Thanks for your care.

I'm left numb.

Silenced.

Nowhere to write but here with no readers, ever.

I didn't want an audience but I didn't want nothingness.

This is a void.

Avoid all signs of discontent, bestow upon ourselves merry hats and fix our grins.

My tear, just one, has run down my face, over my chin and has made my neck wetter than seems possible for such a small drop of emptiness.

It was the emptiness that killed him, the absence of himself.

He looked and found he wasn't there, well but for some memories and a crushing, horror, pain.

The emptiness took hold, the way that nothing does for nothing is more deadly than any thing with its murderous absent stare.

And still the rosy checked merriments are following me, pressing me to remove, cut and censor all my SHIT.

For it, my only place to flee, to express myself may scare the children and people of a nervous disposition.

So I'm silenced. No longer can I moan that I feel lonely, sad and needing, it hurts the readers eyes to think of me suffering when I write harsh words.

Words, the string from which I was suspended, cut. Let me fall into the void, avoid me now why don't you.

Ain't the world a tidier place now.

I'm left hanging with your care.

A thin string from me to the ceiling, I may be swinging slightly in a dark space.

I can't see the floor, slightly sickening. Quite some time ago, days perhaps weeks, I heard the last cry of joy. Joy faded away, a sound too faint to hear, gone now.

The ground may not be there. If I had a pair of scissors perhaps I'd enjoy the falling. We cling to the hope of things, and rationally, delving deep the pointlessness seems the only certainty and gradually the inescapable becomes inevitable. The insane apparently rational.

Vertigo, that's something to hold on to, let's rejoice. I want to cut the string if only if weren't for the planet below - just to keep on falling.

84 Words - I'm not counting

Perhaps I should just write, I have no one to speak to, well, at least no-one that I want to speak with.

That feels hard like a judgement on others, but I just don't want to cause more pain.

I'm only spreading grief - grief for so many years of restraint, of not being fully me and now having my belly cut open and "me" spills out all over the street... all over the town... all through the night.

My Shit

As I sat, old, dumped, crying so hard on what was our bed, moving my shit into my dark room.
I'd only wanted space to breathe too, like you are not taking.
And I write this not wanting to let on about this screaming pain just because its proof to you of me valueless, once good, rejected - I can hardly see for the tears.
And still, still thinking I should save you the pain.
No, I'm in too much pain and its pain we both made and the only person I can turn to is the person that is pushing me away.
And the harder I try the worse I make it, always and inevitably, that's it really isn't it, old toys, junked things never come back.
Trash.
Tears by your bed in the dust. 
I just wanted to do some yoga in the light but thats not mine.
Space has a value and it not mine.
Naked, old, crying why the fuck would you do anything but hear me push myself further away.

You can think that its a come down, me - you, arranging deck chairs on a sinking ship
I'm in just so much agony bottling it up because of endless space, stupid, love.
Just trying to protect you from that but I can't now. Broken.
Its just pouring out.
Love, I know that, its just so much pain.
I'm stripping my shit from your room.
If I could I'd burn down the house,
drown myself in the rain not just move my shit about crying.

I'm scrubbing the downstairs bathroom, moving my shit.
The pain I have needs saying, I'm fed up with holding it in, its not just protecting you, its protecting my family, my home, my joy, my love, my heart.
For once, you, stupid, cruel, selfish, just think it is not your space, your freedom, its a choice to have and to be a family.
To share, to join, to be human.
A new thing. whatever that thing might be will cover it up, paste over the cracks.
Perhaps I should never have spared you the pain, its here to share.

1 Jan 1999 "O" "Cerne Abbas & Giant"
30 Sept ***(no symbol for hearts, the *s are stars) JACK BORN 1.30pm (more hearts and stars).
Your diary, my life.
Hearts and stars you can't cut them in two, they have to be shared or they die.

Pain

Pain, this is just and only about pain.

I woke up - a hundred times and today and felt, knew, deep within me, pain. 
Pain you have done to me; I have done to myself I dutifully, responsibly, adultly quip in snappy properness... you did it to me though, really. This pain is mine and I want to share it with you.

Its all been about you, always. Take, don't give, take.

And mine was free to give, small things that I watched go. Time, freedom, sex, joy, fulfilment.
I thought I was sharing them but no. Things with love, spread sometimes to thinly but I shared all that I had.

You don't share, you take what you want, cutting my heart, my love, my memories, my family, my home, all that I ever had, cut down through with a knife - ours, cut in two becomes two dead halves of a bleeding heart, blue.

Your future, you see it as you kick off the things you see as shit; me, our home, our children, the time, the sharing (haha). If you could you'd bin me but perhaps you can do a deal and leave me out in the rain, without my pot of course, for some sad fuck to take away - take away a bit of that stuff that might, might, leave a mark.

That stuff, the pain I want you to feel - that love as it turns circle, scimitar, becoming pain and hate.