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Nothing to save; note discarded by Leonie Rowland
"Nothing to save; note discarded" is a prose poem by Leonie Rowland, writer and PhD student with the Manchester Centre for Gothic Studies at Manchester Metropolitan University.
But you fished it out of the bin because you’re strange like that. Always putting your hands in forbidden places: other people’s handbags, other people’s flesh. Sometimes both at the same time, swirling your fingers around until the tips of them are red but you don’t know why, blood or lipstick or both? Blood would be your preference because lipstick reminds you of her. Not that you’ve seen her wear it, or seen her not wear it, or seen anything other than the expanse of time before the note was discarded, before your hands were wet. You feel nothing but pleasure. Undirected, scrunched up inside. It always comes out as gentleness, no matter how loud you scream. Bring your fingers to your mouth and you are kissing her. Place them on your tongue and you are saying a prayer—to you I give my body, for you I crack my head open on this sacred slab of car-park concrete so I can watch the vehicles come. Pick up their shopping. Drive away. Worth it to see things from here. The dropped receipts, tiny records of moments passed. When you hold on there is nothing to live for. There is no one to pick you up and say, but love, you don’t wear lipstick either, so why all this red? You are too busy dragging. Too busy counting the stars. Too busy looking for someone to give a damn when your mouth goes dark, your fangs grow strong, and the bodies you have been saving—all ‘to do’ lists and payments and unfinished loves—rise up, stare at the sky, and wonder.