Fuck chronology

Here I am, cradled in the arms of my lover, and I can’t stop shaking. I’m convulsing in fits of fear with his muscular arms bound tight around my twelve year old’s body. My breath is stale, vomit-inducing in fact, and my trousers (which I’m still wearing) allow the odour of tobacco to linger. He’s in his underpants, his torso hidden by a baggy blue t-shirt that I’ve seen time and time again. His member is expanding, massaging my arched back and his lips soft on the nape of my neck. He removes them for a brief second, coos an onomatopoeic shh into a modded ear, and places the velvet around my neck.

I can never tell if the tide is in or out most days. The sea is the sea and all I know is that lately, I’m just too scared to think any more about it. The watter ripples effortlessly below our feet. Soft amber yellows dazzle my eyes as they adjust to the witch hour’s delights, and the word naranja erupts into my thoughts with memories of ‘92. I pause to capture this moment in the shutter and his stomping boots move his tired frame right into my image. The image of approximately 2:59am, February 13^th, 2003. Embedded in pixels - this is a poor substitute for genuine brain matter selectively pigeon-holing this fragment of space. There aren’t many boats in the water, but there isn’t much water either, so I convince myself that the tide is out. Or maybe there’s always that amount. In or out, I figure it’s just water, and we’ll leave it at that.

It’s so dense in here that I can barely breathe. The cheap stench of tobacco permeating my scarred lungs, mixed with the abundance of inebriated soldiers in here makes my skin stand upright. The girl beside me speaks of a judgemental revolution; the boy tell me left fights for the bottle; the other opposite tells of excrement covered CDs. Upstairs we share a whisper as strangers pass by. Our voices hushed, people come and go like cliché school friends as we divulge secrets of abuse. Her body and mine, the survivors of inertia.

I want to be on a warm train, I say. Dribbles of snow flutter like paper doves, swimming in the sky and fighting for people’s attention. Inside the carriage the climate morphs into something more tropical as I take a seat in my own booth. I wonder why nobody will share my booth with me, before realising that I’m misplaced in first class. Feeling like cheap, under-rated goods I haul ass to the common carriages. A girl beside taps rhythmically on her phone, a shifty male dangerously eyes a a vulnerable lone female, and the sky begins to crack. A subtle surge of decadence begins and the solar queen dives for her crown, splashing droplets of warmth across a rusty forest, untouched and moist.

Clandestine, we are. Untouchable in a cocoon of irrepresible words, actions, images. We live for today - we could our tomorrows yesterday.