Dear Talia,

I don't want to be a tortured artist.
I don't want to be depressed and I don't want to be anxious.
Competitive sadness and disorders treated like accessories disgust me.

The world glamorizes mental illness, and I don't understand why. There is nothing romantic about being mentally ill just like how there's nothing glamorous about a broken wrist or a torn medial collateral ligament. There's nothing romantic about constantly being afraid that the world will fold in itself and **** you with it. There's nothing romantic about feeling like you could break down and cry at any moment.

This is the first piece I've written while being medicated.

I want it to be Christmas already.

The world dreams itself a halo, but can only attain horns. The halo is an illusion and the horns are an idea.

I'm due to take another Lorazepam. Would I look cool to the kids who idolize dysfunction and misinterpret pain as style, if I were to take one of these, with water and a distant glance, in front of them? Geez, to have their approval would to have everything and nothing at all.

I'm not sure why I've written as much about this as I have.

You.

It is 2:48 am and all I can think about, in this moment, is you.

I can't wait to spend Christmas with you. I can't wait to wear bad Christmas sweaters, and be the couple everyone hates, as we sing Christmas carols and spread holiday cheer.

I wrote this poem a few minutes ago. Sometime around 2:30 am. I'm not sure. I'm exhausted:

I sat on the edge of my bed, and on the edge of my life,
medicated to the point of pointlessness. Soft.
It was the nineteenth, not the twentieth,
and I wished I saw the fireworks with her fifteen days earlier.

My gasps tore the shingles off of the house.
And they hung suspended above the hole in the roof.
And God stared down into my room, as the shingles swirled skyward.
"I see you," I said, "but I don't believe in you."

I left home and ran until I was a dream that had passed itself.


I hope that was okay.

I love you.


Yours,

Joshua Haines

Today we get a puppy,
though there really is no need
but last night I got rat arsed
and stupidly agreed.
So we're off to see the pound dogs
to look for one we like
the boy insists on three legs
wagging tail, and the name Spike.
Three legs to match our much loved cat
on this he will not budge
just so she doesn't feel left out
and start to hold a grudge.
So we're headed for the rescue
with these categories in mind
with happy smiles and fingers crossed
that a tripod we will find.

I see you hidden in flowers
the incoming outgoing tides
star shine the black of space
the cry of a child the echoes
of love shown in each heart
I see you in my waking-up
the resurrection each day
my laying down trusting
all is well all will be forever

Hanging from the rockface
fingers chalked, knuckles white
breathing in the view.
Feeling the rush, hearing the roar
gulls circle above, as you run below,
small against the landscape
kicking up sand and laughter
begging to join me up here
pleading to play with grapples and knots
no fear of falling, no fear at all,
there is no danger in danger when you're 6
Not when your Dad is Spiderman.

Could you be the one? My one? Never have I considered the line of your jaw to be anything special, nor your smile to be a wonder but today, that laugh, the way you looked at the floor, then looked up at me through your overgrown fringe made the earth fall away, just for a second, my equilibrium shifted and I was lost in your tide, awkwardly lighting a cigarette my shell shocked hands desperate to belie my cool disposition. You walked with me a while in silence, sharing drags, my lips, only too aware that they were following yours, prayed for more with a half smile, while your fingers pushed a wayward curl from my forehead, turning my heart into a supernova.... and all I could think was.... You? Really? Oh boy.

tonight we swim across the peach sky
splashing and screaming children
no one to tell us its time to go home
we wear water wings diving clouds
paddle in the shallows build castles
and settle in to listen to the fairytale