The Apathetic Enthusiast

Poetry + Imagery

What is this writing really means

I’ve just had a pretty shocking-not-shocking realization. Shocked that it took me this long to realize, and not shocked at how true it feels.

In short/not so short, I think I have been depressed since I was 12 years old. I specifically remember sitting at my grandparent computer on playing girly dress up games thinking about how sad and confused I was that we were moving to America and that my Nana was dead and I thinking ‘Hey! I could always kill myself.’

I saw statistics a few weeks ago about New Zealand suicide and I burst into tears at the number attached to the age bracket of 10-13, thinking holy shit those kids aren’t aware enough of themselves and the world to make that decision, and my heart broke at the ghost of them 10 years in the future thinking why did I give up so soon, there was so much I didn’t know. And thats when it hit me thats that is the age I was the first time I considered suicide.

That little girl on cutesy pink websites quickly spiralled into self harm, black clothes, angry music, aggressive defensiveness, and a furiously dark rage that lashed out and also kept me sealed shut.

I’ve always known that this era of my life has shaped who I am now, but I didn’t quite realise the extent of the effect it’s had, mainly the way I express my  depression.

When I was in America, I hurt myself daily, often a few times a day. I wiped my blood on the shower walls and on paper and dripped it on poems and piled up tissues soaked red and set them on fire, stashed them in my room and in boxes, buried them in the bin, flushed down the toilet. I even remember writing HELP on the bathroom wall in middle school, mostly to scare someone as a joke but that’s actually pretty messed up and I wish someone really had helped me.

My parents ignored the whole thing. A few years ago, my mum and I were talking and she said ‘We were worried, but you really had nothing to actually be that sad about so we knew you’d grow out of it.’ Jesus christ. If I ever think of a moment when my smile was stapled on my face as I swallowed my real feelings like knives it was that moment.

How could she be so dismissive of my pain? I contemplated suicide almost daily for years. I cut myself every few hours. I starved myself or smashed my head into walls or held my wrists and fingers over candles, and the most painful thing now is that I never said a word, and no one ever asked.

And thats the way its been for the last 16 years. I keep my mouth shut and endure the pain and wait for it to pass over.

I was very aggressive. I yelled and screamed and ignored other people. I made no effort to engage with others. I didn’t try in school, I didn’t lift a goddamn finger to attempt anything, I existed in my suffering and I let it float me through the days. I did enough to get by and I let all the things I’d enjoyed before drift away into nothing. If confronted, I was a destroyer, at least I had the confidence to tell the world to get fucked. I was regularly bullied, but I really truely didn’t give a shit at the time and I still don’t. I am grateful for that, but I also now realize that is because I was my own worst bully and nothing they said or did could ever hold a flame to the sadness and anger I already felt.

One day in P.E, maybe 13 nearly 14, I was play fighting with a friend, and I hurt them, wrist burn I think. My aggression came out and I twisted too hard and they pulled back in shock, looked me right in the face and said, ‘That hurt me. You hurt your friends and I don’t like it.’ And I was absolutely floored. So far, for 2 years, cutting myself on a daily basis, no one, not one person, had ever said in such uncertain terms that my behaviour was not okay and I was hurting people. They turned and walked off and I stood there stunned and I can still feel my mouth dropped and frozen in shock.

This could have been a good thing. My parents could have been the ones to say this to me and I could have been spared years and years of more unhealthy behaviour. They could have sat me down with no anger in their voices and said ‘Stephanie, what you are doing is not okay and it’s hurting us and the people around you and more importantly it’s hurting yourself.’ but I wouldn’t hear that for a very long time, and still not from them.

So what did I do with this shattering realization? I buried my pain deeper of course. My parents where fighting all the time, and my mum once said to me in the mall food court ‘If we ever get a divorce it will be your fault’ and I knew it was true because I was awful. I WAS awful, I was horrible and angry and violent and what was the point in being me if I was such an ugly and awful and horrible person. Maybe I should kill myself after all. But I couldn’t now, because that would hurt people, my brother and my grandparents and my friends back home. And they wouldn’t know why, because these real feelings I had where such a secret, in hindsight it was so obvious that I have no idea how I lasted so long with no one acknowledging what was happening. Maybe it was how aggressive I was. The effort to break through the barrier I had built around me was too much. Maybe people tried and I pushed them away by being even more difficult and horrible.

Anyway, suddenly my brain was wired that the mere truth of being my miserable self made others unhappy. And I wasn’t really so much a monster that I didn’t care about that, so, I began to no longer be myself. I kept the goth clothes and I definitely kept cutting myself, but I now understood that my actions had consequences. This was the beginning of my secret self.

Once we moved back to New Zealand, I made a subconscious pact with myself. I would be picture perfect, I would never embarrass my parents in front of their friends, I would be as absolutely polite as I could be in front of my family. I would show up and be charming and well dressed and make other parents say ‘Oh your daughter is so sweet, I wish mine would be so well mannered.’ I would make up for every time I was awful and I would never yell or scream or break things ever again. I would laugh at the stories my family would tell at christmas dinner, about the time I had to be dragged to Disney World, or how horrid I was at that sports game, ha ha ha, what a time, I am so sorry, goodness me.

Every time a feeling would rise up like YOUR FULL OF SHIT MUM or I FUCKING HATE THIS or CAN’T YOU SEE BEHIND THIS LIE, I would stand still, or sit quietly, and I would let that anger and sadness wash over me, like a layer of wax, sealing myself inside deeper ever time, and on the inside I would be melting, completely isolated and even now I can feel that sick feeling in my heart and stomach, a churning stabbing feeling. Sometimes that would lead to self harm, when it got too much I could take it out on myself, again, in a different way, and I would have to hide my arms as well as my real feelings and the spiralling cycling continued.

Eventually, at maybe 18 or 19, this routine was perfected to the point that I don’t even think I remembered what I was doing. I was now my mum saying ‘Yeah but really I had nothing to be that sad about so I can just get over it.’ I still cut myself but less often, and eventually not at all, and I still punished myself by letting my own sadness bury me deeper and further away, and I still pretended to be happy and perfect, only now I forgot why, and every now and then my real feelings would come out and no one ever responded in the way I needed them too, mostly they responded in anger, so I kept thinking it was no big deal, or I was awful to suggest this, its selfish to inflict this on others, and I picked myself back up and carried on.

I’ve never told anyone. Maybe bits, but I think now it’s important that I tell myself. Because at 2 weeks before my 28th birthday, I am happy, yet, I am miserable, and I finally understand why.

In my early 20s I made another pact with myself. Now that I had undone all the horrible damage I had done by being so awful in my early teens, I could finally possibly maybe kill myself again. But people still wouldn’t know why, so I would leave them clues. I would leave a legacy behind me of heartbreakingly beautiful works of art that incapsulated how miserable I had always felt inside all these years and no one noticed. I wasn’t angry or punishing anyone, I really honestly believed that ignoring pain was normal and I deserved it and pretending was the best way and that I was doing a really good job and that it was a good thing. Oh boy have I fucked myself up hahaha.

So I purposely channelled that into writing stories, in notebooks, on my computer, everywhere. I had paper and pen on me 24/7 and I set out to express myself and my pain this way and this way only, and when I was done, when I had perfectly subtly captured the essence of how miserable I was in beautiful poetry and paintings and photographs, I could kill myself. And there would be a gallery for it.

But this backfired, because my most favourite pieces, I couldn’t show anyone, because it revealed something my entire persona was built around pretended didn’t exist. Still to this day I struggle, maybe my last real struggle, as an Artist, because I am ashamed and afraid at what people will think of me when they read or see these things, and my joy and pride at creating falls into a space that I wish with my whole heart it didn’t.

I guess I am lucky that I was so good at this pretence though, because I never felt finished, and writing really helped me to the point that I eventually forgot I was supposed to die. I would still be reckless, I stopped cutting myself but I crossed the road without looking too closely, I grabbed knives by the blade, I left my protractor poking through my bag, I wore uncomfortable shoes, I did my belts too tight, I skipped meals, got paper cuts, left broken glass on the floor, kept sharp rocks in my pockets to grip and press into. I did anything that could hurt me without actively doing it intentionally, so that I wouldn’t get caught betraying this persona I had made. By now there were minimal ties to the miserable aggressive horrible monster that was how I had really felt, and I am only now discovering how deep that idea goes, and how unhealthy it is, and how important it is that I stand up for that child, that teenager, and young adult, that human person, as say it’s not okay! I am hurting and I care and that pain was real and it matters!

My big realization here is that this morning when I woke up feeling that twisted ache, I thought the only way to express it was to draw a picture, or write a story, or clean my studio, BUT THAT IS A COPING MECHANISM THAT I PLANNED TO LEAD TO MY OWN DEATH SO WTF DUDE. GO SEE A THERAPIST.

For years I felt the only way I can express how sad I am, is through art. I felt I couldn’t tell people to their face because I’ve tried so subtly before that the person had no idea what was riding on their response and so I never got the response I needed. I thought people will think I am lying, and that they don’t really know me, they will be angry. But I think believing that is part of the cycle of self harm. I thought I deserved to suffer in silence until i’m dead, but I don’t, no one does.

So I am writing this because I can’t hold it in anymore. I have been depressed for 16 years, violently and dangerously. And for 12-13 years I have pretended that rock hard ground never existed. I have made a career out of pretending to be the perfect picture image of politeness. I am afraid to wear gothic clothes, I hide my edge as subtly as possible, just enough so that if you really really look, you can see it. I have erased my own fire because I place it hand in hand with hurting others, and I continue to not be my self, because I feel others will be so shocked at the difference that they will believe our entire friendship has been a betrayal of trust.

But I think most of that is in my head, and that the only real difference will be in my own head too. I’ve gently and carefully laid myself the ground work for me to come out of this wax shell. I’ve quit my job and planned the next stage of my future, all I have to do now is admit to myself what has been done, what has happened, what things mean, and seperate what is okay and not okay, and stop following these automatic unhealthy behaviours. I need to talk about it. I need people to know. I need to stop waiting for death to reveal me. I should sort my shit out.

Thanks for reading.






Grandparents die and Parents get divorced

I wake up dry and groggy
Afraid to move my lips
I’ve been flying through grass on toys like a child
Waiting for my grandparents to set the table

My Dad said he would drive me home

But I’m floored, flooded, frozen
Confused and stabbed awake
Inside I’m screaming like a dragon would

Inside I’m trying to explode the world


Found in Dream Journal 2015

Have since lost my Grandfather, Nannie has sold the house and moved last week. The dining room table was a Chapman Taylor with 6 matching chairs that a dealer offered $350 for. I told my family they were insane to let it go for so little. It was a work of art and frequently visited my dreams, though I would never tell them that. She sold it last month to gay couple for 5 times that.  She still has a small matching stool and a hutch dresser that will forever remind me what it is to be silently beautiful. 

My dad still drives me home.

Fight Club

I am Jacks overwhelming sense of discouragement
I am Jacks seeping acceptance of wasted opportunities
I am Jacks failed attempts to stay sober 
I am Jacks shadow of short lived enthusiasm 

Jacks island of apathy

Build a raft and drown. 

When April Fools never comes

I am Shock
Cling film around a sphere of salt water
Wrapping my mind around unbelievable gravity
Thick force unrelentingly pounding
A distortion of time
The same epic seconds on loop
A creaking door
An inability to reason
The sudden Death of a friend
I am heartbreak
I am menial activities throughout the day
I am  

Apathy doesn’t mind

Being Gone
Like a sliver of the moon
You ask me to apologise,
for not being around all the time


Leaving you in the Hospital Cafeteria

        The streets are impersonal and unwilling to make excuses.
        My money wasn't worth what I could stomach, but it was worth the time.
        As soon as we leave here its over.
        As soon as we leave here,
        We're gone.




Diluted Days.

Changing scenery so suddenly
Unnervingly adjusting to unraveling so seamlessly
Quietly stepping
Accustomed to such company
I’ll excuse myself until the sun goes down

The Face I left with

_MG_1293                  Bloody nose in the dead of Winter
                Clean clothes thrown out into the rain

                  I'm on the first train out of here

Dead Not Buried

SteveJoWaitarere 1034
In celebration we party
No particular reason
We smoke cigars and drink in the day 
Beer bottles foaming and spilling
Who cares.
Who knows.
Whos watching.

With music and plans for life I make us half lunch half dinner 
My house. 
My ways. 
My time.
My comfort.

Pastry defrosted
Fresh eggs and bacon
Mushrooms tomatoes and herbs
Cutting board. 


I see them.
Two of them.
Fat black and crawling.
Sick and disgusting.
Feasting inside thin plastic wrapping. 
Wings wet and bathing
In juices of room temperature flesh.
Feasting. Feastering.
Flies. Big and Black.
Black Black Black in and on skin
Solid skin thick pink and feeling.
Fat hairy pigs hot in the mud breathing. 
Sliced and diced and chopped for soups for breakfasts for pies.
Minds eye seeing flies eyes eying unseeing eyes dry.


I am 5 years old
Dads hand on my shoulder
In the middle of no where.
A roadside farm cafe
'What's that Daddy?'
'A fat pig'
Ice cream melting over small sticky fingers.
I climb higher and lean over the fence for a better look.


Can't handle
Drop the knife 
Shaking the bag 

Get out. 
Get away.away.away. 
They hold on
Tiny legs clutching at flesh ridges.
Black holes in my universe. 
I am crushed
They take me 
Suck me in and freeze me
Tear me and twist me
Wrap me in plastic light and tight against my mouth
Drowning in weepings.
Constricted in time. 
I am a decomposing sea where flies enjoy what's left of me.


Whats your problem, what happened are you okay?
Laugh it off 
Shake it off 
Off. Off. Off. 

I'm sorry I'm fine It's okay, just a fly, just surprised.

Laughing shaking straining 
How silly, such a shame.

Don't tell them you never want to eat again.


Escapes to the park
Black feelings
Loud laughter
Dancing feet thudding on floors
Spilt drinks
Towels soaking
Smoke in the house
Strobe flashing 
Bruises mounting.
Tip toe creeping
How can they be sleeping.
The sun is gone and almost back again 
The last moon my company
Flattening pastry
Mixed spices
Coco and dark berry jam

Deep breaths and straight back
Flies deafly buzzing
Stumbles, blurring, calm even humming.
Sugar burning and bubbling
Cold hands on hot glass

Pies packed with vows I think I'll burn my tongue on.

Things we see in Windows

all 369                           You don't know me. 
                     I've never crossed your mind.
        Your imaginary life will exist and carry on without me.
      Once the train arrives the colour of your shirt will leave. 
                       Your hair will fall away. 
                     Your shoes will keep walking.
                   But not the hardness of your face. 
      Cheekbones gouged in wood. Scorched. And nailed to my chest.

When it’s over and a waste

          Disappointment was a blinding discovery
          A sudden and obvious truth 
          A sinking ship in the night
          Cold water engulfing warm bed sheets
          Regret was thicker
          A tough meat stuck in your throat 
          A choking realization collapsing your lungs
          A thief in the day  
          Robbing you of all your favourite possessions 
          While you relax in the sun 
          Enjoying the scenery

Not Saying Anything at All

April 10-14 151

             Hiding in silence
                       Peace in the quiet
                              Leaving all well enough alone 
             Moonlight on water
                       Lamp light on streets
                               Cold air freezing the time 
             Waiting in secret
                       While all the rest sleeps 
                               Relieved to finally be    

I The Stranger

                 Today, I forgot myself.
                        I woke up
                        and left memories         

                 I saw them piled on my pillow 
                        as I went to leave
                        but couldn't remember 
                        what they were for
                        or why I would need them
                        so I carried on 
                              getting ready 
                                       for the day.

                 I went about my business without a worry
                  and with not much to mention in events. 
                        But I learned a lot 
                        about an everyday 
                        And in some ways 
                        It was the best day ever
                        By the time I made my way home 
                        The moon was out in full force 
                        Bright as anything 
                        washing the clouds in silver. 

            Such a beautiful sight
                    And I couldn't remember 
                           ever seeing 
                                         so lovely


The First Day

                   Hitchhiking Hippies 
                   Shrinking dandylion crowns
                   Wind knotting wild hair

                   Peace signs thrown from car windows
                   Lost scarves on fences 
                   Carefree catches in the heat

                   Painted toes no shoes
                   Hundred dollar sundresses
                   And second hand hats

                   Town to bush and streets to sand
                   Spots for cloud watching
                   Seats for cold beer and charred meat 

                   Water fights on decks
                   Lawn mowers echo off the hills
                   Strangers share the sun 

                   Until the last day
                   When its too cold for those things
                   And the rain is back

Closed Tracks

            Walking on trees
            Reminds me
            That I take light heartedness seriously
            Sarcastic with reality
            The storm pulls the pines down vertically 
            Soiled hands hold torn roots ceremonially
            This is a graveyard playground of balancing tom foolery
            Laughing in high winds on lost limbs precariously 
            I make the most of this tragedy with sombre mockery
            Tomorrows chainsaws will come with no sense of sympathy
            I can only take dirt home with me


Salty Cliff Air

April 10-14 145

        Under the protection of the roof 
        We climb the branches as high as we dare not to
        Red vines grow thick and fast along the kitchen walls
        Grasping blindly at our feet
        Wrapping themselves around our moon lit ladders 
        Desperate to catch us before we reach the stars

A Year of Taking Notes

Empire 106

My friend Bailey was the first of my group to have a baby, ‘Baileys baby’ we all said when we heard, with a bit of an Elvis twang. She had wanted a painting from me for years, I had promised I would do one but I could never decide what it would be, and she said she didn’t mind. She was caring and cheerful and all I could see was a farm scene of unicorns and cats, which she would probably love but I wasn’t feeling it. So when she had her little guy I thought ‘brilliant, this I can do.’ I chose one of the first photos she posted, only a few days old, and set up the coffee table with all my supplies and got into it. Within a few hours I had a beautiful rendition of him. Soft skin and perfect colours. I had used the white of the canvas as the highlights, and his features where exactly where they should be. I was so proud and couldn’t wait to tell her.

Of course a few days later I picked it up again, set on doing a green background with leaves falling around him when I muddied the colours and placement of his face.
He was bruised, almost rotted. I felt him slip through my fingers, like he had been handed to me and I dropped him. I didn’t touch the painting for months after that, I couldn’t bare to look at it. I hid it in the cupboard and tried to forget about it, every now and then pulling it out and staring at the sick dwarfish face, desperately wishing I could take it back.

It was after a long night at work, usually me and one of the other girls would sneak off to the kitchen on a Saturday night while the bar and band was in full swing to polish and roll the cutlery for the next day. She would polish and I would roll, sometimes gossiping, sometimes in silence. Rolling cutlery was my favourite part of the job. I had it down to an art, every single roll was exactly alike, tight enough to hold upside down and loose enough to pull out the cutlery without effort. Not so dipped that it would destroy the napkin to unroll it, but they never came undone on their own. It was my ultimate OCD dream. But one night we were short staffed and I had to do it alone while the others held the floor and bar.

Instead of going to the kitchen, I quietly slipped through the glass doors into the function room just next to it. I liked this room, on busy nights I would have this all to myself, I would set romantic tables for two and family tables of fours to sixes. I would leave one door open for the smell from the kitchen and one closed for privacy from the chefs. I would have a candle lit on every table and a refreshing breeze stirring the air, and when the sun set, I would tilt the blinds just right and fill the room with bright orange dancing beams of light.

It was dark now though, empty and cold, all the chair legs up. I lit some candles just for me, keeping the lights off, sat at the farthest corner table and rolled each set of knife fork, spoon knife, fork spoon, perfectly.

When I was finished, I stared at the full baskets, napkins glowing silver blue in the darkness of the moonlight. It was then I remembered the story of Dorian Gray. His portrait painted so honestly and with so much love, that it had captured his soul. Had I rolled my soul into these utensils? How could I put so much of myself into something strangers used to eat with, wiping their mouths and dropping to the floor for me to pick up once they’d gone. I doubt anyone even noticed how efficient they were, or how beautifully they were placed in rows upon rows. And I was always rolling cutlery, it was a job never finished, I would fill basket after basket after basket and it never stayed full. I had rolled thousands. Hundreds a day. They were my accomplishment.

When I got home I set my paints up on the lounge floor and pulled out the painting that had been my undoing. I cleaned my brushes and looked for each stroke I needed to bring him back to life. And as I painted I saw him more and more, until I was staring face to face with my best friends son, dreaming with closed eyes that might open at any minute. I mixed a dark blue black oil and let it flow over the dead green leaves, from the edges of the canvas to his face, painting my soul into depth of the universe I wrapped in the blanket around him. When I was finished and the sun was rising, I scattered ink stars with small silver flicks of my brush, creating galaxies, without waiting for the paint to dry.


The Long Road

IMG_2094 Silver sunset silhouettes
 Sleek and slender branches bared  
 In the unforgiving winter air
 Majestically unaware
 Of their natural beauty just by simply being there

Cold July

 April 10-14 709  When it's late and I'm alone 
And all I want to do is sleep
       The minutes pass me by

 And when I can't bare another
It comes
                   And it goes


The Island of Smoke

IMG_2718                     Further North than I thought
                           The drowning plateaued
                       And the sound let me sleep
                                      For a while

Fish in the sea

              It hurts to see you in shirts I don't recognize
              Tan from days in the sun without me
              All security disappears
              I am the fish I caught earlier today
              Torn from water
              Blinded by light
              Thrown into dry darkness
              To Writhe
              To Panic
              A bucket of sweet home relief 
              Poured into my tomb
              One quick deep breath
              I am safe 
              Then you slit my throat and bleed me out

              To think I sat there watching myself die
              Trying not to be upset over a fish

Tight lips and Pockets

Every time I see them they are arguing about money, which makes me wonder why 
they bother going out at all. I have been their waitress at three different 
restaurants now and not once have they given me any sign of recognition. 
I try and relax the tension, one meal at a time, as any good waitress should, 
but they never let up. Once they even turned on me together, it was the chefs 
fault but at least they were united.
I see them on my days off sometimes, just around town. Her walking ahead, him 
pushing his wheel chair. I guess they don’t live too far. One day I saw them 
coming back from the beach, with six kids in toe. Three with mocha skin like 
hers, and three with freckles and long faces like his. They skipped along the 
side walk in pairs, matching in ages, laughing and screaming about ice cream. 
The couple charged on behind unsmiling, 
                                  hands clenched, 
                                             laden with shoes and wet towels.


Secrets and Lost Earrings

I was quite sure that in the context of my life this made perfect sense.

Not only that, but in context it was a cosmic joke. A round about twisted turn of events. To the outside point of view it might have been tragic, with a pinch of irony for those with a sense of humour. To me, I was Donnie Darko time travelling. In a second where all the late nights and crazy thoughts made sense. Manic laughter building from a sinking ship.

There was even a lesson here that people could benefit from. Not that I was going to let that make it okay, I wasn’t going to lie to myself. This was a bad thing. Besides there were too many words to get wrong. I can’t share this, I can’t tell you everything.

That’s the thing with secrets. You take them to bed with you and feel them in your sheets. You hold them tight like a lover, terrified someone will rip the blankets off and leave you shivering. You kick them to the side like clothes on a hot night, suffocating you, shirts tight around your throat. Pins and needles and stray hairs disguised as spiders, crawling and keeping you awake. And in the morning, you leave them where they lay. God forbid someone catches it in your eye, or sees it in the corner of your mouth. Twitching in your fingers. They are something you come home to. Something you leave lying around underneath things. Hiding and waiting to be found when you have almost forgotten they were there. And when the years have finally dulled the edges, you burry them, throw it into the sea like a stone that caught your eye on the beach.

You don’t have to explain it. It doesn’t need to make sense to anyone else. It’s yours.
Sometimes I think my whole life might be a secret.
No one will ever get the joke better than me.

Just Take Me Home


                 Quick swims in clouds
                         Quiet smiles 
                               Patience swaying

Late Night Groceries

You've been on my mind through all the years haven’t seen you
And when I miss you I don't forget that it’s my fault

But when the bitter chill wakes me and I look up through the rain 
And finally it really is you 
I stop.

I won’t ask you how you are.
I can tell by your face that time has started to undo you

I won’t ask you where you’ve been.
I don’t think I want to know

I almost can’t bear to look at you.
The face I remember burns my eyes
Years of snapshot memories are crashing down on me


You haven’t seen me.
And I don’t call out

The Last Time

On this sunny day

Strangers stare at me
Stealing all my secrecy
I can’t bare to watch

Down the busy street
I walk fast avoiding eyes
And watch the buildings

Each one broken up
By rich to poor apartments
And whimsical shops

Optimal leasing
Of hundred year old history
Tacky paint jobs peal

Some stand side by side
Some are split by alley ways
To secret car parks

Others big enough
Only for empty beer cans
And cats in hiding

Spilt ink and Burn marks

One of my favourite ways to pass the time
    Is to sit at the open window
        In lace underwear and my best dress shirts
            Smoking crumbs of tobacco
                And drinking drops of red wine 
            From near empty bottles
        Hoping that no one catches me
    Revealing in being alone.
While I watch the birds fly back and forth
    From trees to the nests in the gutter on the roof
        The clouds drift
            The sun sets
                The wind leaves goose bumps on my bare skin.
            Once the wine is gone
        And the tingle of satisfaction
    Becomes the thick taste of cigarettes
You come home.
    I watch the butt drop three stories and stand up
        You say ‘Hey Babe. What have you been up to?’
            ‘Oh, just pottering around’ I say
                ‘Sorting out the spare room’
             Something I'm always doing
        Because my art can be such a mess.
    But every time
I get caught up in the memorabilia of my life
    Flicking through un-finish paintings
        And bus tickets
            Until I find a piece of something I missed
                A feather from the pillow you burst
            A thread from my shirt you tore
        A shard from the glass you smashed
    When you grabbed me by my shoulders
Bruised me with your fingers
    Punched me with your fists
        Laughed at my tears
            Until you finally left me 
            To find the pieces
        Wrap them up
    Sew them together
Hide them in boxes
    Bury them in rubbish bags.
        And when you finally fall asleep
                          WindowApril 10-14 086