Kaiti Soultana final draft SS Fingers

13 Jul

SO SORRY ITS LATE please forgive me. I had real trouble writing this. I still think it’s not great but I think it’ll do for the show. X

Fingers

There are times where I want to be a hairbrush.
I think that combing, sleek, sweep,
takes out the snarls and gives a smile.
removes the knots and fluffs an up
do, not
tell me I can’t be a hairbrush.
Example one, boy.

It had been a while and I hadn’t seen him
smile in the ways I felt he deserved to
he was hostile.
He marinated in his own potion of
self-loathing and hatred
and he kept compiling the ways he felt that
life was against him.
Boy, you’re a furnace that’s much too hot for gold
to melt in, you’d burn it,
but you set me ablaze.
Please mind the clichés but
I would run, trip, slip
graze the surface area of my body
to get to you in a hurry

And maybe that won’t make you sink further into me and the world around you
Maybe you’ll keep falling into yourself
but I will keep brushing your hair, scaring those knots away
That cover your head into depression
I’d eat spinach for you. To grow stronger.

But you will brush me off, more often than not
s find there way into headphones in your pocket
deep, drowning in songs.
People want to be moved. But you don’t, more often than not.
You taught me that there was a reason why they called it movement in song
while you lay on my lap as I threaded my fingers through your hair, listening to Bach.
It will all be okay. Okay. Okay.
Example two, girl.
In sixth form back rooms, college offices
brick walls around you and within you
where the councillors also want to be hairbrushes.
Leaking their treatments like teabags in boiling water
Spread. Seep.

It was in maths class, you sat next to me, and I couldn’t put two and two together
I didn’t even know you were pregnant.
And now you weren’t.

Run. You weren’t next to me anymore. But a blur
Rubbing my lenses
Two minutes later,

head popped, red stained, second floor doors
Dripping down your leg
‘Can I speak to you?’ you said.

I didn’t even know you were pregnant because we were barely friends.

You were digging dens with baby’s father
Growing cubs in your tummy
But the miscarriage
it was redder than I expected it to be.
Displaced the scummy water in the toilet bowl
And I could think of nothing to do but cry and brush your hair with my fingers

We were barely friends.
But there we were
Bathroom floor
marinating in your insides
Listening to The Streets.

We didn’t have anybody else. We moved each other instead.
And that was three years ago.
There is goes again, my ears drowning in song

Dry your eyes mate

That voice moved us from the bathroom floor to somewhere I can’t even explain in words.
Those chord progressions made more progress than those school councillors. But maybe less than my fingers through your hair.
Brush brush. Knots will reappear.
That is just the way life works and it works hard.
Let us try to live for each other;
the songs
the fingers
the tangle in your tummy, flutter.

Maybe
Girl
Boy
you might remember I tried my best to move you and to make things better. And you moved me.
And we can start brushing more heads of hair together.
Okay?
Okay.

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