In the name of Honour

In memory of the hundreds of dis-honour-able killings that take place every year around the world. May these women lead the way to freedom for all.

The shovel bought the innards of the soil up

Up to the surface to bathe in the sun’s light

They dug the hole deep, so no hope

No hope to climb or claw could be found

They wrapped her broken body in the black cloth

And threw her into the darkness below

Her eyes flickered as she tried to move her beaten body

The body of a sinner, the body of a woman

Born guilty, guilty of the urge to love

At only eighteen she had dared to love a man

The source of her downfall

At the age of eighteen she fell in love with the man

Who would deal her final blow

She took away her veil for him to see the smile

He brought upon her virtuous lips

She let him bring her to his bed where

He gently pulled the virginity from betwixt her legs

There was no jury that day, but the death sentence was cast

He was only twenty, the day he threw the largest stone

At the girl he used to love, before she became a black mark

A secret, spiteful word whispered around the village

They said she was being punished in the name of honour

But there was no honour in this killing

Enveloped in darkness as a sack was pulled over her head

Bound by the rough fingers of rope around her wrist

And her body buried in the sand and dirt below

So that the only target were her women’s breasts

And her eighteen year old face

Without looking into her eyes they cast the stones

Without hearing the plea, that had no time to escape her lips

They beat the love out of her, their daughter, sister and cousin

Her woman’s curse died with her that day

As they shovelled the unravelled dirt upon her

And cast her off into the shadow of death

Where she was greeted in light, the sin of being a woman

Not enough to keep her from paradise

It's a bitter world, but I'd rather dream.

Inspired by the words of Adam Young. Thank you for the soundtrack to my daydreams.

I find myself in this place often; a field of bluegrass that sings in the suns’ tendrils of light, boxed in by a vast lake which has no visible end and is crystallized by the sunshine, it encircles the island I end up on every night. It’s hard to walk through, this uncut bluegrass, my legs feel like lead, but I know I need to get somewhere. There’s a destination somewhere here, a clearing in the centre of the woodland in front of me, I just need to reach it and my body tingles as it pulls and leads me towards my finishing line. I’ve seen the clearing before, on my visits here. I get to the point before I lift my foot, heavy under the weight of extra gravity, and push it triumphantly from the shadow of the trees that form a roof above me into the blinding light that fills the place where these great oaks, redwoods and pines have failed to grow. It hurts my eyes to see it, after such darkness as I’ve known from walking under the bitter canopy of the woods, but I know through the haziness that it’s beautiful. I can smell, almost taste, the sweet nectar of my daisies which shine red, yellow and white, their faces pointing towards the strong midday sun. Yes, I’ve found myself here often but never have I reached my destination. Never have I achieved what I know I should achieve. I’m rejected at the last minute, every time my foot lifts forward hope rises within me, only to be suddenly torn from this beautiful world into my own. I’m always thrown back into the tidal wave of reality where I drown under the pressure of the real world. Maybe this world I dream of is my world of Forms: my unchanging and perfect oasis. The paradise I’ve been searching for my whole life. Or maybe it’s just the dream of a young, inexperienced and underachieving yet over hopeful girl. But I can’t forget, I won’t forget, the taste of the musty woods which lingers in my lungs, even whilst awake, and the feel of rough bark which I so often caress with my hand. I could never forget, even in my waking state, the shades of orange, red and brown which cover and dance across the littered woodland floor, reflected from the dead yet alive leaves above me. I feel like I belong here, like I belong where angel rays find holes in the armour of branches above my dream self to form patterns of light on the bare skin of my arms and face; a place in which I walk a path flattened by my own laboured footsteps, and only mine. It leads me from the field where the grass is blown from side to side by an unfelt wind, to the edge of the forest wall where trees whine under their own seedlings and leaves. The path that I tread is soft underfoot, it is untouched by rain yet the mud which dwells below the overgrown bluegrass is damp and spongy. The journey within the woods feels like forever on my lonely island, feels like days within minutes and hours within seconds. Even though I’ve seen it all a hundred times, even though I’ve been here so often, I still manage to fall in love again and again with my trees that surround the dream version of me. The version whose eyes light up like I wish they would, whose cheeks glow pink without any help. The me whose copper hair flies in a halo around my head and shoulders, in an almost boudiccan style. A version of myself whose smile is never unfaltering because they are never in a place they do not belong, they never have to inhabit the real world. My eyes trace the words impressed softly into the façade of the trees who whisper their ancient secrets to me. It’s autumn and summer here, there’s never a winter or spring. The trees are always alive, even the oak which of course is not coniferous. The only sad touch of change here is the change in the colour of the leaves above, the process of death which has been stopped in the static world around me. And although I follow the path, every time, although I listen to my body which leads me through, I never reach that special place. I never reach my haven. But I know that I’d rather be here than walking the streets along which I am forced to walk in the real world, because although my reverie  is a bitter one, full of heart stopping discontent, I know that I’d rather dream.

Where did I go?

When you love, you lose yourself. The feel of their skin, warm and soft replaces the feel of yours. The long fingers, nails bitten rough, which hold your hands in a close embrace replace your own smaller and pinker hands. When you look at your eyes in the mirror they are replaced by their green encircled hazel eyes, with that stupid adoring look etched into them. The truth is, when you love you just aren’t you anymore. You become a mutant or a cross-breed of boy and girl. Your bodies which are pressed together so often, limbs entangled, fuse into one. The whole five-foot-three of you feels a foot taller. Their name dominates your life; conversation with anybody is said in their voice. Your jokes are jokes that they would make and your laugh is now theirs. When you’re out without them you’ll see reminders of their face on the faces of strangers. You can’t escape, even when you clutch at sleep as it flutters by, it is them in their entirety which will fill your dreams. Your life will be dominated by them. By an us. There is no I in love. No individuality is possible. You will be ‘his girlfriend’ or he will be ‘your boyfriend’. You’ll find yourself asking, “Where did I go? When did I lose my name?”. The final step is the loss of all ownership over yourself. Once you give them everything you have, every inch of you, every feeling and thought, you belong to them; but only because it’s just easier to lose yourself in all of this than to lose them to the masses. And although you become one, it will always still be their arms that pull you close when you lie together in bed. It will always be their eyes and goofy goddamn smile that find a way to soothe and comfort you and make you smile in turn. I guess the real truth is that a day passed without seeing the look of concentration on their face, lips slightly parted and eyebrows raised, while they drive, a day without them laying between your legs and resting their head on your chest whilst sighing slightly would be a pretty lonely day. It would be a day made a little darker by their absence, and in fact every day that you don’t lie next to them or touch them just to prove they’re real…every day like that breaks your heart a little more.

When you love, you lose yourself in the moment.