The Night He Died

I’d had an unnerving dream. I’m not unaccquainted to suicidal dreams. In fact they’re frequent enough to render them recurring nightmares. Not a lot of people know that. I doubt a lot of people care. ‘Just Dreams’ I’d hear them say. Well, that night felt like more.

In my dreams I’m usually facing off the edge of something high, staring down. Sometimes my arms are spread, sometimes I’m just bleakly standing. The weather differs, the settings differ, but I am always peering over the circumference of something.

This night it was the unfinished apartment block beside where I live. I pass it every day and every night, on my way to work, on my way home, going to Dunnes, whatever. It is directly opposite the entrance/exit gate to my apartment block, unavoidable.

The twin sister to my own apartment block, it is high and rectangular. Where mine runs a cobalt blue with black balconies and big windows, it runs nothing but grey stone and poking rustic bars. It is stained erratically with seemingly rushed graffiti tags and watermarks.

While they built up, they must have given up on building across, and the very top few stories were left without horizontal flooring like a rugby players gaping teeth.

I was at the tip of this building. I was looming over the brink. The wind was quite choppy through my hair and really tugged at my clothes. It was late and dark and the road below was desolate and glinting wet from an earlier sticky rainfall. I reckon in the dream I was about to jump, but to my complete horror I instinctively turned to my right and found a cloaked shadow of a person looking back at me. There was no face beneath the hood, but I could make out a drooping chin. The long hood then turned towards the road, but then back to me. My hesistance diminished as I realised the foul play that was actually going on. The figure jumped from the building before my very eyes.

I woke with wild energy, like a tin whistle screeching from force. And then, as I always do, I threw my arm around my boyfriend and thought hard on isolated popular areas to lullaby myself back to sleep.

I don’t even know his name. When I found out that there was a body on the ground bedside to the road I felt my heart fill with a different kind of fear. He had dropped from the very building I had dreamt of the night before. He was about 17 years old. I think of the stairs. He solemnly walked up every single step, he put in that physical effort to get up high enough to die. The determination it took of him treading every dreadful step, slowly gathering height, demanding his legs to lift up another, and then another, higher, and then higher. Knowing on every landing of his foot, he was only doing it to end his life. It strikes me with a great grief. A boy, who I had never known nor cared about, has been removed from the world we shared, at close proximity. I am left to wonder what separates us all from each other? A life that lived, slept, dreamt and cried like I still do has become nothing more than a statistic for the officials to dismiss and push under hushed floorboards and we will pretend that the sun rising in the morning will be enough for us. And yet, we know, every single time the sun rises, a man will forcibly and violently exit out of this world and will not live to see that sun settle ever again – a life more temporary than life had ever planned it to be






Sweaty bats gliding through an Autumn-Magic sunset, their kiwi-rat bodies glinting over the tips of dark and meaningless houses- unbothered and unspied, only by me and my tired eyes and sore arm.

They are numerous, scattered like pepper sprinkles, dotted over a sheet and I recall with a painful wince the detail – the ache in my hand holding that fountain pen so steadily, its slim knib slowly cutting and dragging at the droopy blobs of tar that never had time to harden.

Bats – gloopy and inky for me – I just wipe my hand over the page and distort the sky I spent so long to colour in purple.

I wish I could’ve done more, I wish I had known to try. And maybe that’s mankinds biggest flaw. Wondering why we were never given the answers to questions we forgot to ask

Snowdrop Angel

“…I don’t want to kill myself.”

I stood on the edge of Snowdrop Cliff. Everything was here. My past, my future, my body of now, my lifeline. Everything that has happened to me has covered the mountains in a snowy carpet which never leaves.

So far away from everything, this angel’s place… But I bring with me in my bones, all of the people I have loved. I feel their broken promises wearing me down.

It’s so hard. Life. I feel so many wars bruise my back, battles I fought against the people I love. If my heart could bleed. Words that haunt. Betrayals that split me from my spirit. So much loss. I could hold it here in my hand, pick up the snow, and out would shine a memory of mine. I could glimmer in it’s brilliance, my eyes prisms to it’s witness. But what is it worth?

This land of time and recollection all rolls with my soul. And my soul is a lonely soul. There are no intertwines or links, only sad ghosts of people who came and missed. And I have missed, too.

Looking over Snow city, far away, far beneath. Fairy lights in gingerbread houses, nobody about, the whispering of the snow lost to the gaps in the mountains. Over the city, over the snow, Arctic Lake cut through in the purest blue you will ever see, it’s thin scraping line mine in writing.

How can you leave if you truly love? If you wake up every morning in wonder and in awe? You can’t.

I do not want to fall from this cliff. I do not want to taint the snow red. Thinking of not wanting to but doing it makes me cry a little. The tears scrape my skin on their descent, drawing lines of blood. The lumpy head of the tear, and the lumpy head of the blood, both glide down my face. One feels like a kitten slit, the other like a warm raindrop.

And the people here are made of paper. The colder it gets, the deeper their edges cut and I can’t help but love and fear them.

Let me go in peace. Why do I have to relish in this place, I can feel the frost stiffen my thoughts and means of motion. Why can’t letting go be so much easier than this. Snowdrop Cliff is made for two people, not one. It’s as sad as I am to see that I have come alone tonight with nothing but loss in my life. I came back tonight aged with so many years. Years I did not need nor desire but have been aged with anyways. What is it worth?

I found my heart, gave it away, smashed it up and threw it out. Talk to me now of being weak.

Write me a new lullaby.

I can’t let you go.

But I can let myself go.

And don’t you know, I’ve lost so much in life, that everytime I lose myself, I find myself anew. No more.

“I don’t want to die” I cried. So, I covered my eyes, and let fall