Sharp Fragments

You must

never run with a broken heart -

you might jostle the sharp

fractions into severing

an artery, and end up in a bloody mess.

Consider, then, what would happen:

massive internal bleeding,

followed swiftly by death. But

the world, my dear, will not

let you go easily.

You must

never sleep with a broken heart -

for you never know what

dreams, reflected from such fragmented

pieces, might pierce the soul.

You wake up with a start, then,

sitting up like a thunderbolt,

and you cannot tell

the sweat from the tears.

The world, my dear, will not

let you forget so easily.

You must

learn to live with a broken heart -

it will be frightening, strange,

uncomfortable and new, but all these

will fade with time

until you become accustomed to

the occasional sharp prick from

the edge of a disturbed piece,

or the throbbing pain in your

chest when you bend over,

or the rush of heat that dissipates

as quickly as it grips.

The world, my dear, will not

let you live so easily.

But all these pains, the

aches, the sting, all these

you will gradually find familiar, habitual,

comforting, even.

And then, who's to say what

you should or should not do with

your broken heart?

Four Inches Apart

"I can tell you what pain is," she says, simply.

Her eyes are blank, and as he looks into them he can see nothing, no anger, no fear, no sorrow. And he knows she has drawn curtains over her soul again. Thick black, suffocating curtains.

He sits beside her on the bench. Before them, the dark waters of the bay, reflecting tired starlight in the occasional glint. Behind them, a T-shaped tower, casting enormous shadow which envelopes them in its coolness. There is a four-inch gap between them, And, trapped within those four inches, a world of difference.

Her hood is drawn back, her dark hair tucked behind her ears. He wants to say many things about her hair, but somehow the words never make their flight off his tongue.

"It's like this... knot. Inside of you, in the pit of your stomach. Or deep in your chest. At the back of your head. And it clenches itself, and all the time you want to scream, but you don't. You keep the pain in. You bottle it up. You never let it out. Because to let it out would be dangerous."

He knows he shouldn't be looking at her, but he is. He can see her gritting her teeth in the moonlight, and the hairs on his arm bristle.

"So you create this vortex within yourself. And this pain, it becomes a sanctuary. You immerse yourself in it, like how a man holds his breath and plunges into the deep end of a pool, and never resurfaces."

If she was any other normal girl, things would be easier. She would cry, drops of pearl rolling down her cheeks, and he would pull her close to him, and she would cling, sobbing to him, till daybreak.

But she is not.

She stares into the distance, stony, cold, hard. And he is at a loss for what to do. Her expressions weakens him. Her silence assails him.

"Sometimes I wake up wanting to kill everybody. It scares even me."

And she looks down at his hand, gripping the edges of his seat, and she wishes he would place his hand over hers, as if just his touch could take away all her hurt. What she wants is to feel someone's warmth, to feel like there is life in this world worth protecting.

Someone to be there, to say, yes, you've been holding up very well, and if you need me, I'll be here (because she will never ask for help), you can depend on me.

But he makes no move, and neither will she, and they continue to sit, side by side, and only ever just four inches apart.

The Other Side

And he said: "A Lover is a Lover, and a Poet is a Poet. Whatever made you think you could be both?"

He said, "No, stay.

We have world enough and time, what more is there to say?" but

Believe me, when she tells you, that

There is a world behind this piece of paper.

She wants to tear it open and dive deep inside it,

She wants to swim in ancient words that have rolled off more tongues that there are stars in the sky,

She wants to breathe in the thin, easy dreams of ideas that could be, had been, and never were.

She knows, as sure as it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than it is for her to pass through this paper.

There is a world here, trapped

behind bars of writing-padded lines too strong to bend.

They will not let her in.

And so she will spend the night biting at them, chewing and

gnawing at them like the dog and his proverbial bone.

Convinced,

that behind this piece of paper,

there is a world.

But some day, one day,

She will reach somewhere inside her deep,

where mermaids sing and giants sleep,

and she will seize those bars, with calloused hands

and they will bend, for her,

and for a moment, there will be

a space that opens,

long enough for her to step inside before they close up once again, and then,

then, in a world without end,

watch her,

She will dive in crayon-coloured skies

and she will swim in smoke-filled fancies

and she will catch the will-o-the-wisp

and she will let the birds gather her hair for their nests

and she will defy the leprechaun and walk to the end of his rainbow

and she will run in fields of wheat so golden you would think Midas himself has sown the seeds.

And then she will turn, laughing, wanting to

tell him all about

the vaudeville halls and tragedies that play there

each night - and all the Oz and Wonderlands that lie

behind this piece of paper - but,

there they will be;

bars of writing-padded lines too strong to bend.

And she will stand, in silence then,

and look at him, looking

at her,

just a beautiful world away.

And she will wish that she had listened, when he said,

"No, stay."

The Other Woman

If I open my mouth, you will see a small person sitting at the tip of my tongue.

She will jump and spin and leap and grin and with my voice explain that everything, everything is brilliant fabulous!

I've had a lovely day, thank you, my name is so and so, I know you give a damn.

She doesn't stop to take a breath, the little person on my tongue, she doesn't eat, she doesn't die.

She merely speaks, and did I mention that at times she also has a gun?

She doesn't care for my disgrace, nor the look upon my face, she sits inside my mouth and waits, and will not hesitate to take a shot at you, if only just for fun.

And when the deed is done, she'll smile, and tell you that it's not her fault, she'll sing and dance and cavort across my mouth, from cheek to cheek she'll bounce, and everything, she says, everything is brilliant!

Fabulous!

Best drink in the bar! Best escort in the house! Why don't you run along now, dear, before I take a heavy truth, and crush your little heart

Let me seal my lips. Please, do not pay her mind.

The little woman inside my mouth, that does not speak when spoken to, that swallows little curses whole, and holds a little vial of poison, she will mumble, moan and spit, and sit upon my tongue and shriek, and break my voice across her knee, drink her venom, take a beating, cry herself to sleep, and shiver in the cold, alone, where no one else can see.