Miss S. Saphirest.

Her letters.

To whomever it may concern,
Supposedly it just happens again, and now it is as dull and as much an annoyance as a slight and reoccurring toothache or rash. But when does an emotion become something like a rising eczema? Of all the years I have moved on and moved on and on and so forth have I now come to a suitable stop at which I am pleased to stay, and this emotion may inbed itself at my side. Niggling and prying. It is a difficult concept to put forward in word, but apparently, and happily, i do that well enough.
And I am aware of it's presence, beside/around/upon me, and it's trying not to get my point through, such as a child might constantly wail at it's mother as she attempts communicate the days events and rows to her much missed friend, whom she rarely sees due to said child and how it keeps her occupied. And it does.
I am always occupied with it. Like the voice in the back of the head of a murderer, or a worrier who misplaced a key he didn't much need.
Of course, I am not saying I am ill. Be I far from such a thing and thankfully glad so.
But I am distracted, it would seem. I do perform and then suddenly judge myself for whatever action I have taken, somehow lashing out at my own doing with the sly range of a snake, attempting to drag back in what cannot be undone. And yet my face sits still in this moment. And ponders.
My conclusion of the slight wrong that is with myself, is that I am indeed, or at least this emotion as it were, is my own worst enemy. And through the days that I try and blast it away and be 'careless' as the rest, it simply lingers and waits upon any moment of a bring-down. And what an event that turns to be.
For I have found that it waits in my stomach, it sleeps there and it is motionless. It does nothing but waits upon the wake up, and when those words are born, any of which may drag down to my pits, it stirs slowly and widely. Stretches out so that my stomach lurches and becomes suddenly aware that it is heavy, and my heart seems to be singing a rhythm against it if at all possible; It scratches with it stretch at the gentle lining of my scarred stomach, causing a rush of cold and stale adrenalin to pass through my skin, and redden my pale face.
It wants me to feel this way.

Fighting it alone is dull, and so I share, I write this letter in the hope that it may reach forgiving eyes who see beyond natural reality and believe in such a beast that might crawl about my veins. I have become nothing but an underseeing wreck in my spare time, and the pale face that sees the world is aging because of it.
I must banish it, perhaps simply control it. Use it for my own use? Anything, is what I plead. The only thing I find standing in my way, is myself. And i detest it greatly.

I end by reminding myself that I indeed have achievements, and that though they are not perhaps what may impress nor bother others, they are mine, and in my life they are what I have. They propel me forward into others, I hope, should this beast not label the rest of my doings 'Unworthy'.

Signed (In ink signature);

Our Day Will Come.

The nights are sweet, in other rooms and between our beds,

Not a sight familiar, not a permanent chair,

I've washed my hair in several showers,

We've attempted dining at all sorts of tables.

But of course each object melts in comparison,

To my strong image of you.

I made myself sleep this morning, I dreamt and was aware, I woke and refused to give in. Back into the dream, it took me to other worlds, it swept me up and attempted to drift me out to sea, it took sun from any sky and put hate in the voices of others. Oh it threatened me with faces and long gone places, but I slept. And this time, I woke when I wished to have woke.

Yes, as I swung my legs round the bed, I collapsed to the floor on a numb leg, but all the pain of yesterday and the rest of today has been beautifully worth it. Not long, I keep on, not long here again. Only I find it hard to picture my kitchen, my wallpaper, these days. And I've never really been one for 'seeing to believe' in the physical world.

Too awkward to kick back, to uncomfortable to fall asleep on the sofa, I wait with tense bones by the window - not for winter to pass - but for my season to guide me to my next destination. Perhaps make a home, oh can I even?

Am I scarred and unable to settle, is it just the new I seek now, now that I never pitched camp?

Keep the future painted with accents of a past I never had, it would do me well to actually drive on with it all. Is it that I have waited too long, that in the porch of next year, I long to just step in and not wait a second more? Am I angry and impatient, oh patience of 10 years! Patience! What am I now, that I've never known impatience?

Nothing manages to freeze over in the city, I see no glittering webs and dusted hedges?

The leaves do not crunch here, the sludge slipped in with the rubbish just slips -

I have waited so long.

Do not let it just be words! They can be the fuel, they can tie us together, oh they can slip into physicality but if I ever stopped talking just for a day, would I crumble in your eyes?

And yes, how I stop myself, and yes how I hesitate! I disgrace my own wants and knock on my own front door!

I've much to pull through to,

And much that I want to,

It's you in every mirror, in every photograph, in every suit! It's you,

And it will be tomorrow, I can be tomorrow!

So let it be today, dear body, let it!

I've needed all of this,

I've need, fed and swam into!

I remember being told - both in the morn'.

I remember treading carefully through the snow,

Rocks turned over, twigs peered through,

Leaves lining the trail of foot and paw.

I will be joyous again.

Our day will come.

It is,
Banished has it been, from the dawns cool,
Taken from homely leaves and familar colour,
I am drained.
The worldly spirits igniting the outer in the skies,
With unnatural lights,
I can only sit back and wonder,
From where I watch.
He'll wander into view, a lonely figure on a hillside, by night.
He'll leak into my past so much as the future has hold of my days.
What is it,
That has kept me from them, that has led a gentle hand upon my shoulder,
When alone in the social rooms of days gone,
The slither of an ominous presence, my time, my walks,
My effort to go to a home, to settle.
It has swept by side,
I have seen the flicker in the lights,

My nights are only what he has in mind.
No! Not a relation to the old oak of the door,
Not a trickle of memory, the day passes to the next.
And then in the unconscious, they all look like he,
The all speak effortlessly as he.
Have you never the steady tread beside the demon?
Has there never been an ache in your pelvis,
In your bones?
A slithering fire, an ignited passion,
Has the urge to dampen been overwhelming,
Have you cried into nothing for whatever holds you back?

~
There then, is a strong scent of hay,
The salt-lick, the barrells of horsefeed and the cool of disgusting summer air.
A horizon deepening to red, the clouds few and scattered,
There is laughter of a young boy, missing teeth, albino to look to,
He disapears into the sinking sun,
Running into the horizon,
The hay tickles at my face, the tongue of a dog at my young legs.
The distance becomes ever hazy, the laughter lightening until I only imagine I am hearing it.
Beside me, a moist, dark mound begins to disturb the hay atop it,
It's skeletal back writhing and stretching outward,
The slime of it's skin reacting to the fresh air.
Movement does not take me, and I recall a dream in the shed.
Something like a tail swats about beneath the hay,
And a face is never seen.

The matter will settle,
Please, please don't speak of family.
I have worn myself to the bone,
And yet the public eye feel they see not enough,
My clothes simply do not hang,
And my eyes are plump and round,
A shine of health,
But the custom, the public, they ache over the bar,
They want to see pain and they want to see hunger.
These same vultures wish to pick at the flesh,
Wish to see more than is necassary,
Wish to tear it apart all the same.

Dedication, he has ruined the melancholy,
He has wrinkled the clothing,
And smoothed down the hair.

You see, my hair was slowly swallowing,
Sinking into life,
The sink before me swirled in sea water,
And, again, she spoke of the past.
The shine, the fool, the midnight travels,
And still she hung the blame in one place.
The creature started, it stirred and with the dying scheme,
Became a foaming monster,
Long dead and yet paraded before me,
Idly and comically.
Alas! The past I had so happily withdrawn from these past months,
Has been brought up, wrenched up, again!

I meet the strange on a daily basis,
I meet the suffering, converse with the no-goods.
Beauty and foul file in and out before me,
And still I am here behind dark wood.
"Yes, I don't mind, Yes, I am doing rather well".
But still the sinking thought,
Are they ever wondering?
I should not mind, I know, not another day of guilt or worry,
But somewhere they sit, as my fingers blue,
And they care not for my name, let alone my thought.
Yes, my years were consumed by the want of them,
And selfishly I never considered it was not of return.

My eyes have opened to the present, roughly and somewhat forced, his voice brings tears to my eyes, and I survey the Manor before us. Light has never been so settling, the evening drawing in; so tasteful. Never has genuine brick built such a fine exterior, never has such shimmering paper lined the in! You have ruined my writing, but you are settling this heart. You are holding this hand, the sea may has well be rippling at my ankles.
Another deer passes the horizon, and I feel you may discover the reason for this smile.

Collective Monstrosity.

Oh collectively!
Each sin, oh what we are,
Together beneath each sheet
This wretched, nasty being,
This monster between us,
I will be any thing with you.

How you push unto me,
And the blasted creature tickles a claw against my stomach, it lurches into my breast and it breaths so terribly heavy.
It won't let me to you!

How I want to give in,
Oh banish this as a sin!

Whilst this sinful thing within,
For I am truly, I am,
Wanting,
and in my young skin I should be able!
Blasted creature!
Leave me to my one,
For he, and he is mine and only: he;
He gives in.

Is able.
Such pathetic pen this is that scrawls.
It yearns to better its words, to practise it's give,
And like me to he,
It gives only what the creature between does filter.

It's scream will be audible to me only, the night it is torn from my skin,
wrenched from it's ever-home!
"Die Monster Die!"
Crawl, will it, up the spine to the base of the skull,
Will it linger at my neck, breathe into my ear,
Such is the snarl,
You nuture the other.

Can I possibly ink this thing whilst I am with he?
Can these tangle of words distract it long enough so that I might just be?!
Please, just a moment without one of these creatures to lure it's foul head!
Banish it from my bed!

There are always monsters behind the curtains.

~

Let us cherish our sin,
Even, has the creature forbade me from use of it's words.
But still it does whisper.
You are italics on parchment, my love,
You are the rose blooming over the once dull, routine wall that I pass on my journey.
You knelt in black, did my heart ever wilt.
Those eyes so sadly framed.
Let the monster rest for this caress.

'A true sehnsucht...'

I long for beauty like this,
Oh, you, in a dull morning light.
It is the curve, the cure to irritation,
My skin crawling and the winter breeze tingling;
Tease, it does, at the bottom of my bed.
I've seen so little like this before,
And I have heard every word in a different order,
Each letter the wrong way round, each day glanced through frosted glass,
You are the clearing,
You are the centre of the field on a white day of fog.
I honestly don't mind where I end up,
The dregs of want from the past are ebbing away,
Lingering in unconscious but laughing at me no more.
And why should I sleep?
They are here, and within,
And mostly, you are only here. For you, the thing you are, leaves me in the unconscious,
You frighten and astound!
And so charming you are,
When you are grinning in malicious spirit.
How beautiful the face without expression when I wrench open my eyes,
When breath fails me for seconds,
And you sigh in your sleep.

I find there is no back,
No other side to a wall.
In arms, in embrace, I need not air, I need not object,
And yet we cannot delay reality's presence.
That pathetic entrance of Summers weak sun.
It bleeds into my room such as the night did end,
It drapes across the teased image of you,
And it stirs the lid of your eye,
The trembling skin of disturbance.

Quickly, do the words scrawl the walls,
Severed, you crawl from my sheets.
Motionless, how on earth do I part for my day?
How do-able it all is!
How ill that makes me!
Easily I may take each day, I may slip into each situation,
Without you.
So much sweeter, with an air of atmospheric treasury could it be,
With you,
The sky the gold it goes, when the rain has fallen, and the Summer night sun weakly bleeds in,
Again against the thick of smoke clouds.
A fire has fallen,
Here I gain,
And here you have given your hand.

To be read quietly.

And I shall live now,
As I always intended upon living,
For I have taken fresh air,
Into lungs that had just fluttered out the old,
And threatened upon me something dire and unthought,
And as I sit now, chest once again peacefully heaving,
The crow caws at my back door.
And some where far, the sparrows hum.

Now it is I, who am able to read and speak,
To dance and walk,
To be and be with,
To be pleased and to please.
For life is able, and only as I make it.
For it I, who was standing in my way before,
And no other.

Give in now, to the passions that have stepped beside me,
And lead them. Lead them to the brushes, to the strokes,
Oh, of which I seek beauty in.
Find me, by sand and by pavement,
By cobble and by book,
To the scent of home,
And the trickle of tea.

I am to be me.
And finally, me.

~

Note to this - I just came over very queer, a couple of hours reading and suddenly air seemed to flutter into my heart, a tremble down my throat, my quivering lungs. I ran to take air from the breeze in the garden. Unlike any anxiety, for now I breathe clearly and my head pain is gone. So near to the next seven years, have I been reborn?
To be read quietly.

Brainstorm

I watched my wrists today,
though i saw nothing 'pulsate' per say,
i traced the purple lines tinged red.
I wondered if they'd shy deeper beneath my skin if I touched them.
I gazed over each break into another series.
They looked and look like two trees, standing quietly still in the dusk.
My skin acting as an olive coloured sky, near a field or small wood.
I almost saw the old fence running along side them.

But could, and only for today, my skin be the ocean.
Such an odd coloured ocean, as my veins ride just below waters surface
Like dolphins beside the boat that is my hand.
Wondering how most references turn to the sea,
I trace as these trees trail deeper, the roots finding water.
Visible partially to the surface, my veins then delve suddenly into the depths of my body,
And i can no longer see them as they fade.
Moisturizer tainting my hands, identifying each crack and line
with harsh white contrast.
I couldn't count and my hand twitched nervously,
as i do, when i am being watched so closely.
My body is just like me.
Writing like a five year old but my body is just like me.
Reacts as i do.
Gets nervous and quivers.