Steph Hufton - Writer

And I don't really know anything any more.

I don't really know how but you've broke down the door and walked in again.

Not sure you deserve to be in here. In my mind, on my thoughts, on my lips.

I don't really know how long it will last this time.

I'm not sure I believe it can.

Not sure you deserve to be in here.

In a few weeks will you just give up again? What happens when you become content? What happens when you feel safe again? Will it all stop? Will it go back to how it was.

I can't do that again. I can't be starved like that.

But I'm not sure I can fix that door again.

I'm not really sure if you broke it down or I held it open.

And I don't really know anything any more.

It was a wet morning, the temperature dropped from recent days. Humidity still clung to the air and it was obvious the ground struggled to absorb the downfalls it had endured the night before. After waiting patienly for what felt like a hundred cars to turn, she stepped into the road to cross and smiled.

It was cool enough to enjoy the walk to the office, the bustle of people commuting to work around her filling her ears, she had not bothered to put on her headphones yet, didnt see the need. Her mind was quiet for once and she wanted it to stay that way.

There was a gentle breeze and the air was fresh, even though it was a little sticky. Which meant a coffee on the walk was a necessity and she ducked into a little coffee shop that did great muffins. Taking the opportunity to people watch, she eavesdropped on a conversation about a toddler tantrum over the weekend whilst the barista did their thing.

Coffee in hand, she practically strutted to the office. Her heels clanking against the ground, her dress and hair ruffled by the wind, she wore her confidence out loud. She felt like she could conquer the world this morning. And on a Monday too! Miracles do happen.

She took a deep breath as she looked over the water then exhaled with a smile. "Today is a little easier than yesterday and tomorrow will be better too", she told herself. Then nodded. And for once, she knew that little voice in her head was right.

Sorry, I know you are busy, but I just need something real quick.

Just… just stand there, give me a moment.

Let me just get sorted. I’ve been thinking about this so long, it needs to be just right.

I know, I know, not something I’d usually ask, it’s just I really need this.

I need to be able to get up on my toes for it to work properly.

Hang on, I need to prepare for this.

Let me take off the make up... save your shirt.

I’m making this weird aren’t I? I’m sorry… we can pretend it never happened afterwards.

I need to wrap my arms over your shoulders and around your neck.

You need to wrap your arms around my middle, all the way around.

Are you ready? Are you ok with this?

Yeah?

Hold me firmly but gently, support me but don’t crush me.

Hold me up a little, make sure my legs don’t grow tired from being on my toes.

Sink your nose into my hair and breathe me in.

Now hold me here.

Safe.

Whisper to me that I will be ok.

That you have me.

That you will always be there.

Then keep holding me so I don’t fall.

Because that's who you wanted, the pretty girl in the blue dress with blonde hair and red lips.

The blue dress, skin tight showing a little waist. Designed to hide the un-acceptable love handles. Designed to push clevage up so high I could basically rest my chin on it but you could admire it. So tight on my chest I could hardly breathe.

The blonde hair, because all of the prettiest girls have blonde hair. So much time, energy and money sunk into hair designed to attract just your attention. So busy trying to be blonde I didn't see you stare at the brunette. Besides, it was too short, right?

The red lips, just to draw all your attention. Screaming to be kissed. To be smudged. To see if you'll notice those soft lips and just have to kiss them.

But you never noticed.

You never fu***ng noticed.

So I'll wear the baggy shirt and dye my hair black, or cut it all off, and paint my lips red.

And you'll notice.

You'll fu***ng notice.

Because when I can breathe, when I can take a moment, I'll find someone else to smudge my lipstick.

Sometimes I manage to write in beautiful ways in order to get the thoughts out of my head. Sometimes I struggle to put noises to my thoughts, let alone words.

Someone reached out and sent me this. I think it sums things up quite nicely...

🎵But then surely that I'm still in love with you means there's something we can do to get us through and to pursue a brand new point of view on how this gap grew,🎵

LOOK FOR THE WOMAN - dan le sac Vs Scroobius Pip (OFFICIAL) the new single from us! yay out on sunday best april 28th, sweet! featuring bunny f00 f00!

Wrapped in a dress that hugs her perfectly. Flowing curls tumbling around a carefully painted face. Heels highlighting her legs that seem to go for days. A modest confidence making her glow.

She's beautiful.

You barely glance. You don't remark.

Comfortable in a t-shirt four sizes too big. Messy bun atop her head with a bare face. Barefoot, with nothing but that t-shirt on. Dancing around with a smile on her face.

She's beautiful.

You barely glance. You don't remark.

Another dress, little waist showing, curves popping. Flowing shining hair and a beautiful red lip. Petite sandles and painted toe nails. A cheeky smile and a glint in her eyes.

She's beautiful.

You barely glance. You don't remark.

Then she walks past, that slim, pretty girl, five years younger. She walks past, dress, heels, red lip, curls. She walks past, a complete stranger to you. She doesn't even see you.

She's beautiful.

You watch her pass. You say "beautiful".

Curls. Red lips. Feminine dresses. Shining hair. Happy moments. Playful attitude. A friend. A lover. You wake next to her every morning and fall asleep next to her each night.

She's beautiful.

You watch her daily. You never say "beautiful".

I don't know if it's the alignment of the planets.

Or the phase of the moon.

Or the hormone drop of my cycle.

But I love you a little less each day.

I don't know if it's too much status quo.

Or the long days of silence.

Or the time away from one another.

But I love you a little less each day.

I don't know if it's the absence of loving moments.

Or not enough kisses.

Or not enough hugs.

But I love you a little less each day.

I do know that I keep fighting when you don't.

Keep trying when you don't.

Keep crying when you won't.

And so I love you a little less each day.

A creative mind stuttering.

Half finished pages.

Is there nothing to say?

Or just too much?

Just wrap your arms around me and hold me a little too long.
Gently hold my head against your shoulder.
Protect me from the world.

Kiss my forehead.
Hide me.
I'll resist
but wait.

Wait as I melt.
Support me as my legs weaken.
Hold me for as long as it takes for these tears to flow.

For as long as it takes.
To stop crying.
To feel safe.
Then hold me a little longer.

She's so close.

A simmering pot on the edge of boil.

She turns down the temperature but no matter how low the heat it will eventually boil.

It will spit. Demand attention.

Then burn as it splashes against those who dare come close.

She's so close.

A primal bubbling below the surface.

She takes the meds and goes for walks, but it's almost spilling over now.

Ready to let out the rage.

Ready to destruct.

Ready to create chaos.

She's so close.

Ready to f**k it all up, gloriously, under the warm sun.

Ready to sit in the ruins of her rage with a smile on her face.

Breathlessly happy.

What a blissful thought.

To have someone want me.

To have someone who wants to touch my cheek, so softly I can hardly feel it.

To have someone who wants to touch their lips to mine, even for just the briefest of moments.

To have someone who wants to be able to explore every inch of my skin, even though there's a few more inches than there should be.

To have someone who wants to call me beautiful, even in an over sized shirt and with messy hair.

To have someone who wants to call me beautiful.

To have someone call me beautiful.

What a blissful thought.

The pills work.

The mind that raced has come crashing to a halt.

The pills work.

The thought train derailed but the clothes washed.

The pills work.

The bed is made, the dishes done and the floor is clean.

The pills work.

The thoughts that never ended finally did. The quiet is almost deafening but the dishes are done. Void of feeling and thought, nothing is exciting or scary, soft or calm, intriguing or delightful. In the stillness there is not peace but a slow growing dread.

At the cost of the ability to feel... the pills work.

For so long the ink flowed from my brain to the tips of my fingers.
Elegantly,
eloquently,
carefully placing words upon the page. A beautiful script expressing what my mouth cannot.

Now the ink spits through my veins and onto the page.
Scrambled,
scratchy,
blotting stains across the paper. A splatter of ink unreadable to even my eyes.

My brain screams the words I cannot say through my sadness.
Messy,
noisy,
unreachable as they speed past. A whirling mess of sadness and anger.

But my fear becomes true as the paper has been lost and the ink has stopped.
Naked,
bare,
left blank the book in which I write. A group of pages empty of words.

Eighteen years since I walked out of the door
the bruise down my face.

Fifteen years since we last had a conversation
face to face.

Six years today the last time we spoke
over the phone.

And you don't deserve a Happy Birthday today.

But I deserve a mum who is worth it.

Just another thing you took away.

I have been silent for a while. This perfectly sums up why. Hopefully some words aren't too far away.

Her eyes stare back at me, blue with a hint of grey, just like mine.

Her nose rounded, too big to be called a button nose but not strange for her face.

The redness to her checks, though there's no flush, never quite goes away.

Her face round and well fed, as it always has been.

But the woman I see in the mirror is not me.

And it's not the crows feet that are starting to tickle her eyes that tell me this.

It is not the bags under her eyes and lines of puffiness from too little sleep.

It is not the annoying hormonal breakout around her jaw.

It is the blankness of her eyes, their empty stare, their lack of sparkle.

The woman in the mirror does not scream in pain.

The woman in the mirror does not cry all day.

The woman in the mirror does not think she is worthless.

The woman in the mirror masks the woman stood here so you do not see.

See the eyes, blue with a hint of grey, that belong to me.

The woman who is broken.

We lay
his chest to my back
arm wrapped loosely around me
as he gently snored
in my ear.
My pillow was damp
from the silent tears
pouring from my eyes.
I felt lonely
wrapped up in the sheets
with the one I love.
My chest was hollow
but heavy
as I controlled my breathing.
My place of safety,
where a strong arm protects me,
but I feel so
unnoticed.
As I cry myself to sleep
in the arms
of the man I love
who doesn't see I am broken.

I cannot write when I am happy.
My muses are not joy and love.
When my world is at its best, my page remains blank.
But blank pages blur my vision.
I crave the smell of ink.
My fingers ache from lack of use.
I struggle to finish the sentence.

I cannot write when I am happy.
My muses are trauma and pain.
When my world is at its worst, my page fills in seconds.
But filled pages blur my vision.
I gag at the smell of ink.
My fingers dented from gripping the pen.
I struggle to finish the sentence.

I cannot write when I am happy.
My muses are not around.
When my world is at its best, it doesn't last long.
Pages filled with half finished projects.
Ink stains my minds clarity.
My fingers not grasping what my mind wants.
I struggle to finish the sentence.

I cannot write when I am happy.
My muses soon return though.
When my world is at it best, it is also at its worst.
Pages filled with scattered thoughts.
Ink stains where they don't belong.
My fingers reach for a pen.
I manage to finish the sentence.

My space was cluttered so my mind was too.

I scrubbed and sorted till the space looked brand new.

Now my house is clean and everything has its place.

So why does my mind still race?

LOST - have you seen this person?

I dreamt last night of a hug from an old friend long overdue.

I did not see their face. I did not know their name.

They held me tight and we laughed a little as they said how much they missed me.

My eyes began to water as the hug carried on for a little too long.

My chest began to ache and I melted into them because they felt so strong.

Tears were unable to be avoided as I let myself break in their presence.

I leaned on them as hard as I could as my body shook with sobs and pain.

My friend did not move, holding me tight while it all flooded out.

I still see no face. I still know no name. I do not know who they are.

Months of sadness and anxiety released without warning as my walls crashed down.

I woke to a wet pillow, tears on my face and in my eyes.

They stopped abruptly and I felt my body tense as it closed up once more.

I plastered on my smile and got out of bed.

I am still unaware which friend, the person who held me close, was in my dream.

I don't weep all day. I do the things. I go to work. I parent.

But deep inside, I need to break and I need that friend to help me.

So do you know who it was? That friend who held me so tight?

I really need to call them.

The morning fight

The alarm goes off.I reach for the phone. Make the noise end.

You must move.

I dont want to.

You must get up.

Let me lay here.

Go drink the coffee.

Do I have to?

Make the bed and start the day.

It's started without me.

Get up, do the things.

The things can wait.

No they can't.

Please don't make me.

Put on your smile.

No way.

Get out of the bed

If I do will you shut up?

Fake it 'till you make it.

I do... not made it yet.

You got this.

I really don't.

You are a strong woman.

You are so funny.

Tomorrow you can rest.

You said that yesterday.

Just one more day.

You said that too.

Come on, you can do it.

But I'm just so tired.

When were you not?

Exactly! Let me go stay in bed.

No.

Yes.

No.

Screw you.

No, screw you.

I'm up.

Now smile.

You're asking a bit much there.

Smile.

Fine.

Now coffee and do the things.

Ughhhh. Fine.

Good girl.

Hey!

You got this.

I really don't. But do I have a choice?

No.

Pieces

One day I stood before the mirror and glared at my reflection. I saw the pices of me scattered all around. Realising I had hidden that I was crumbing. That I not only lied to the world, but myself too.

I sat down to collect myself for repair.To once again glue, with precision, each part 'till not a speck remained. Pretend there were no cracks, there were no holes. Appear a well adjusted adult. I've done it a few times before.

They glinted in the sun.

Slowly and carefully I picked them up. My fingers were cut as I admired the rainbows bouncing and dancing on the walls. My fingers stinging at a thousand small cuts I made to myself with myself.

I fetched no glue, no paste, no band aid. No wine. Those pieces weren't broken, but they were beautiful. Parts of me sprinkled around to protect everything I worked so hard for.

I lead my life to its fullest. A mother, a friend, a partner, a sister, a daughter and a career woman. My days are busy and long. There is no slowing down.

But do not mistake these pieces that are broken for weakness. Do not think if enough fall, I will crack. I am not broken, I am loving. I am not falling apart, I am giving. And never forget these pieces can draw blood.

Time to get up.

It's the tick of the clock.
The whirl of the fan.
The bird singing in a house
four doors down.
Eyes staring at a ceiling.
Mind refusing to stop.
It's only 5am but apparently
it's time to get up.

It's the thought of your face.
The dream of your smile.
The questions of what if
and if only.
Eyes staring at a ceiling.
Mind refusing to stop.
It's only 5am but apparently
it's time to get up.

It's the growing to do list.
The things left undone.
The chores of many completed
by only one.
Eyes staring at a ceiling.
Mind refusing to stop.
It's only 5am but apparently
it's time to get up.

It's the missed moments that get you.
The regrets of the weak.
The moments and situations where
you forgot to speak.
Eyes staring at a ceiling.
Mind refusing to stop.
It's only 5am but apparently
it's time to get up.

It's the tears that sting your eyes.
The need to let go.
The feeling of this world that turns
too fast yet too slow.
Eyes staring at a ceiling.
Mind refusing to stop.
It's only 5am but apparently
it's time to get up.

It's turning on the kettle.
The making of coffee.
The morning ritual designed to say
all is normal.
Eyes staring at a ceiling.
Mind refusing to stop.
It's only 5am but apparently
it's time to get up.

It's the placement of words.
The paper so white.
The words are the outlet allowing
some peace at night.
Eyes staring at a ceiling.
Mind refusing to stop.
It's already 3am but apparently...

In a room that only ever sees happiness.
A room filled with laughter and bliss.
Where hearts swell with love and joy.
A room where I saw you.
Precious, perfect you.
Those tiny fingers.
Those little toes.
That hair
so soft and red.
A nose as cute as a button.
Perfection
wrapped tight in a blanket.
A room where we met you.
A room filled with sorrow.
Where hearts ached and eyes stung.
The splash of tears
On the floor of a room that only ever sees happiness.

She drives around and around the block, in large misshapen circles. A route so well known it barely takes thought.

Her music so loud her bones vibrate and head pounds, drowning all her sense. An escape used many times over the years.

Tears fall behind her sunglasses hiding pain as they steam down her face and drip onto her jumper. A hidden breakdown like so many before.

She pulls into the driveway and wipes those tears. She takes a deep breath before shutting off the engine.

A smile on her face, she steps into the house and happily greets her family. A role played to perfection since forever.

But today I can't turn the car off.