Nicola Cayless.
Looking for light in words.

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The Books of 2014; where I have a list of what is currently on my bedside table, and what I’ve already finished.

New Years Resolutions

A credit average (at least) in university, reread The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, The Silmarillion, be constantly reading at least one unknown book, stop being dependent on alcohol in social settings, cook at home more, write and read poems constantly, keep thoughts written in a journal kept on me at all times, write a Spanish poem every month, be more vulnerable in writing, be less dependent, be more happy. Be more me.

(I had my first ever midnight’s kiss this year. This is the first time someone has held me close and kissed me as the new year began. It was lovely.)


the sun can still burn through a window

we danced sometimes in your room
and we didn’t feel so trapped then

you never held me while we slept

i never thought you would leave first

you can rot over there and i won’t miss you or
i’ll pretend not to

i fell in love with the moon and the stars
but that’s not my sky anymore

i wish i had scars to prove that you’re real

it’s so easy to feel so small
when you realise it takes so long
to walk anywhere

Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

— T.S. Eliot, an excerpt from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Anonymous :  Whats your story?

Oh wow, my story? Do you have nineteen years? My story is ongoing and strange, filled with pieces that don’t quite fit and characters that mean nothing and everything at once. My story is as haphazard as a life, and it cannot be accurately marked with a chronological list for you to tick off, one by one. I can try and compress the essential parts of me into words for you (woman, loved, raped, survived, blossomed, impassioned) but you will miss out on so so much, and I will be nothing more than just dictionary definitions. I don’t know how to tell my story, not like this, but perhaps one day, when I write again, you’ll be able to sew my poems together like cross-stitch.

I have words in my stomach and they are fluttering, but perhaps not yet ready to fly.

Thoughts from last night; Falling asleep, I can hear plates cracking. The shards of china reach out like fingers, the empty spaces between them are the spaces between your hands. The space between our curved backs is like the Grand Canyon, like a deep sea trench. I can hear you breathing and it sounds like a comet passing fleetingly. I don’t understand how you burn.

New glasses.

My boyfriend thinks I should publish a book.