Fairytale by Katherine Cecil

To venture upon an adventurous time,                                                                             In a world not so far from here,                                                                                   Lived a little girl, who loved to run,                                                                          She’d run from near to here to near,                                                                            You see to run was fun,                                                                                             And fun is good,                                                                                                              And little girls they should do good,                                                                              For good is well and well is good,                                                                          Together matters, and as well it should.

 

She’d run, and run, and run, and run,                                                                      Stomach ripped and head ablaze,                                                                             She’d run her body to live long days,                                                                        She’d explore the heights that were too high to see,                                                   And venture to places where even darkness could never be.                                      She’d run until she was black and blue,                                                                         She could not hear,                                                                                                       She could not move,                                                                                               Crushed up faces,                                                                                                          Red wrists raw,                                                                                                        Chasing demons she could never thaw.

 

When asked by wet-nurse, why do you run?                                                             When your body is broken and silken time is done,                                                    Why do you scavenge in corners wide with bloodied nails and far sprung rolling eyes?                                                                                                                           Why do you wilt in this sunken state, so affected by fire, so gnawed at by fate?    Why do you let no one in, your marathon, your desperate gym?                               Little girls should not concern themselves with such big things,                         Continue on this wayward path and wet-nurse will have to clip your wings,           These are Adults thoughts for Adult’s minds,                                                         They’re not for you,                                                                                                        No, not your kind.

 

Little girl crawled up with fear,                                                                                             If she could not run she’d rather disappear,                                                                 She needed her sprints to her heavenly place,                                                            She needed her purge, her art, her disgrace,                                                         Folded into her sullen head, she prayed for darkness until wet-nurse was dead.      She would not do what other children did,                                                                   She would not close her eyes and beg,                                                                       They could not take her will to run, for running is all she’d ever done.

 

They bound her tight, she could not breath,                                                                  But her lust to run, it would not leave,                                                                        They could tare her limb from limb from limb,                                                          Cover her in cotton and make her whole world dim,                                                  They could shout and scream, blackmail and barb,                                                      But this little girl, she’d gone too far,                                                                          She’d scraped the boards of far flung places,                                                              She yearned to be there, to track her traces,                                                                 To dig the gold as much she could,                                                                                 To find the fine line between right and good.

 

For good is well and well is good,                                                                                And forever matters and as well it should,                                                                   She knew she’d wind up back at the start,                                                                 She’d known it always,                                                                                               Deep down in her heart.

Frozen Lakes by Katherine Cecil

Do you remember the ice coated roses?                                                                         The ones that seep in and out of dreams,                                                                           they crawl through the cracks of open windows,                                                                    and suffocate your soul with sweet bitter fumes.

 

       And do you remember the stinging torn silence?                                                               That filters in your breath and down your lungs,                                                                  it grates fractured souls once from once,                                                                          and steals hearts to mind in sour plumb times.

 

And could you hear that person screaming?                                                                             Bounded to murky black bowers of home,                                                                         we tried to pick her free from shadows,                                                                             but struggled and haunted they hide in the hallows,                                                      they shout only to me,                                                                                                         when I am alone.

 

 

Sickness by Katherine Cecil

If the dosage is strong the infection will last two hundred and sixty thousand six hundred and forty minutes.

That’s four thousand three hundred and eighty four hours.

One hundred and eighty one days,

Twenty four point eight five seven weeks.

Six months.

-The colours rose red, a euphoric life time. Six months. That’s how long it takes.

-- But Survival is to protect yourself. To envelope yourself from the apples of the outside world. Blood stained fangs that pierce at soft cream flesh, that you want to taste so bad, but fear of the fall. Fear of the failure. No, fear of the weakness. Because weakness brings...

--- And the building begins. The repetition soon becomes habit, habit merges softly with life, life clunks roughly with eternity, until one winter morning you wake gazing at an empty ceiling, with a heart chained together by {cold, hard, white ivory}.

---- And you are drowning. The milky blueness of solitude that floods your lungs and tears at your senses. Your suffocating, but resolute in the knowledge that you are armed and protected and will never be weak.

----- However there are those who challenge it, occasionally outside your fortress you hear the faint scratching of someone fierce trying to rip in. To clean you. To bath in your antiquity and wash away a tainted past. And as a fantasist you begin to fantasise over just one hit, and the propositions that they propose.

------ But you will never act on it, for fear of a rupture in the prison that you have spent a lifetime to build.

 For fear of the vertigo,

For fear of the drop,

For fear of the chains, the labyrinth, the weakness,

For fear of the poison.

Because nothing is immortal. Wounds leave scars and even the best drugs fade into a world of loneliness.

Two hundred and sixty thousand six hundred and forty minutes.

Two hundred and sixty thousand six hundred and forty tears,

Two hundred and sixty thousand six hundred and forty breaths.

Then silence.