Hyacinth Girl

I have never read anything more precious than “they called me the hyacinth girl”. I can’t imagine me, sitting in a bed full of crumbs and body odour, being compared to something so synonymous to sunshine and real life technicolour. I think poetry is beautiful, but I do not think the same of myself, and that’s okay.  I don’t have to love myself, but I do have to write bullshit and read poetry. But how dear poetry make me long for something that I can never be:  flowers. I want to bloom, and then I want to die. I want people to look at me for just one season, to smell me, to rub my petals between their thumb and forefinger, to be drawn to me for just one season. I find myself wondering who the hyacinth girl might be, and I can think of only one, but I am thirty kgs away and resemble nothing in danger of blooming. I just want to be looked at for one season.

My mother wondered why I would cause myself pain to have a flower drawn on my arm, but she didn’t ask me why I caused myself pain that one time I tried to kill myself. I am not ashamed of myself, and that is the biggest rebellion, my arm blooms hyacinth for all seasons. I am as addicted to beauty as I am cigarettes and being alone. I don’t want anyone to touch me, but I want to touch others. If I was the hyacinth girl, I could do that, if only for a season.

I want to walk around screaming “I am the hyacinth girl” (“I am so pretty”, “I look like I’m blooming” “Love me while I’m alive”) But  I am not meant to refer to myself as synonymous to sunshine and real life technicolour. I have to live in the monochrome haze of my undying self-hatred, don’t I? I am a woman and I don’t hate myself, so I must sit and brood until I do. How dare I compare myself to a flower, how dare I be inspired by the poetry of a man.

And what does she think of me:  “You’re not even a lesbian”, “You’re intelligent, but you act dumb.”  “You don’t know what modernism is”, or “queer theory”, or “literary theory”.

“You don’t know about these things, because I know about them.”. You love them just like I love all flowers and the ocean, and I just want to work, but I belong to these fields and you don’t understand. I was strong by collapsing.

I fell in love with almost everyone but you. I was only a protégé, but hardly that. And I shared my crumbs and my body odour with you, and I accepted the fact that I was nothing but a man disguised as a woman that you rested your head on for two years. Sometimes I wake up calling for you but it hurts my throat and it’s bad for me so I stop.

There is something so patriarchal about a woman forbidding another woman to bloom.

A poem that is most definitely ripped off Trainspotting

Choose to eat away your feelings, stick a fork in ‘em and be full of fucking beans, push food down your feed tube, choose the stupid-ass ‘fast diet’, and believing you may eat anything while the weak person eats only vegetables (Romans 14:1-23 ), choose to humiliate yourself for three bucks worth of fast food. Choose silence, for once, you piece of fucking shit. Choose god only knows what I’d be without you, and the light at the end of the fucking tunnel, choose “you are the hot half of this couple”.


The Dancer


I watched the film called Dancer about a ballet prodigy called Sergei Polunin today. The film was beautifully made, I mean it was so beautifully made, in a big way. To watch Polunin dancing is like nothing else I have seen, and I find it so hard to be impressed or swept off my feet these days, but watching him dancing really shocks me. Of course though, this guy had problems with peaking too early and realising that he never really got to live or have a childhood. His main goal with working so hard and becoming the youngest male principal dancer for the Royal Ballet was to get his family back together after they had to separate to pay for his dance school tuition. It all came down on him when his parents divorced and he could see that his family was never going to be back together in the same way. He had a goal that he was working towards his whole life and suddenly that goal and all the sacrifices he had made to reach it, were pointless.

Of course I know nothing about ballet. What I do know is that Polunin possessed and extraordinary amount of raw talent, and for a while he possessed a pure and unreserved passion for dance. What else I could see was a tortured man, a man who became a man without being a boy first, and that really resonated with me. Polunin was put up three years in dance school which meant that around nineteen or twenty he had reached the peak of his dancing career. The questions are asked: Where do you go once you have reached the top? Once you have done everything? What happens if you want to advance beyond that? For Polunin, he couldn’t go up from there and that really stifled him. What would have happened if, regardless of his talent, he was able to go at a normal pace? Would that have given him more of a chance to be a boy and to become a full and happy man?

This part of his story really resonated with me because I always wonder the same thing. If I had have done things normally, if my life had not have been accelerated (albeit one and half years) would I have had room to grow up in a more ‘whole’ way? Would have those years that I rushed through without really leaving room for mistakes, or for breathing, or for living like a stupid kid, saved me from feeling like I am less than whole now? I have spent the last months staring a my peak, and six months away from it, I opted out, I couldn’t do it because I need more than that. I need to be able to live and grow up and make up for the time that I missed.

Dancer made me think about the raw talent that people are born with. I was born with the ability to sing, to REALLY sing. I have not utilised my gift and I wonder if I’ll ever really feel happy while I am not using what I was given so naturally. No doubt, Polunin was tortured, fragmented, and disillusioned, but also he loved to dance. When he danced and did those incredible lifts he said he felt in those moments that he knew why he was dancing. When I sing, in the car, or in the shower, or when I have time alone, I feel free. When you are good at something and you are doing that something artistically and without too much control over you, that is when you feel free from everything. No body, nobody, just your barest soul.

Waiting it out


My life is made up completely of watching movies, reading books, wandering around, hanging out with friends, and working minimally. It’s pretty much perfect right now, I am listless and directionless and for once that’s okay. I feel a little stressed about getting a full time job, but that is only because when I do I will be able to get my own apartment and start saving for travel, and I want to do that asap, but I have the whole year and I’m quite enjoying mooching off my mother.

I don’t remember being so miserable anymore, though I know that those feelings sit not too far below the surface. I want to forget that though, and I am learning to let go of the fact that everything isn’t perfect right away. What I mean to say is that I expected moving home to cure me, which it hasn’t, and that really upset me at first. But three weeks in I can tell that I am doing better, for one thing it has become far easier to look on the bright side, and that was something I had lost the knack for. I think it really is about just taking it a day at a time, doing what I please, and regaining myself bit by bit without putting too much pressure on myself.

As for the girl, we haven’t talked in the longest time, even though I know that it’s only been a couple of days. But my new technique of just sitting out the pain instead of being so reckless and selfish with it all is working out so far. I think it’s important to be able to look forward to new things and visualise a future with someone new. If we stayed together I would be consumed, and I mean absolutely swallowed whole, by old pain and that’s never going to be productive or happy, and my love would be a bitter love, dipped in half-hearted “I love you”s.

To be Selfish

f501ce5771e29303bfbb16e3ca2e9f49I had the opportunity to finally read Milk and Honey by Rupi Kaur the other day and I have never read a more poignant poetry book in my life. The words written in this little black and white book are still bouncing around in my brain , still reprimanding me, still making me feel less lonely.

But I realised too that I can’t keep on being the one in a bumpy relationship who thinks that she is entitled to act as she pleases because she has been hurt. I sometimes feel so strongly that she is the love of my life, and that I always need to “try it out” just to make sure. I feel like I want to just hang out with her because I like hanging out with her but that’s not fair. She doesn’t want me as a friend, she wants all of me, she wants to be together. I didn’t used to think that the two were so different but now I know that they are worlds apart and it’s selfish to act otherwise.

I have been the abused, but I have also been the abuser and as the time passes I am coming to be the latter more and more and I don’t need to end up like that. I need to have  the nerve to let her go with grace, and I am being selfish contacting her time and time again when she is obviously weak to me right now. It’s so messy and I still carry so much anger about the time I spent together with her, how pathetic I became, how little, how weak, how repulsed by my own existence. I should not be part of the reason why she should feel that way.