How To Build A Skeleton Heart: love letters

How To Build A Skeleton Heart: love letters

23 September

Hi Hello

It is three in the afternoon I am curled up on the bunk bed. It is not comfortable or comforting but I cannot bring myself to move. The tiny dorm room is filed with three bunks, a sink and six lockers. Three on top of three.  There is barely any room to stand. 

What the fuck did you expect? Did you expect him to wait? Bitch, please are you blind emotionally as well? You left you hopped on a plane. 

I did not hop. There was no hopping. I trudged if anything. 

The point is you left after knowing the guy for three months. 

I thought if I just had more time with him…. 

You did not have that sort of time. You had what you had

Who the hell are you anyway? I am depressed. Leave me alone! 

 God! You are always depressed. It is sooo boring! I am the person inside of you the inner voice. The smart one that you never listen to. Fuck, I knew the inner voice to Sylvia Plath and she had more fun than I have had being stuck in your goddamn brain for 26 years. 

Every time I find myself having fun or having a shit time. I think of him and want him close. Even if by some miracle he got here would he want to be with me? 

No! Probably not. Who cares you will find someone better. Or you will die alone. Either way, you die eventually.

I don’t want to and I do not think even you believe that. I’m always depressed? As if!..oh wait I can’t lie to you can I?

But people on the outside. They… they think I’m fun. 

Oh, Honey. You are barely able to keep it together long enough to fool anybody. They all see through your facade and find you ugly and weird.  

I know.

I mean the poetry you are trying to write? its bad!

Which is why,

When my soul

leaves my body.

I will close

my eyes.

with a joy formidable.

for I hope its true.

When my soul

leaves my body.

It won’t remember


Don’t be quoting my own stuff at me. It’s a work in progress.

They will get this letter and think its sloppy work. Sloppy and sentimental. 

You ARE sloppy and sentimental. The person who receives this letter knows that well enough.

OK, enough talking to myself like your not reading this and back to you and your perfect ear lobes. Meeting those lovely Irish boys was a happy accident but it pales in comparison to having found you.

I think our paths crossing was definitely a result of Flanerie and I went with it like a wave.  

I came so very close to deciding not to meet you at the station that night. I decided to take a risk because even if you turned out to be a bore or a total dick at least I could write about the failed date. I sat in the taxi that took me to the station with the mindset of a gonzo journalist. It all collapsed when I saw you sitting there reading as you waited for me.

Now as I sit at a table in a tiny common room of a hostel. You remain the most persistent ear worm ever. More painful than having a stupid song stuck in my head. Here are some of the most persistent memory ear worms that usually have me falling into sad sleep at night. 

1. The Sunday after my friend’s party. We stood, still drunk, at the counter of Hungry Jacks, kissing. The horror on the faces of the family watching us was priceless. 

2. Late night shopping at the bookstore where you ordered a copy of Naked Lunch. You found me flipping through a medical book. 

‘Look, saliva’ I said showing you an extreme close up diagram of the mouth. 

‘I like your saliva.’ You murmured in my ear, kissed me softly on the mouth. 

3. Standing on your feet, our arms wrapped around each other as we walked around JB Hifi. 

4. When you piggy backed me from the car to the movie theatre so my feet would not get wet in all the puddles around the car park. 

Why do I keep looking back? When I know I should be breaking down the doors of the unknown with gusto and relish. 

Lauren invited me to go see The Futurist exhibition with her and some others. I arrive at The Tate Modern too late, as I got lost on the way, so ended up wandering the exhibition alone.

Walking from painting to painting; it was amazing, awe inspiring and intoxicating. There were sculptures that reminded me of grotesque and beautiful things from your nightmares. I found them confusing till I read some things in books in the gift shop.

. My favourite painting was entitled Lets Murder The Moonlight.  The whole encompassing body of work was so vivid. My brain began to ache with it all. Even though I did disagree with the slightly misogynistic undertones…’’we will mock women..’’ being an example. Though, when taken in context, that could be interpreted as the visionaries just wanting to dehumanize everything including the concept of gender, But women have been dehumanized since the dawn of time so perhaps they could have chosen to be a bit more self critical and question the idea of male entitlement.

There is the feeling that the artists were saying ’ha ha ha ! I am a futurist artist with talent and what are you? A lowly female! What have you got to contribute? Boobs! Big deal! We have vision, paintbrushes and a whole lot of creative insight, and so on and so forth.’ I did, however, find some of their ideas interesting.

‘’The poet must spend himself with ardour, splendour and generosity. To swell the enthusiastic fervour of primordial elements.’’ I think I do that sometimes but I am going to do it more. And try not to be thrown or slowed down into self conciouse panic when some wanker on the street calls me ”a sexy midget type’ while walking past me. The founder and guiding force of Futurism F.T Marinetti, was not originally a visual artist, he was a poet.

The Tate Modern was amazing. I walked out of there and met up with Catherine and Lauren. My party dress soughed happily as I walked over the Thames. I felt totally inspired and for the first time I felt a strong if fleeting sense of happiness about where I was. 

From my molecules to yours