,

solid stillness. The sunlight seeping through sheer curtains,

pink cheeks and dimples on my sister,

eyes

all blue all

full

of love, pink-lined

with rosy tinted memory. A small world craved

by a mind

weaker but stronger

so, so, so alone and empty and tired

but so full

so ready

full; a heart screaming out to reach out THERE

it's THERE

to pull heads not to knees and elbows but around because they need to see it

they need to see it too. Strength is always a lent power by what

cannot be seen but must be aimed for. Fear

is the only fear that can be ridden. Pain

a power almost sweet, never

aimed for but used

a sword because this life is more than just me. This

body

that's spinning out into space right now

is not ok. But it IS OK.

Things are not what they are supposed to be, but

they ARE. The wheels turn FORWARDS

towards SOMETHING

regret is NOTHING

nothing but a sword to pick up and swing towards that

you

out there

so close you can smell her hair that reminds you of your sisters innocence,

the strength of your mother,

the humour of your father,

the self of your brother, of YOU. If

it's in your head, it's already IN you

your present and past brains lie to you, don't trust them

don't let them tell you the story of a victim and say NO

because you are more than that story. You TEAR

the pen out of the hands of history and scrawl

your name over and over

on walls on gold leaf paper, lighting fires and wrenching

that girl

that other

away. To step on, not ignore

she IS you. She is there

she can never leave

She is weakness and suffering,

Clinginess, laziness and boredom,

Self-obsession, arrogance, idiocy, venom, selfishness, emptiness, ignorance. She is this AND

creativity, hope, generosity, love

LIFE. A little girl in a bob

dreaming

of the future you stand on,

tall

and still.

---

The end. Of term. So many mistakes. So so many. A picture I a blind me painted, flutters to the floor, tattered and stained with new splashes of paint across it's surface. Dropping. Dropping. Dropping. My mind, my self, my past and yet. I'm here. I'm standing on two feet. Planted in the ground. New shoots slowly but definately splitting concrete tombs I never even knew were there. There are new sketches across my skies. They terrify me and they stop me in the corridors of my new home, take me away from friends I will join arms with. In this, my new home. Outside the claustrophobia of industrial life, from green hills and routines that I will hold. Not in my heart (the collarbone is easily broken) but in my centre. In my abdomen. Fused to my spine, spreading leaves around to my ribs and flowers in my hair. There are stars in my eyes that shine when brain binary lines trip up. Time to regroup, smell those flowers, remember summers and remember who I am. And remember all I will be.

Here's to the next year.