My mum gave birth to brothers and I found my sisters myself.
Thanks for your presence,
I reach out to you and you pour attention and “love ya”s my way,
I love when you’re happy and when you’re not I wish for better for you and let you talk about the same things and I’ll never mind that.
The same things come up even in a life of dynamism,
In a life of stasis, the same happens so thanks for listening to my sameness too.
There’s no pressure to speak if we don’t want, just your general presence in my box of treasured people makes me glad.
Take this bit – it’s me, just a bit. Of me. Just a bit. With this bit we can make something else, if we add it to your bit and give it a place to live.
Filling up notebooks is pleasing.
And I like turning through past thoughts.
I have some essays I wrote in 2015 – just for myself, not for school or anything.
There’s sort of journal entries where I’ve stayed up spilling.
Talking about my emotions, my sexuality, my problems, fears.
It’s nice to have a record of these things – if enough time passes it can be a bit like reading someone else’s diary, until you get to a part you remember really feeling and it can take you back there for a second.
Another record gets kept – often without this intention.
Messages sent between friends, to people I may not even speak to anymore.
You can search for a particular word and see hours of past conversation.
Imagine when the only record one had of particular conversations was in one’s memory.
Just in a general vibey way – you can remember how you felt with someone generally and the odd bit of conversation, a particularly intense secret sharing session, or inside jokes that were repeated so much they became your second friend-language.
Now, sometimes I find people seem to exist in the words they’ve let me in on – in the smiling yellow faces they click in.
It catches me off guard in the first second of a phone call – when you can hear a voice
And you know that voice is embodied.
There’s someone else with a real body, whose lips form the sounds and whose tongue pushes them out.
Real eyes and real brain, speaking to yours.
How close, how connected – what a blessing.
What a blessing to see someone in your actual vicinity – to share the same space and time.
To be free to share smiles I can use my muscles to make on my own face,
To see yours appear with my own eyes and hear your laugh, sing-song.
To share sunlight and a drink, to both feel the bitter air on our skin.
Isn’t it a privilege to see your words touch someone else’s face in real time, instead of waiting for a response in a vacuum.
And what if I want to blend friend stories with other things,
What if a word or set leads me down a different path and the original subject becomes merely the source of something else entirely?
How do I explain that?
They might think I don’t think they’re interesting enough for a whole poem…
Or perhaps I’ll start writing about them and then it’ll flow onto something else that happens to be on my mind and they’ll recognise a part of themselves and then it’ll go somewhere unexpected,
Maybe sexy alphabet soup,
Maybe blank and disparate or maybe taking the piss,
Maybe me just enjoying being alliterative or rhymey and not focusing.
Sometimes I like to run with images,
And often, breaks where I say that I’m changing the subject can make the poem fractured,
I like to let it flow, and some of the time it becomes a new thing, and not what I intended it to be.
I might plant an apple seed that grows into a peach tree, or a cactus, or a bread bin.
And I don’t want people to judge my bread bin at the apple tree contest.
I’ve only got so much vaguely interesting content,
Like anyone, I suppose, I’ve only got so much to say,
(I wish I could use short hand on the keyboard –
I love those three little dots, in their neat triangle.)
I have to go places,
No, I want to go places,
I want to write about my friends.
How do you do that?
What’s the etiquette?
Do I have to be overwhelmingly positive?
I can’t put porcelain dolls where my friends should be.