the little letterbox girl

2011-11-07T10:56:00.001-08:00

I've moved to a new place. You can now find me here.

It's been beautiful writing here at The Little Letterbox Girl, and I hate to have to bid it farewell. I would really like it if you guys came and visited my new corner though :)
With love!
Maz xxx

2011-09-13T14:03:00.000-07:00

For a moment all I could think of was his smell; the scent of his washing powder, his ironed white shirts, filling my nostrils and suffocating me so I can't breathe or talk or taste or feel. When it goes, I'm left with a bitter aftertaste. Like tea with no sugar.

It's quite confusing. You think you've gone past the invisible "over-it" line and moved onto another long, distant road, that leads who-knows-where. But one two-minute conversation is all it takes, really.

And what about the other 'him'? The new 'him'? The one thought your mind lingers around when you should be learning about constellations and literature. It's all just a twisted puzzle that doesn't look right, even when it's still in pieces.

And I'd made such progress.

2011-09-03T16:21:00.000-07:00

I've been wandering but it doesn't do me any good; every morning I wake up, and think 'today i'll go some place new' but I'm just wandering. I go out, and do everything I can to ruin myself, and come back home and listen to Iron & Wine and think.

I think about... things. I think about the past. I think about him. And then I'll slowly destroy myself more.

Is it possible to be naive even though your bones feel older and heavier than the earth itself? You can't think straight because you think they will just snap, and leave you stranded.

Summer was a city of crumbled castles.

2011-08-29T11:13:00.000-07:00

I have been thinking, changing, dancing, laughing, crying, talking, listening, writing, observing and just barely breathing for the past year. I miss you all so much. Maybe when I am turned into a person instead of a ragdoll, I will find myself a little corner to write, and you're all invited. I am still reading your lovely blogs and breathe a sigh of relief when I see new posts and know that you're still here.

I remember and I'll never ever forget. I love you all, so much. x

solstice musings.

2010-12-22T09:32:00.000-08:00

(image not by me.)

Staring out of condensation eyes,

Of touch-stained glass lens

At a world that I have never really known.

So milky and so white, everything touched by angels' blood.

The sky, so bleak, no empty (although I'm sure it will bleed again tomorrow.)

Everything frozen, while I am so warm.

Snow in the trees, driveways, clogging up gutters, veiling windows.

It's all so silent, so dead under the bruised city sky,

And the fog that settled there.

Why are there no stars, no moon to guide us?

One by one, hazy lights are switching off, though the streetlights scar the sky more still.

I think I can make out two tiny stars through fog and poplars, despite their presence.

How I wish to be out there right now.

Feeling the dead. Breathing the lack of life.

How I wish to be out there, on my own, completely grounded, one lost soul standing in the midst of oblivion.

2010-11-25T09:21:00.000-08:00

On Sunday, we hopped on a little train to Barnstaple. We stood in the freezing cold and watched some lovely people play some lovely music... Tom Milsom and Eddplant from Sons of Admirals...

We then met them. Brilliant, funny, kind, amazing people.

Then we bought some candyfloss and snuck our way to the front of the crowd, to see the golden god himself...

Newton Faulkner. We met him, too :) He is lovely.

Overall, the day was a success. As 'All I Want For Christmas Is You' was playing, we were watching Tom and Eddplant sit in their tour bus. They looked over at us just as the hook of the song played, and as the word "you" was sung, guess who pointed at us? Only the blue-haired angel and his brilliant chubby friend themselves. :)

{p.s. I feel like I am changing as a person, and that this blog must change also. I'm thinking of creating a new blog. What do you think?}

Bonfire night 2010.

2010-11-05T16:59:00.000-07:00

(picture not by me)

Today, we went out just as the sun tucked itself beneath the ground, and sat by the river - next to a bridge and a near empty restaurant. I wore your shirt and we sat on the wall above the water with our legs hanging over the side and stared down at the mesmerising city lights, reflecting like glass or eyes or silver. You put your arm around me. We saw sky lanterns, on their little journey up to the moon. We saw clouds and clouds of smoke. We saw fireworks, lighting up the November sky, sparkling and beautiful. As your lips met mine, a golden firework exploded right over the river.

We went to the park, a big grassy lawn under a blanket of orange and brown leaves. Trees and bushes and flowers around the outskirts. We held hands. I took an armful of leaves and threw them into the air, some of them getting caught in your curly hair. You threw some back at me and I ran. I ran and ran, around trees, laughing and smiling until I ran out of breath - I gave up, I let the leaves cascade around my head and shoulders.

It's later now. It's raining and we're sitting on a random garden wall. The streetlights light up the bleak and damp pavements. You tell me that my smile makes the sun rise on a rainy day.. although the rain gets heavier as you say this. You tell me I look incredibly, incredibly gorgeous under the torrents of water. I smile again and fireworks, once again, light up the sky above the rooftops of the houses. You kiss me in the rain, for the first time in my life.

2010-10-15T14:57:00.000-07:00

I love you, more than blurs on my eyelashes (tinted with eventide) and the summer sunset at twilight and bird faces on the moon. (Your ladder to the stars)

2010-09-30T11:08:00.000-07:00

I've been daydreaming a lot (when I'm supposed to be learning languages and poetry). I envision sailing a big wooden ship and wearing torn white lace shirts and ripped jeans and leather boots like real pirates do, and smelling the salty air and feeling invisible water on my cheeks. Sleeping on a cabin bed with woollen blankets that itch but are so toasty. I would play with little brown puppies and eat bread and drink rum. My hair would carry the ocean. Just water, water, water, all around me. It would be real and I would be free.

But what about when the glass bottle came down over us? Screaming and screaming, frantic hands, steering the ship away, away. But we would never be quick enough. We would forever be trapped in a bottle, just a novelty museum case, a pretty little ornament to put on a dusty shelf and never be taken down again. Soon, the oxygen would run out. Becoming mermaids and breathing rum would be no option - we'd have drunk it all. So what of us, now? Just skeleton pirates on a make-believe ship.

(I saw a lamp-light reflected on the window and thought it was the moon. I don't like that the moon never visits me anymore. It worries me.)

always

2010-08-22T16:05:00.000-07:00

Tabby-tiger stripes, thick, tangled fur.

Eyes the colour of golden syrup, or the inside of a lime.

Please wait for me. I'll always wait for you. No matter how many times I hold your little head in my cupped hands.

Please don't leave me. It kills the child in me. (Although I know it's better off like this)

There, there, don't cry now. Your eye is tired enough already. Every bone in your body: weathered; eroded; cracked by stony hands.

We know you'll escape to a place where C won't be. He'll never get you, C won't. Never again.

& I'll be here forever. Always, always. I'll be waiting where the toy mice are buried.

From infancy until adolescence.

Always.

2010-07-19T16:45:00.000-07:00

The clouds are back. That space, that tiny nook or cranny between freedom and melancholy. I can see the sunlight through transparent paper but the Shadows are still tucked away behind my eyelashes.

It isn't fair, really. The strong picking on the weak, the strong pretending to be weak. The weak picking on the strong. The nightingale just wants to sing her song, but she cannot utter one syllable, one tiny word. Because the robin sealed her mouth shut, you see. He sealed her mouth shut with typewriter ribbon.

Did you know that robins could type? They sneak out of their nests at night, amongst the maze of blue, into the Kitchen, and there they write. They write about things they've seen and heard from their nest. Shooting stars, constellations, meteor showers. Distant lullabies and children's rhymes. Gunfire.

Little wings, big wings, broken wings.

dust

2010-07-03T16:33:00.001-07:00

I just can't stop looking at feathers and imagining they are my soul

falling from the sky

& I feel as tiny as a mouse, scuttling under the floorboards and covered up by a carpet.

Making wishes out of invisible notes and getting lost in my own head. Tears mixing with soapy water. Staring at white dresses thrown across the twilight. Destroying my feet on sharp stones and barbed wire, getting trapped in an abyss, feeling like Lyra without Will.

I'm stuck between the pages of a book, a forgotten daisy in a field of words.

Out in the haze, a bat lurks behind the mist.

2010-06-20T12:01:00.000-07:00

[photo not by me]

Roses in teacups. Teacups in roses. But where there are roses, there are always thorns. Forests and forests of them; like the gateway of brambles leading to Sleeping Beauty's castle.

There is a witch, waiting at the top of the stairs.

She is at her spinning wheel, spinning Dreams and Reality and Fact and Fiction and entwining them so they are one. Every time you blinked, she would know you were there. Because with every eyelash-beat, more of Reality would go into the spinning-wheel concoction, until there was no Reality left, only Dreams and Fiction. She cackles, staring into your seaglass eyes until they burn... and you fall asleep.

For 50 years passed and 50 yet to come.

2010-03-13T19:08:00.001-08:00