Moments: Stumbling Memories


The nights were quiet. Wild.

I would hold onto my friends arm, eyes unfocused, intoxicated on the latest chemical, stumbling still into the arms of a wall. Slip down and enjoy the sensation of its cold kiss.

I wouldn’t be quite sure where I was going, what I was doing but the serene calamity of it all would wobble my consciousness into a gasping breath. I could stay there forever like that. The pulsing flash and bang of the dingy, dirty club shaking pores loose of sweat. Above me each dripped droplets piercingly onto my flesh, vibrating where it touched. And yet, I was always whisked away. My friends hand would find itself wrapped around my forearm and pull me into the fresh air.

And like that, clarity would appear like the breeze whisping its way around each square centimetre of exposed meat on my body. I would inhale and without knowing it, I could breathe again.

Where was I? Who was I? Who cares?

I didn’t know. I still don’t.

All I would know was that I was thankful for the interruption.

Around a corner we would go. Another line. Another sniff.

I’m leaning, leaning, leaning backwards into myself. Melting on a shoulder. Hands wondering which are not my own. Unfamiliar, clammy, rough and big. I let it happen. And then there’s my friend again – aggressiveness overtakes her. She pulls me away from the melting shoulder and I’m outside again.

We take another line.


Didn’t I tell you?

Didn’t I tell you I was always whisked away?

Didn’t I?

Not anymore. Things change. People do the same. Moments like that evaporate into memories better forgotten. Happiness is futile so why distract it by stumbling in the dark of your own mind? Why absorb yourself in memories too diluted by the pain of the movement?

It’s better to forget it.

So why must I remember?


Rock Bottom


For the last few months I’ve been stuck in this horrible limbo of giving up on life and not quite giving up on life. And I honestly thought that no one out there would be able to comprehend such a static way of living until I met my friends. And with these friends, I went out with during the entire weekend, drinking heavily, snorting a lot of cocaine and sleeping very little each night. Before finding myself in the exact same position on Monday morning, feeling much worse for it all. I was now broke, both financially and emotionally.

The days after was filled with avoiding my bank statements which continued to decline in 100s. I was minus 200 one week and then minus 500 the next. Emotionally, my depression was reaping havoc on my days and the sister of depression – suicidal ideation would pop it’s ugly head and whisper sweet nothings into my ears. And all the while, I saw nothing intrinsically wrong with my life.

But I do remember one morning telling my friends that maybe I was developing a terrible drug habit, that my bank account was empty and that I had accumulated this horrible debt that never stops hanging over me like a black cloud over my head. And what did they do? They laughed at it all as if I was insane. Saying that their addiction was worse than my own as I only went on a gram binge every weekend, that my 700 pound debt was nothing, I’ll eventually get out of it.

So, instead of feeling insulted, I just felt like I was going insane. That my method of getting out of rock bottom was working. To drink more, snort more, smoke more, sleep less, care less and strive for less. All of which was the perfect antidote.

But I’ll tell you something now, it never was.

Hitting rock bottom is this funny thing. I thought you’d know when you reached it. When you felt the fiery ground at your feet is when you went into a sudden but cleansing mental breakdown. Kind of like a volcanic eruption, that bathes the foundation in its destructive upbringing ready for something new.

But no, it can be quite different. Quite deliberate in its torture of you. You can feel the cold ground of the bottom glazing the soles of your feet, your entire body submerged in this icy water, your nose just sticking out slightly to sniff the snow. Your organs frozen, your heart gripped in a damaging growth and your brain deteriorating slowly but surely. You can be ready to cry for help but for what? How can you explain the numbness to another, how easily and ready you are to go into a slumber. That you haven’t been fully awake for days, for months. It’s horrible. It’s how my life has been.

And I don’t know how to get out.

moments, Poetry

Meeting CharlieĀ 

Dear  Charlie,

we are born into this world on someone else’s terms. Then we are expected to manage its monstrosities, feeding from the hand that they give us.

But if those who birth us tube down our throats that we are nothing but selfish, lazy and ungrateful we are painted the toxic view of the world from that point forward.

We are made to breath down these negative spirals and believe them to be the truth.

However, every time I meet you Charlie, hunched over a card in the bathroom stall of a club vibrating the stench of sweaty bodies and rotten feet, I smile. You make me happy again. You awake my tired body and exalt it with joy, putting a spring in my step as gibberish leaks itself away from my mouth into the atmosphere. You help me to believe in myself and rein my own destiny, a throne in my future.

And then, as suddenly as you come, you disappear again. Hanging me by the arms of a noose, lowering my depraved mass into the body of a dark, dismal well.

Only for me to look up and pray your glorious snow will fall onto me again. Bringing with it you, my dear Charlie, with all your wonderful and splendid hopes, dreams and promises.

Missing you,

the grin of a lost girl
nakedstreetkid out x


Bright Orange Tulips

Most days, I didn’t eat a single meal. I couldn’t. I had no appetite, nor the will or the drive to do so. Instead, my days were filled endlessly with drinking and drug taking with friends of mine. We were all so free. It was the 80’s after all and we were teens. Experimentation was an accepted right of passage for us all by then.  

At the time, my step father was cheating on my mother and I knew about it. I had saw him in a store late one night, kissing another man. I had nothing against him kissing a man because I knew that some of my other friends, like Michael, did it. But he had cheated on my mother and that had made me more angry than I could believe. That night, I drank and drank and drank and stole and stole and stole. Mary Elizabeth had to console me at one point as my tear stained face was distracting everyone from their fun. She said, if I wanted to, we could buy those colourless tulips that we were all given when we were ill and dye them a bright orange, the colour they were supposed to be.

“We could put them beside your mothers bed to wish her well, if you want to.”

When she said that, I cried some more. She grew confused because of it. But what she didn’t understand was that I wasn’t crying because I was still upset, but because I was happy that she had thought to even console me. I felt like explaining this verbally would take away from the moment, so I grabbed her hand, nodded my head and dragged her all the way to the display of flowers in the centre of town. The others followed closely behind, confused. The dragging was made easy because she was wearing cut off shorts, but harder because I was wearing a long skirt that went all the way down to my ankles. 

That night, the five of us – Michael, John, Rachel, Mary Elizabeth and I – stole bunches of Tulips from the little display section in the centre of town and dyed them bright orange. Which was, of course, fiddly business but everyone had gotten stuck into it and we got it done alright. Before we continued our night, they let me go home briefly. 

When I opened the door to my house, I expected to see my mother furious with me, as I was supposed to be home a few hours ago. But instead, I saw my mother still in tears as the way I had left her. I guess that made sense. She had gone to the doctors the afternoon before and had found out she had this illness which was incurable. HIV, I think it was called. 

As I walked through the front door, I could see my mum, staring absently at a turned off TV, tissue in hand, ready to dab at her already tear streaked face. Her porcelain skin was coloured only by the ghastly light of a half working bulb that had the habit of flickering and dimming every so often. It took me a while to notice, but she was in her old wedding dress. Not the one she had married my step father, Phil, in, but the one she had married my real father, Paul in. She had somehow managed to tie the corset dangerously tight against her torso, for the only reason I knew she was alive was because of a gentle wheeze every time she inhaled. 

My mother looked like a ghost. 

But she still had layers of clumped together tissues on the dinner table, that would shift every so often as a tear hit against it. Tears had become funny business back then, especially for ladies, especially for my mum as her mascara ran down her face. She was, quite frankly, leaving an absolute mess of it on the table cloth and for a second, I worried about how I would need to clean it up when I got back. But then I forgot all about that as our eyes met when I took one more step through the door. At this point, I wasn’t sure what to do. I had the choice to either go or to stay. But as I took another step, her eyes returned slowly back to the blank TV screen. 

I wanted to do something to help, like turn the TV on, so at least the rocking of her eyes back and forth could fixate on something. But figured against it, turning on the TV would just lead to an even more black and white world than what lay in front of her at that present moment. And besides, she looked like she was trying to help herself, no matter how little it made sense to me. So I left the bunches of tulips on the table in front of her, grabbed a knife, kissed her on the cheek, turned away and walked right through the door, locking it securely behind me. Only to see my friends waiting with agitated stances outside. 

The only one who looked slightly less irritated was Mary Elizabeth, who seemed alright with me taking a long time. 

So, as the others continued to walk towards the night club, I asked her to wait for a second. 

“What for?” She had asked. 

I took the knife I had grabbed from the kitchen out of my bag. For a second, she had looked scared, as if I was about to kill her with it, her face continued to tense into one of shock and disbelief. But then I let go of her hand, and she seemed to calm down somewhat. I used that hand to hold a fistful of my skirt and used my other hand with the knife in it to slash away at it, making it shorter. When I had finished, I had thrown away the knife and the skirt was well above my knees now, the same length as Mary Elizabeth’s shorts. I did the same to my sleeves, grabbed and slashed away at its length.  

Mary Elizabeth had laughed loud that night, possibly laughing away her fears but also attracting the stares from the others in front. They looked back, astonished, and ran towards me, slapping me on the back in glee. 

“I guess plain Jane just isn’t so plane anymore.” I heard Michael shout. The rest joined in with Mary Elizabeth and laughed, while nodding their heads in agreement. The others ran in front of me, smiling, affirming Michaels statement with a brief nudge or a hug. Mary Elizabeth had stayed behind, smiling all the while. 

When they had all run past us, it was only Mary Elizabeth and I standing in front of the huge estate, where my council flat was housed. It felt strange that night, as if the air was charged with electricity and the atmosphere itself was this large, thick blanket that covered me from head to toe in unpredictable warmth. 

And Mary Elizabeth was in front of me. 

And Mary Elizabeth was in front of me. 

I glanced down at her lips on instinct. But it was at that moment that she had decided to gently put her hand in my own and start to run. Her eyes brushed against my own, and I could see the joy and happiness painted inside her bright blue orbs.

That is why I was glad that I had the chance to take a second look at all of her as she stopped right before we got to the night club. And she had looked positively beautiful that night. The warmth of the moon encapsulated her skin in a white shell, the flesh of her thighs and arms glowing in front of me. I couldn’t help but look up at her face. At first, our eyes met again, but then, I couldn’t help but glance down. The affection I saw there was enough to quell the butterflies fluttering in my stomach for a moment. To be perfectly honest, at that moment, I’m sure that I could have moved mountains, solve world peace and ace a maths exam all in a days work simply from that one look of affection.

And I couldn’t help but grin because of it all. 

“You know what?” She had said that night, leaning forward. 

“What?” I had replied, slightly breathless for what seemed like no particular reason at all. 

And that was the moment she kissed me. It was gentle. Soft almost, lovely and smooth. 

She then leaned away, a smile erupting across her face. “Nothing.” She had run into the club then, leaving me dumbfounded at the thought of that definitely not being nothing. 

I wasn’t sure if it was okay for me to fall so head over heels for a girl as Michael and my step father did for boys. I wasn’t sure at all. But that night, I was sure I was falling head over heels for Mary Elizabeth. 

And the truth was, I had liked it. 

And I still do.