Maddy Whitby

Pulling Myself Together

what are you doing?

are you
is this
did you

mean to do that to me?

you’ve cut me in half and i/ can’t find a needle i/ don’t know where to look for
one/
(the needle doesn't exist; never has and never will)

instead i am reforming slowly, flesh stretching;

rubber bands back together and pulling my skeleton with it,

a slime mould with hurt feelings who's just spent three days bashing it’s head against
the wall in a frenetic attempt to kill itself.

there is no expediting this process.

i am simply two pieces for a month or so.

speaking with a torn tongue and conscience bleeding from the edges

(the verdict has arrived: i am guilty)

i do not have my classical righteous anger until i’ve dragged myself whole again, pressing
and squelching it all in a grotesque display while i mindlessly flick between tv shows.

only afterwards does the thought occur

i have been Wronged;

guilt over nothing and i never cared for your opinions anyway

threemonthswastedinmybed
hovel of my own making

not eating
(i don’t deserve it)

barely thinking
(i can’t stand it)

all over a petty gripe; easily solved
(if only you had talked to me)

then neither of us would have been in this mess

sunbathe 

it is quiet, gentle, sunny. 

the hillside is that particular shade of yellow-green 

(you know the one i mean) 

like looking at it through a half drunk pint of cider. 

i am invisible today, joyfully sinking into the ground with a quiet, otherworldly pop. the pigeons in the woods scatter at the noise i think 

(or maybe it’s a fox, and i’m 

overstating my presence) 

here 

i do not find myself stuck at the wheel. 

in fact i don’t think i can drive this peculiar instrument yet, 

so it is just me, the sun, this red picnic blanket, and repeated visions of a world ending. 

oh well, 

i think. 

(a great comet hails from above) 

this all must be burned one day anyway. 

i’ll enjoy this bliss while i still can. 

it is never a simple task to ignore oblivion 

as childish as it seems; 

we are determined to find solace in worry 

and worry in most things. 

today someone is praying for the comet to flick its tail, scorching a little of the earth with it, then disappear into another orbit 

killing some, sparing the lucky. 

but i am invisible today, and so this one-or-the-other cannot apply.

Madeline Whitby is a writer and theatre creative from Oxford, UK. They enjoy writing for the page and stage, particularly in queer, horror and speculative genres. They also work as a theatre technician, and have been published previously in Ram Eye Press and Fevered Sleep. When not writing, they can be found out for a walk in the Peak District, playing DnD or watching video essays with their partner, Gabe.

@madeline_whitby on twitter.