When we were dancing the other night my mate next door mentioned that like her I started to get depressed after what The Witch Controller did to us. We both did. We’d spent a lot of time with her.
I’d written a poem about us as I felt friendship I’d not known in a long time.
Moving to a new town and then COVID lockdown. It was so very good to have friends again.
I was a bit embarrassed to read out loud the poem but it was heartfelt and I was armoured with the security of wine.
I knew she found it hard to show affection or let her guard down. I knew she’d find it a bit weird. She’d had problems in her life. Sad things. I got she’d find it a bit stupid or sentimental. That was ok by me. I was hoping one day she’d maybe let the barriers down a little.
When I went home she laughed at me. Wondered what the fuck I was doing writing poetry about us.
I loved her in the way that we do when we haven’t known people for long but they seem honest and good company. I’d shared my feelings. So had my neighbour. She could have had two very close friends.
But she chose not to. She chose to abuse and manipulate like some Keighley neighbour’s version of Sleeping With The Enemy. She fed me more wine when I wanted to go home then stood there when I fell over. She made meals of pork for my neighbour and then told her she was disgustingly fat. She got me writing letters to the council/bt/et al and then went mad behind my back because I’d included her house number in the complaint.
It’s that hardness that I want to write about. Figure out. Make sense of. Understand.
It’s the psychopathic lack of feeling, the brazen denial and the shit lives without love that they must end up living.