I wanted to write a longer piece that allowed me to utilise and combine poetry and performance. After writing and performing plenty of poems at live shows, the next step for me was to crank up the performance element to see what it could add to my messages and meaning.
I hope this piece is both engaging and entertaining as a result of that!
Are you there? Are you in there?
I know you’re in there. Of course you are. You’re in there just like you’re in here. And I can’t get you out.
You made me better: made me strive to be more, to be stronger, smarter. And that’s just for starters. You made me better, you made everything better.
Can you hear me?
Maybe I didn’t listen, is that it? Because I feel like our pieces fit, like this whole existence we share is a jigsaw on a table in a hurricane, but we clicked together perfectly all the same. You made me more, you know? I know you know.
You know what else I know?
I know you can hear me, that you’re here – because you’re always here, right here. Right here. So close I can almost touch you, feel the way your bare skin shimmers beneath my fingers, the way your breath brushes my neck like a painter caresses her canvas. We made art when we kissed – that’s what I’ve missed: the way we’d tear off each other’s clothes and make art galleries; the way you’d curl up your toes; how you’d arch your spine, or the way you’d bite your bottom lip as you felt our bodies align.
But you were never really mine – were you? It was all in my mind. And that’s where you are now.
Locked away in there – in there – so quiet, so still. Like anticipation. Like possibility. Like dread.
You don’t make a single sound, but you’re the black in every blink. The half-awake of troubled sleep. You’re déjà vu, the thud and shudder of a heartbeat. The acceptance of total defeat.
Are you going to let me inside or what?
I let you inside: let you be the one and only to overthrow what made me lonely, and you let me in. Let me into your head, into your bed, in between your legs – did none of that mean a thing to you? You let me inside of you, and I let you in here too. In here.
You’re still in here: I can’t forget you – but you’re not a memory. No. Memories keep us warm at night, leave little, distant, glowing lights in case we come visiting. But you? You’re a scar, a blemish, a burn. You’re a wound that itches with regret.
So many fucking lies! Do you relive all of the same bullshit I do when you tuck yourself in and close those hateful eyes?
Her eyes, though. You should see them. They shine with sincerity, blossom in bright, baby blue – you? Ha, come on! Who are you kidding now? Your eyes could never shine like hers: you’re a cancer, I see that now. I see that with my eyes.
And my eyes get to watch her undress; get to take in every single moment, every single curve and line and caress – sure, I know there was you, but… she’s better. The best.
And these eyes, my eyes? You won’t see them again. So take one last look. Do it. Look right here good and hard.
You’ll never see them again.
