Still Space

 

I used to make my bed every morning.

That’s just what you do,

right?

 

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I’ve learnt

to think

for myself.

 

 

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Chairs in bedrooms

were never meant to be

sat on.

They are where

galactic giraffes

make nests at night.

 

 

 

 

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I’ve learnt

to ignore

the hoover:

I want to bring the outside in

and

I refuse to get rid of spiders.

 

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There isn’t a clear path

to the most important things in life.

That’s how I think

about my coffee.

 

 

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I’ll probably

just

wash one cup

and leave the rest.

As per usual.

 

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There’s no space for me here really…

 

 

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My coffee table

is too busy

for a cuppa.

 

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I don’t remember

the last time

I saw myself clearly.

 

 

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The dust

in my shower

reminds me

of how we all die in the end and none of this really matters.

 

 

 

 

Love,

Tiina

The Memories We Hold

I am a magpie. My mission is to find pretty things to bring into my nest. I spend a lot of my time scavenging through charity shops, second hand shops and eBay on a hunt for objects. There is something extraordinarily precious about things that have a history, a memory, that they hold.

I bought a deck of cards while visiting a local vintage boutique yesterday. It was a bit of a risk, I didn’t think to check if it had all the cards in it. Luckily, it did, and I got to relearn to play patience once I got home. The cards smell of old paper and leather, and the smell and the playing took me back somewhere. It wasn’t a singular memory, but a feeling or an atmosphere. I was taken back to my childhood, to a rainy summer day, to my best friend and to the house she used to live in.

It was the feeling of time passing by unhurriedly. There is nothing else to do, nowhere else to be and there is a lingering smell of rain coming through a window that we forgot to close. It didn’t matter.

Sometimes I get stuck into feeling like there are so many things to do and to be and to achieve. I forget that, actually, there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing. There are no routines I’m stuck to, no plans that I have to do, no schedules. Nothing. I never have to become anything. Fundamentally, I already am all the things I will ever be.

Nothing more

nothing less

but me.

 

Everything I am and what I’ve accumulated is a compilation of other. Of memories. Of things that were. Of time.

 

 

Love,

Tiina

 

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I Wish I Felt Free

In this yearning for
poetry
I have found myself
hurting myself
trying to love
myself
putting myself
in a box
I can’t open
the lid
I can’t breathe

 

I 

became

dead.

 

 

In a moment of clarity I found infinity within myself where vanity hadn’t tainted its purity.

Am I as worthless as I believe myself to be?
Surely
it can’t
be
so
but
why
can’t
I
see
it
why
am
I
so
stupid
and
lazy
I
can
never
do
anything
right.

I wish
I
had
worth.
I
think I do.

 

The only time I stopped
crying
today

was when I was under water
in the bathtub.

Submerged
inside
my mind
there is a pond
in a forest.

I’m trying to write
about
it
make
it
into
somebody else’s
words.

If someone else says it
it seizes to be my reality
it becomes poetry
it becomes acceptable
when I obscure my ugly inside
it becomes unreal
and it will
feel
like it was only invented
by someone
with great imagination.

 

I wish I felt free.

I wish
I’ll
have
the strength
to cook
spaghetti
today.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve begun

I often feel like I don’t know where I’m going. What is the point of any of the things that I do, where is it leading?

…if anywhere.

 

In my mind I am sinking slowly
drinking holy
water

that was supposed to save me.
Instead

I feel 

betrayed
by promises
I made myself
I made myself
disappear

what an act!

I became the fool
the clown
the entertainer
who takes off the mask
when no one sees
and on the inside
there’s nothing.

This is all very messy and scrambled. There is drumming in my mind, bright lights beaming into my eyes and my skin is alive with a thousand twigs scraping at it. I feel like an experiment. Trapped and confused.

And somehow

there is a distant

 

 

 

peace

a stillness
that seems
attainable.

It breathes,
it cools
my burning skin

and
it contains
all.

 

It feels like something within me is slowly emerging but I can’t intellect my way into pinpointing what it is exactly. It’s a feeling. It’s the sort of feeling where you know that something is about to happen, you feel slightly nauseous in anticipation. Fight or flight but without being scared. 

 

 

I wish I could say I’ve came up with a brilliant ending that I could leave you with. Dazzled. Utterly blown away by my brilliance. 

No.

 

 

But I’ll leave you with this:

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

(silence)