And here it is I shelter, scrapped under rusting cans, behind bins, in girly giggles and rigid grins that do not reach the eyes, so it is no surprise that I shy away, refuse to stay in a world that is a matchbox with no fire, call me a liar, a trier, trying to fit in. But how can I win? When i do not believe in anything I see. So I do not know what it is to be.
I shelter. Packed between my lovers knees as we watch TV, and clutch cold cups of tea. As silence drips in between the sips, through the air in clumps, we stare, unaware that we are not free, but we are lumps of flesh, of bones, expressionless stones that cannot bear to see the truth that’s there. Instead it creeps as we are both awake, and yet we are asleep.
I shelter. In memory, in simplicity, in a pretence that the future will come to me and be exactly as it’s meant to be-without my say. Whatever it is I do- a fact through and through. It will gallop up to me and shake its mane and everything will be, very much the same.
I shelter. In wolf whistles from vans, in fake tan, in finding a man. In lipstick and money -material things and the stuff that happiness brings. I’m not being funny, I like the stuff, but is it enough? In cigarettes and too much vodka, in sticky kitchen floors and laughter. In dressing up, and dressing down, my dressing gown. In being exactly the same as those that I surround.
I shelter. By being mute, refusing to contribute, excusing awful things I see as just reality. Shy away in fear, of a jeer, a sneer, of mocking my ignorance, if I play my hand, dance their dance and speak of what I do not understand. Do I dare show my cards, stitch a heart on my sleeve that’s bleeding red and say the thoughts that swell within my head?
I stay. Cosy, in an umbrella of doubt and let my shout be carried, loose on the wind, broken by drops of rain, so there is only a pain that I cannot restrain. I tie it back with ropes, suffocate hopes, cut it up with jokes. But it has spoken, it will speak, and one day it will have its say. But until then I refuge , under my roof of sin, swaddled in charcoal shadows -and no one can break in.
And I will stay, suffocating, self deprecating. My pose –a hedgehog, prickles up, my flower a thistle, do not touch. In meaningless conversation, in my generation. In slurred speech, sloppy dress, hair a mess, but yet I still will not confess, the desires I possess. Who has the right to know? Not up to me to show, oh no. They must work, play hide and seek, be brave not meek and find my secret spot, then they will learn a lot.
Have faith, grow up, move on, take on the high road, follow the path less trod-on. Be a darer, a winner, let the dust settle, petal, then all will be clearer. Watch the sun rise as diamonds form in drugged up eyes which then reflect the lies that all is well, and good.
And here I will shelter, knees bent, feet screwed in, fists on eyes and I will deny the light of day which taps on my skin and I will not let in. Instead, I lie on the grass, breathe in the earth, drink in all its worth and watch the cheeky dance of stars, whose land so far from ours, it is a separate universe.
Under cage of night I remain and the pinpricks of fire bring me a delight which I cannot explain, as if their rays suck up the shame and make me feel real, alive, like nothing matters and everything matters under the very same skies.
My shelter is within and without, full of doubt but it is safe and where I choose to rest, it may not be best, yet unless, I am taken from my skin and made to see, that things can change, and the change can be me, and that it does not have to always be the same, this shelter is where I choose to be, and where I shall remain.