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coqueliccot · 23 days

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I have words behind my tongue, scratching the back of my throat, that I can neither swallow nor blurt out, from fear someone might choke. My heart is so kind, I can almost let you live. If it weren't for those nights, I felt my hands around your neck.

Fingerprints of a childish hand on every doorknob. We're intertwined like the hairs of a tight braid. We need to be washed out of our shape, that's what we need. To cure us both.

If compared to death, I'd say my loss had no grave. My loss doesn't feel like one to fate, it birthed a grotesque and ugly sadness, produces vomit and bone screeching anger. My loss was to grieve for in secret. It was undefinable and complex. It morphed, grew and matured with me like a faithful friend. It took all forms and shapes.

I'd say at first my loss was milder than death, but it never ended and for years I kept losing, and the pain only grew more piercing it was much worse than burying a man. It was living with the corpse it was talking to a ghost it was never reconciling with the thought, that I was fatherless. Because of those cursed weekly meetings where I had to kiss the cheeks of the man I despised with all I was and still am. It was to hate a man as a child, as a daughter and as a woman. It was to wish harm and ruin on my blood, then take it back. It was to sit in the backseat drying my tears, it was feeling the anguish in my throat, choking me when I tried to speak, it was the anxiety that shook my body when he spoke. It was my heart breaking again and again. It wasn't only sorrow, it was soul crushingly heavy, like my spine could yield at any moment. But it never did, and I still carry the burden, and it feels like my body is growing accustomed to the weight, building itself around it, letting it shape it, define it, leave its print all over it.

Is it cruel to envy closure of the tomb. Wishing I had buried my sorrow deep into the earth's soil. Father, if you read this would you disown me. What would it even mean. My heart couldn't wish your death, it's too late for that. Death would simply be the end of hope, brutal and abrupt, "my father died and everything is worse now". And out of spite, I hold back the words that could cut the branch from which you're hanging. If I am choking you will too, if I am sleepless you'll be too. So we're both hunted, and it's almost like "which one of us died and which one of us is grieving ?".

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coqueliccot · 3 months

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Everything suits you so well, If you get every single card in the deck, how can I play ? Your hand is unbeatable. It's almost innate, this affinity you have for everything I pursue. The ease with which you glide your fingers over everything I reach for. I'm still trying to get ahead, to surpass you. In something at least. And my throat tightens when I see him turn to you and my stomach turns when I see your grades and I wanted to throw up all summer long. I'd tolerate it better if you didn't take such apparent pleasure in looking down on me. I've always noticed a lack of candor in your features. Something in your gaze or about your nose. They don't really like you here, it's true you could be nicer. But we both know you don't have to. That voice will keep charming, sugarcoating all your nasty remarks.

I know I tend to trivialize your triumphs. You're clearly made for it. It spares you any doubt. And it's all on me, people like me are miserable.

Tout te va si bien, ta main est imbattable. C'est presque inné, cette affinité que tu possèdes pour tout ce que je poursuis. Cette aisance avec laquelle tu glisses tes doigts pour t'emparer de tout ce que j'envie tant. J'essaye encore de passer devant, de te doubler. En quelque chose au moins. Sinon, je sens mon ventre se nouer comme si j'avais avalé une cuillère de plus. Je le tolèrerais mieux si tu n'éprouvais pas ce plaisir apparent à me regarder de haut. J'ai toujours discerné un manque de candeur sur tes traits. Quelque chose dans ton regard ou sur ton nez. On ne t'apprécie pas vraiment ici, tu ne cherches pas à te faire aimer.

J'ai tendance à banaliser tes triomphes. Tu es clairement faite pour. Ça t'épargne tous les doutes.

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coqueliccot · 4 months

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Two steps back, I freeze the frame. This instant, this one regular day, monotone and mundane, is good enough.

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coqueliccot · 4 months

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She's the sun in March, soft and gentle, stroking my face through the heavy clouds threatening to shower above my head. She rubs her kindness on me, dense and warm like a wool sweater. And I might carry some of her hairs on my shoulder. Her trembling hands in her lap, she poors honey into my ears. If she's the sun then I am spring, when she visits I grow meadows. And if she leaves, if she ever leaves, how terrifying the thought of ever losing her favor. Of her discovering some mold on me. Of cold wet snow. Of tiny blades in the early morning air. Of soaked socks and the gloomy atmosphere.

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coqueliccot · 6 months

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..Et puis il y a cette solitude. L'odeur de l'air confiné d'une pièce mal chauffée, la douleur projetée, rapportée de la plaie vers le torse. L'amour qui déborde de moi, mais qui n'a nulle part où aller.

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coqueliccot · 7 months

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Vain, all the tears and the prose. When I swallow back the unpolished grief that I spill. Caprice of the mind, to dwell on things for a little too long. Writing letters to strangers, spasms of the hand, while their real addressee are met with years of unjustified silence. Unresolved disputes, unreached closures, my nights are haunted by so many ghosts. I have wept abundantly, my pain was justifiable if only identified. There is no purpose to the damage, no value.

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coqueliccot · 7 months

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Ma mère est furieuse, la pâte est durcie et craquelée. Elle n'absorbe plus les coups, elle fait saigner les poings. Elle est gelée, informe, un tas. Elle ne sert ni à garder les fleurs ni à servir le thé.

C'est une injure, un échec. Un jour, elle sera vendue ou offerte, mais qui en voudra. Si l'œuvre est ratée, qu'en est-il de l'artiste ? Lui qui lui a dédié sa vie.

Dans sa colère, l'artiste oublie souvent qu'il a imprégné sa pâte de cette même rage qui le brûle. Ses mêmes mains dures et rudes lui donnent cet aspect grossier.

Ma mère veut une tasse de lait. Elle n'arrive plus à me pétrir.

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coqueliccot · 7 months

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September, a last bite of summer, before the frost cuts my knuckles.

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coqueliccot · 8 months

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and of COURSE it ended with “no real person involved” pointing back at the Roys. Tom the winner being an empty fucking suit. Roman admitting they are ALL bullshit they are not real they are hollow. Kendall confessing if he’s not CEO he is nothing. Shiv reduced to a human vote and a wife and a mother. Greg literally getting bought like a piece of antique furniture. None of them are real people because they never were to Logan!!!!!

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coqueliccot · 8 months

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She stands tall on my stolen lands. Were they ever mine if she knows them so well. The air stinks of strong and foreign perfumes, I yearn for some recognizable scene, something familiar.

On her canvas I am a persistent stain, I am the stranger whose unwanted presence she won't pretend to tolerate. My heart aches with paralyzing rage. Turning my misery into pettiness, I play right into her games. It's only 1pm, and I've already killed her twice in my head.

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coqueliccot · 9 months

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Your sister swore your eyes were damp, but I've never seen you shed a tear.

It was cruel, to rip the cord off your telephone, to drain a child's tears for so many years, to tear apart their home. I was a good kid. Everything I did was to try and impress you. I would have made you proud if you kept me in your house.

You could die tomorrow, I'll carry you between the flesh and the nail all my life. I will never hate you enough.

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coqueliccot · 10 months

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Peau de cuivre, soleil de Juin.

J'oserai presque graver ton nom sur le bois.

Tu devrai venir plus souvent, tu es ce qu'il y a de plus agréable en ces soirées lassantes.

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coqueliccot · 10 months

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7pm, the sky is clear, looking as flat as a wall. Slightly whitened over distant hills. Strangers talk through the chirping of birds, complaining about the heat, mourning spring.

My mood swings between indifference and deep melancholy, my soul is as if in a state of perpetual stasis, time seems abstract, an imaginary principle. My life goes by before my eyes like a book that one opens to leaf through. A collection of long monologues, deaf dialogues and sterile debates.

I envy them all, these people who exist in the rhythm of time, who are part of this world, whom life has welcomed with open arms. Watching them brings me pain and sorrow, I feel as if I've hit the brakes on a track, a bird fallen from its nest, grass torn from the earth. As if I've lost my cause, exiled to foreign lands.

I feel my pulse at the base of my thumb like the ticking of a watch on my wrist.

19h, le ciel est dégagé, paraissant aussi plat qu'un mur. Des étrangers parlent à travers le chant des oiseaux, se plaignant de la chaleur pleurant le printemps.

Mon humeur oscille entre l'indifférence et une profonde mélancolie, mon âme est comme en état de stase perpétuelle, le temps me semble abstrait, un principe imaginaire. Ma vie défile devant mes yeux comme un livre que l'on viendrait feuilleter. Un recueil de longs monologues, de dialogues sourds et de débats stériles.

Je les envie tous, ces gens qui existent au rythme du temps, qui font partie de ce monde, eux que la vie a accueilli à bas ouvert, qui vivent et ne se contentent pas de rêver. Les observer m'afflige de maux et de peine, j'ai l'impression d'avoir freiné sur une voie, un oiseau tombé du nid, une herbe arraché de terre. J'ai comme perdu ma cause, exilée sur des terres étrangères.

Je sens mon pouls à la base de mon pouce comme le tic tac d'une montre sur mon poignet.

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coqueliccot · 11 months

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I'd waste my love on you. For some company. Write you some words during states of simultaneous euphoria and misery. Dance around each other's wounds, we could be something worth a scar. We could be the talk of this town. If we tolerate each other enough, we could survive the summer.

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coqueliccot · 1 year

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La brume chassée et l'air sec, l'été projette une déplaisante clarté sur ses longues et chaudes journées. Tout est découvert, nu. Les arrières goûts se concentrent au fond de la gorge, une dizaine de gorgés d'eau ne suffiraient à les laver.

Mais les soirées sont agréables. L'esprit fatigué, le corps ralentit, les sens assez endormis pour ne ressentir que la fraîcheur du vent, on se dit que finalement tout va bien. Tout ira bien, demain et après-demain. Les soleils se succèdent, nous n'avons ni le temps ni l'énergie..

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coqueliccot · 1 year

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In the end you were nothing more than another grudge to hold.

And I've been lighthearted for a while, you tore through me, nine holes in my lungs.

Did the blow bruise you too, blue knuckles from my nose.

On another stage, you played your favorite role. I think back to all the stories you told, how many people have I wronged ?

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coqueliccot · 1 year

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Sitting on a bench a few feet away, I consider if I should move at all. We listen to the music you like and I pull on the grass, sometimes we have nothing to say. I feel like you've been judging me lately. The things you say to me have this new aftertaste I am not used to. I was satisfied being your soothing balm each time you ached. To be a recipient where you poured your sorrow. I listened as you cursed your heart. And I know we laugh about nothing and people rarely see one of us without the other but in the back of my mind I just can't get over the fact that you forgot my birthday.

I said I'd settle for anything, yet I wonder how it feels to be so in tune with someone, you leave your bed earlier.

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