asymmetries
Nicola Cayless.
Looking for light in words.





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her name is a hurricane

Like storms,
they brew in me. 

They churn the wind until it is words,
until the leaves of my lungs
rustle, until beyond the night
there is nothing.

But we are locked deep within
our shelters: we call them walls,
we call them safety, we call them
whatever we need to bury far enough
beneath the sand that we cannot feel
the pressure.

Because these words lash like cyclones,
and she is a category five, and she is called
Calliope.

❝ Even though I’ve had many adventures I’ll always have more.

— My boyfriend, in second grade. (I think this is a good way to look at life: to think about the moments of your life as adventures, filled with heroes and villains and the strange and the magical. And to think: you have a whole lifetime more of them. A whole lifetime more of magic, mayhem and beauty.)

He is asleep next to me, with his arm thrown over my stomach, and every so often he stirs to kiss me.

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.)

fragments

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.