Fictie Schrijfsels

She asked: how would you describe yourself? I glanced aside saw no one *** As long as you don't slide off either end It doesn't matter which one is real Of course it's happening inside your head Harry But why should that mean it's not real? She sat me down and calmly explained  that I in fact did not have a psychosis ***   Dying is a step away one step onto the tracks one step off a building one step off a cliff one step away from you *** Sometimes actually most times I have been in this mind I  wished I were not  was not am not Then your face appears or I  create it re- create you in my mind and then wish to stay *** One day I glanced aside saw no one

I am going to live exactly the kind of life  you had wished for me that will be my final  and greatest act of love *** I dreamt I was home with my mother beside her broken heart at my brother's departure I dreamt she was me I was her (in a cosmic sense) My dad was there opened my brother's room under the bed  a cloud of dust to me he turned and said: Dust clouds of Gaia Remember princess: when you're dead you're really dead. *** I am going to live exactly the kind of life  you had wished for me that will be my final  and greatest act of love

Did I lose something, that night? that night you told me lie still, don’t push, don’t fight Did I lose something, that night? What was it I had?  Was it whole, undented unscratched, untangled? Strangled words tried to escape- I tried to escape Did I?  Did I lose something, that night? that night you told me don’t cry, I’ll hold you tight Did I lose something, that night? What was it I had?  that was not ashamed not tainted, not deranged What was it I had? Before I changed? Did I change? Did you change me?  Can you dent someone into a different shape my body forever, somehow yours? And they  call it rape? Strange word, hard word Hard to say, hard to endure  Suddenly the memory’s blurred so absurd It’s not real, not real It never happened  Don’t feel, don’t feel Did I  lose something that night? A playful smile, a simpler pain Did I lose something, that night? Was it ever yours to gain?

10:01pm.  Train home. R emember my desire to write a poem. On my phone, I open my diary.  Last week was bad but this week better. I want to stare wistfully out into the darkness beyond the train window, but instead meet my own distorted reflection. I have already related my week to my friends and mother, why bother to write? Talking with others as the relevant form of diary writing. What is expression without someone to express to? I suppose I am relating to my future self Punctuate. Freedom of a black screen, white letters appearing in time with the movements of my thumbs. My skin's touch. I have discovered that I know nothing at all. I thought I owned him, completely, intuitively understood what made him tick, more than he himself could fathom. Now, when I look in the mirror I only see light reflected off the irregular surface of a fleshy structure.  Memory interjects.  When the stranger casually started talking to me (as we unlocked our bikes), I replied as if we ...

you - so hard to grasp you - what makes you tick? I want to ask as time pulls me in away and back again can I pass beyond the mask? eyes shining and tell me of inexpressible depth you always kept beside mine what keeps you awake at night and what leads you back to the light? In your gaze I feel a mind tumbling down the loneliest street touched by a song or the sun or a loving hand what do you hide  from you and me  what can I do to make us see?

Na een periode van lusteloosheid dacht Bella dat het iets beter ging met haar zusje. Anna ging in de lente nog steeds niet naar school, maar was wel begonnen aan allerlei kleine projecten. In haar project om een avocadoboom te kweken las Bella een wil om te leven. Iedere morgen moest Anna opstaan, om te kijken of de pit al was ontkiemd. Wekenlang lag de steeds weker wordende pit in een laagje water. Toen de zesde week was aangebroken, opperde mama voorzichtig dat het misschien tijd was om op te geven. Anna protesteerde. De volgende morgen was het bakje, met pit en al, verdwenen van de vensterbank. Mama vond het in de prullenbak. Ze haalde het bakje eruit, spoelde het om en legde het in de kast. Het werd niet meer genoemd. In de winter, op Anna’s zestiende verjaardag, liep Bella haar kamer binnen. Anna was er niet. De gordijnen waren gesloten. Het enige licht kwam van een zwak bureaulampje. Het grote licht had Anna nooit aan – het maakte een zoemend geluid als het aanstond, zo beweerd...