Pig in the middle
Pig in the middle.
That’s what I am.
Who is right? Who is wrong?
Who am I to say?
Lost in a fantasy world, the clouded images in her mind confusing her.
She thinks that he still loves her.
But long ago the last shreds of devotion disappeared.
He moved out years ago.
Only she is left – the crumbs of an old stale loaf – lying on the table.
Where did that loaf begin?
Fields of waving golden corn, all light, all sun and happiness.
Only to be cut, mature and at the end of its time.
The sun has gone out.
The loaf began.
Down to the last slice.
He was that slice, she the remaining scattered crumbs – to be swept aside and thrown away.
But stubborn, stubborn crumbs.
She clings hopeful.
Hoping, hoping, but for what.
Her fantasy is fruitless.
Like the ears of corn she too suffers at the hands of time.
I must choose, between him who I love
and her who needs me most.
Pig in the middle
That’s what I am.
A lost soul.
Another crumb of an old ,stale loaf.
I wrote out the lyrics to:
“Oh why? Why me, always me?”
Struggling against the grain that pushes me down, down into the deepest depths of despair.
I cry, tears of bitter, bitter resentment. With every limp movement of my weakening limbs. Always something, somewhere there to hold me down.
Laughing faces leer at me, laughing at my fruitless waterfalling. Thinking, with their mindless thoughts, that I am pathetic.
But still I cry through pity – deep pity – self pity.
A selfish emotion. Everything I do is wrong – always to be crushed, just as plans reach conclusion.
I cannot take an errorless step. With every stride I trip and tumble down and over my own mistakes, my downfall.
Blackest self they say.
“You cannot have everything your own way”
Is that such an extreme wrong to resent?
Like a frail flower growing in in vain, through concrete.
Pushing tender shoots towards the illusive light and everyone tramples by ,purposefully, stamping, bigger feet.
The plant screams, a silent sound.
That only I can hear and feel.
Maybe I watch too many movies. Living in a dream world. In the real world they call me strange.
“What’s with her?” they say.
Sometimes I feel I have nothing – nothing in common with ‘them’ – the outsiders.
Outsiders – them? – or is it me?
Mixed up. Eighteen and where am I? There is so much ambition, so much, stored somewhere in me, struggling to break free.
To break into a song like Fred Astaire – in the middle of a restaurant or cinema with some incredible orchestra to accompany me – or like some glamorous star – to stumble in the street and feel strong hands on my shoulders helping me up and on raising my eyes….there he is.
Look at me. The mirror crushes all these dreams. Average young women on the street do not fly with the stars.
With a crash I fall bruised onto the concrete pavement of rushing feet they call the real world.
Am I mad, deranged….lonely??
Lonely – yes!
Is there no-one out there who shares these dreams -no-one real to me? Someone who lives in both worlds. Someone whose world does not revolve around money and practicality. Someone whose world revolves around song and expression. Someone who understands me?
“Be yourself.” he said. But who is me? Where in the depths of my muddled emotions is that character, myself, lurking? So many questions. Growing up…..Jesus, I could be married with 4 kids by now, but I am still at school, doing my respectable A levels, living with my deranged mother, in our respectable flat, in respectable suburbia, in this respectable city.