Mayhem Literary Journal is generously sponsored for 2019 by Te Whare Wananga o Waikato, The University of Waikato
issue 5

october 2017

issue 5 - october 2017

Butterflies and Birds - Chloe Francis

A tree full of butterflies and birds. It tastes disgusting but I do it anyway. Catching moments like butterflies in the winter time. If you rub two nice things together they will make a spark. Forever life is rubbing it self together to make a fire of hope in bellies of cold weather rub them together. I’ll just keep driving past that piece of shit I call my house. Watching a weirdo on a bike. I feel like a weirdo. The fancy weirdos drive cars. Pebbles to ripples, gutter to throne. We all make ripples then we all sink home. No more cigarettes for me, I’ve run out till next pay. No more regret for me. Till next pay. No more coming round for me.

You’ve run out. Bye.

I can never hold thoughts long enough to write them down so I stay in my head and chase them around. Mother.

I blow my smoke out into the thunder but I can hear one bird sing through the rain. I get a runny nose. I never did learn restraint. I can never find a pen when I need one. I just want to stay in one safe moment. These little ceremonies will suffice. Childhood is everywhere. I’m breathing in my younger years. Jesus took the credit for my mortality. That was my one chance. To explain why. I paid for myself Jesus. I kept looking for your feet to lay my sorrow. All I ever saw was my own as I hung my head in shame. I needed to feel my own pain. Put my hands out in the dark and feel my way.. I am a soul that fits between the raindrops. The holes in the rainbow. The nothing songs. There are tiny fingers wrapped tight around my heart. It makes it hard to beat. Little claws. Five hundred and sixty-three thousand strings attached to me. And not even one of them connects to you. How am I supposed to breathe? How can I be desperate enough? 

Dark.

You don’t always want to open it. How do you speak of something with no form? How do you define an abyss?

We are a language. We are a creation. We are a story and nerves. Reverse me. We are thoughts and dreams passing through the universe. Move along the rails you are set upon. We are what theory exposes to the cold air. All naked to doubt and death and fear. Life clothes us in fantasy momentarily. We are thrown in the air and at the cusp of the view we feel eternity in the knowledge that we are doomed. Then we dissolve into fire. Move from shadows into dark. But we know this. We don’t want to. But we really, honestly cannot ever forget.

Sometimes I feel like I want to die. Depending on the day this could be a good or a bad thing. Who am I? A pair of hunched anxious shoulders under a sky.  Look to the stars. They are questions and answers. Depending on the day. Sometimes I stare for ages. Sometimes I need to look away. I shuffle about my house. It makes me feel important. Or maybe insignificant? Life is just one long last drag on the cigarette before it burns my lip. Don’t lose yourself girl.

I will very quietly shut the door. Except when I left, I didn’t gently vanish. I burned through the wall.

Contributor's Note

I am 33 years old and am studying Honors Psychology. I am an artist and singer. I have three children. I have been happily single for 3 years.

 

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