O N E
***
We were hopeful
Sickeningly so
A slow breeze through the tufts of our hair
Smiles that could shatter even an inch of melancholy
And even when sad, there was a joy in it
We shared it all
Together

But growth does take what was
Once a present time
And crumples like foil
Into a memory past
The breeze feels cold now
The smiles waver, and end
Sheets of muscle pulled over
The mask of cheerful delight
Where I stay
Alone

I can’t see you in me anymore
Time made sure of that
Ticking away as it does
You decayed
Rotted into something else
Into me..

***

Something was off, this I knew. I had a knack for the discovery of ‘offness’ to be frank. Knowing a soup needed salt. Knowing the difference in body language. It was a good skill to have, if not entirely pointless to stick on a CV. I was always right however, and this wasn’t any different. Leaning back in the metal black garden chair, I gazed down at the open Google Docs app on my phone. I did most of my writing outside, as cliche as it was. I almost didn’t do it at first, the idea of feeding into the ‘teen poetry’ trope was enough, but doing it outside? I may as well upload them on Tumblr, go the full mile.
But I’m not a teen, I’m Twenty.
And outside was better. Calm, quiet, spacious.
Quiet.
I blinked in quick succession to snap myself out of this thought process. I had more important things to think about. What was the ‘offness’ here?
Then it hit me.
Jesus, it was something out of a fourteen year old’s MCR covered notebook, The edge was almost enough to shave with. I thought about rewriting it, but I quickly shook the thought off. Even if it was more…heavy, than my other pieces, I had written it. It felt disingenuous to change what was already written. Like all the poems I've written, they’re spur-of-the-moment creations, made without thinking. They’re true parts of me.
But it didn’t matter if it was true. Even if it felt like me. I won’t fall into the cliche. I’m normal.
I sighed, another one for the drafts I suppose.

I tucked my phone back into my beige jacket’s breast pocket, the camera poking out of the top. I always hated this, it made me look like a creep. I quickly turn the camera inwards towards my chest, and from my other pocket, I drew a cigarette from its box, along with a crappy lighter I got from the local Bargin Booze down the street.With a few flicks, and a couple of muttered curses uttered towards it (why do they never light up on the first flick?), the weak orange flame sputtered upwards. Placing the cig in my mouth, I drew in a few quick breaths, and when the sickly flame passed its torch to the paper and tobacco, I flicked it off, and placed it back into my pocket (not the same pocket, I forgot where I pulled it out of).

This had been my daily routine for about seven months now. Wake up. Go to the bathroom and brush my teeth. Scrunch my hair a few times and say “good enough” knowing it had made zero difference to its bird nest-like appearance. I didn’t mind though. Mum did, but I didn’t. I thought it added character. After this I would hobble down the stairs (at this point I had already changed out of my pajamas), a thin piece of plywood with two stumps on each bottom corner we used as a ‘gate’ to stop our dog from clambering up and down all day, in my hand. She wasn’t up yet however, so I place it in the dining room, to avoid the inevitable high speed collision of dog to wood.
From here I would fill the kettle up with fresh water, and as it boiled, do any dishes that were in the sink from last night. I’d say that was my main job around the house, which thinking about it, was a little pitiful. But my sister enjoyed cleaning, she had a groove to it. It’s not like I never ask “is there anything else that needs doing?”I just let her do what she likes to do.

By this point, as I’m pouring the boiling water into my mug of instant coffee, I realize I haven’t taken my antidepressants. This is usually followed by a sigh and a quick “fucks sake” under my breath, before making my way back up the stairs, and starting a small archeological dig in my top Chester draw for the box, of which I normally found straight away.

Five left. I should put my prescription in soon. I sigh.

I drink my coffee in the living room normally, curled on one side of the sofa, swiping through TikToks with the occasional sip. I try not to let the thoughts of existentialism start this early in the morning. Then again, I suppose existentialism has no concept of time does it?
And that’s what leads me outside, and to where I am now, leaning back into a cold metallic chair, breathing out the multitude of blindness-cancerous-baby-killing toxins from my lungs, trying not to beat myself up over another failed attempt to stop myself from falling into yet another bout of existential dread. It hadn’t worked for seven months. This day was no different.

“Up early aren’t we?”
I slightly jolt and turn to see my sister sitting on the back door step, dressed in some gray joggers and a hooded jumper with ‘Havard’ written in bold red along the middle. She never went to Harvard of course, we lived in the middle of England. Not to say she wasn’t intelligent, as she was quite academic, but I would be lying if I said I wouldn’t be surprised that she traveled six thousand miles in a day and was still back for tea, without me even knowing.
“You know how it is” I reply, gesturing my lit cigarette towards her, “gotta have my daily dose of chemicals”.
She chuckles slightly, pulling out her vape from her jumper pocket.
“I know the feel” she replies, taking a deep breath in, and exhaling a cloud of flavored vapor. Watermelon I think. I didn’t think to ask.

We spoke about regular daily things, what we were up to, our plans for the day, university essays, things like that.
“I don’t know how you finished them so quickly” she laments, letting out another flavored exhale, slightly more stressed than before, “this last psychology essay is going to be the death of me”
“I don’t think mum would be pleased if you up and died El” I reply.
We both laugh.
I take another cigarette out of its box and light it. “Besides, English is much more…well it’s just ‘read book and give opinion’, definitely a lot more straightforward than reading paper after paper of brain shit”
“Brain shit?” She recoils sarcastically, “do you think of my education choice that lowly Mark?”
“Oh do forgive my tongue miss” I reply, slowly bowing, meeting her sarcastic levels. Her smile tells me I succeeded.
“I suppose you’re right” she begins “but even still, you also finished your creative writing pieces quickly too!”
I chuckle
“You give me too much credit yknow?” I take another stiff drag from my cig. “At least you have an end path with it all”
El leans in, a curious expression now resting on her face.

“End path?”
“Yknow, an end path! A ‘this is what jobs I can get with this’ path. I doubt putting ‘wrote poetry in university’ on my CV will get me anything more than a position as a McDonald's cashier…” I trail off. Is that what this is all leading to? A gray shirt with a highly saturated M embroidered on it, shouting out order numbers to wrangle up the owner of a large Big Mac? My chest tightens at the thought. It's only upon the realization of the now worried shuffle of my sister on the step beside me that I snap back with a quick smile and retort, “besides, you’d be more suited for that position anyways”.
“Um, excuse me?” El turns with a grin, half joking around, with the other half being ‘you seriously suggested that?’. I can only laugh.
“What? You could be on the front lines, reading body language and the amount of stress wrinkles on a person's face to give the cashiers a heads up! You’d be a valuable member of the team!”
“I do psychology Mark, I’m not Sherlock fucking Holmes” We both laughed, for what felt like the twentieth time in five minutes.

“Right”, El tucked her vape back into her pocket, slapped her hands on her knees and stood up, “I better crack on and bang this essay out, wouldn’t want to miss your big night!”
“Big night..?”
Oh.
Oh shit.
One of my poems was recently accepted into a university curated anthology, and I was set to read it out in front of other poets and novelists at the publishing event. But, that's today? Jesus I knew I was scatter-brained, but this truly takes the cake. I thought it was in  July! Fuck, does that mean it is July? Do I need a print-out with me? A speech? Reading it out will be bad enough, but the social aspect is going to-
“Hey”, El knelt down to my eye level, her hand gently planted on my shoulder. She takes her index finger and presses it against my forehead. “Get out of there, ok? You’re going to do great”
I give a nervous smile.
“Thanks El”.
She smiles back at me, and stands up again before walking off.
“Oh, and change out of those clothes!” She adds before leaving. “You know how mum feels about smoking”.