AN: Written on a platform at Durham train station, 21/01/11.
Returning to my room at College
I throw bits of nothing into a rucksack;
spare socks, hairbrush,
Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children.
Pat my jeans pockets - credit card,
mobile phone - ready. And I set off running.
Actually running. Down Elvet. Across the bridge.
Through the streets of Durham, mad-drunk
on the lights that flash like silent sirens -
it's all too fast. But I want to run so fast
I can't think - I've had too much time to think.
I don't want to think anymore.
For the first time in my life I've been given
a glimpse into why 'they' do it... I understand –
been eyeing up the scissors.
It'd be a distraction. A release from this grief.
I'm not happy... Why?
God knows. Why shouldn't I be?
You should be happy. But I'm not -
and that's shit-scary. I'm scared, OK?
I'm fucking terrified. Terrified I'll never
be the same again.
Racing up the hill, I see the station; final destination.
On my right the Cathedral rises, grey-orange,
leering like a jack-o’-lantern. And I just need
to get away. I ran away once before - last summer.
Because of you. I can't bear to pin this on you
now - but I see your face everywhere as I run -
reflected in the road, shimmering in dark shop windows.
And our son - our still-born, non-existent,
never-existent son - he's haunting me.
Another alternate, never-lived life is stalking
me with a scythe.
I just need to sleep. The drugs aren't working -
the GP's no help. This week was a whirlwind;
house-hunting, house-hunting. This house,
that house, box room, central heating,
double-glazing... Reading, writing, fighting.
I'm done, I'm done, and I'm past praying.
No yelling "Why, why, why?" at the sky.
I'm nineteen - is this it? Not living,
just existing. I've really done it this time -
I can't get out; I've dug the hole too deep.
I can't get out... I can't get out!
Please... Please... For God's sake,
just let me sleep.