A temporary workspace for TWC writers who are between blogs, feeling burnt out, or fed up. Relax. Write. Give no fucks.

 

There was a gun in the bathtub. 
She said she liked to wash in her own filth. 
Gravity pulled the water from its home in the sewers
In the belly of the city into the veins of the building
Into the tub.
Scalding hot. 
She said she didn’t want her skin anymore, she said it 
scratched and scarred at the slightest touch. 
She said the water could have it. 

But the water cooled and her skin remained, 
Red flushes covered her like a patchwork quilt being unpicked. 
Fingers slipped over the plug, 
reaching to steadily unfill the tub, herself. 

There was a gun in the bathtub, 
A gun with limbs and muscles and neurons 
and blood. 

I’m back in my grave.

I grew up crooked
into a body that feels more 
like a foreign country
than my own. If you’re here,
it’s because you feel sorry
I was born. I don’t mind, I
like our quiet lunches by the
dock, the sea air wrapping
us with light, watercress
crunching between our teeth.
It’s a pretty life, you say, and
I say yes, pretty. Sometimes,
though, at an odd hour, or an
odd angle of light, I want to say
yes, this is pretty, but I’m 
always on the edge of falling apart.
And you: always waiting for a good 
reason to leave. I told you I wanted
us to be together, just not like this.

I send you hearts in the post,
hoping they’ll make you smile,
when you open your mail one day
and think of me,
the distance means I cannot touch you,
though I can hear your  voice, reaching me
over the many miles of sea and sky,
I hope you will always be,
my Valentine.

I send you hearts in the post,

hoping they’ll make you smile,

when you open your mail one day

and think of me,

the distance means I cannot touch you,

though I can hear your  voice, reaching me

over the many miles of sea and sky,

I hope you will always be,

my Valentine.

Monsoon Season

A constant flow of water, 
Trickles through my mind, 
soft as the last of the afternoon light, 
hovering on the horizon, 
dangerous as the cataclysmic coastal crazes 
whose waves crash upon jagged cliffs 
and batter the beautifully breakable corals. 

A child on the oceans edge, 
Pulled away. So it falls, clumsily clasping at water, 
At rocks. At anything to keep itself afloat. 
A blemished dream keeps it from breathing in the air, 
But the same tattered remains keeps it from submerging completely.

It struggles, it strikes, it submits
To weave itself inside the lines,
Biding its time, 
To burst forth, 
And find strength in the arms of its oppressor. 

 

Money doesn’t soak in the guilt. 
It slides sideways slipping onto 
The hands of the sinless, 
The unsuspecting. 

It falls. It turns, it spins, 
A shooting star. 
Beautiful and foreign but yielding
Only death.  

Cold blooded mammals, 
With jolly waves, jolly smiles and jolly calls for trust. 
Caught in the biggest jail of all, the ever stretching, ever twinkling stars. 

They watch. 
The innocent slip. 
They’re earthbound equivalents plummet,
Nose five with fastened wallets off the surface
Out of the atmosphere
Into the biggest lie of all;
Freedom.  

before you came into my life, it was a bliss.
when you were in my life, it was chaos.
now that you’ve left i just feel fucking empty.

i hate you.

it’s been a year. 
stop chasing after me.

i don’t want it anymore.

*writers block*

There’s a rhythm to my thoughts, that keeps my syllables in line; or artistically out of it. But my fingers gravitate towards the backspace more than any other key (or lock). The words come, or rather stutter onto the page but the story stands still. The word count is the only thing to progress. The rhythm is gone, or never was.

A leaf falls
Dead. Other brown 
and begin to decay.
Roots grow deeper
The only things to penetrate the earth.
To make a mark.

The leaf falls, 
A wisp of smoke escapes
A bonfire disappearing into the atmosphere.
The charred earth leaves, 
The blackened corpses of ants, 
No coffins, no pastor, no weeping widows.

We step over the earth, 
Tred tired footpaths with tired feet, 
Desert tracks the colour of flame, 
With sand that swallows our steps.

We skate over the surface. 

Meanwhile the roots grow deeper, 
Entwine in unseen labyrinths. 
The fire spreads. 
The smoke, the leaves disappear. 
A missing person’s case.  

Random ramblings of a teenage lover

I want to pick flowers in December
Just to know that love doesn’t die.

Two broken hearts are better than one, right?

Scrambled thoughts with a side of alcohol
I just wanted to feel like more than nothing.

I can’t hold myself together, much less hold down a drink.


I tell people that things will get better.
That skies can only be grey for so long
Before the sun shines through the gaps.

But I tell myself the opposite.
That the night sky will never be the same
Because each day I can feel a star dying out.

You and I, we’re like day and night.

I can still see sunshine in your eyes,
I can still hear blue skies in your laughs.

I can’t see past the scattered stardust,
I can’t hear anything more than quiet static.

Lonely or alone?

You make me feel so alone sometimes. It’s not that you don’t want me there, I know that, it’s just that I can’t bear to be there next to you and knowing there’s nothing I can do to help. Sometimes I think I should just get up and walk, then keep walking, until we both can feel again.

We get so tired of our lives, sometimes that letting people in becomes impossible for a moment of time. That moment alone. That’s where my lonliness lies..

It’s been roughly 4 months since I’ve seen or spoken to you. I heard you moved again, go figure. It’s best you’re not so close anymore though. I don’t think of you like I used to, it’s almost sad but more sobering than anything. I don’t know what it is about you man. I guess it’s true, you never forget your first love. I wish I could though, at least on the days I miss you (there’s not many of those anymore). I feel like a piece of me is dying. I imagine a young ghost of myself becoming more transparent everyday and honestly it scares the hell out of me. I welcome it most of the time, mostly because maybe I’ll forget the painful days. I want to shove every pathetic memory I have of myself wallowing over you into some dusty old cubby hole that I’ll never bother looking in again. I feel strange. I’m so ready to put you away, but at the same time I feel like I’m losing a huge part of me.

No matter the distance, no matter how many new memories I create, there you are and that fucking smirk.

Icy

It’s the chill of the air, it follows me home

where all the warmth seems lost,

even though the frost is gone.

I breathe dragons of ice, cloudy and fierce

they turn to bite at me,

my hands they are fond of,

icy flames cover the fingers

until they reflect the blue cold.

Growing Up

Sometimes when I was still enough
I could feel my blood coursing through
And feel it pushing me up
down my back
And pinning down my head, in regret.

It’d be easy to ignore
The goose bumps on my arm
And easier to let fade
The biting feeling,
That something was biting;
Too hard, way fast, and beautiful.


And it’s far too windy to be suffocating
I am out in the open
There is too much music now
in my throat, and no more truth.
Whispers in my ear, telling me I’ll never die.

I can’t remember the feeling when I wanted to run
Out in the open
With music in my ears and flowing through my hands,
But I can remember feeling it.

- Anisha Baid