Poem: The Fifth of November

CW: break-ups, pet death, suicidal ideation, depression

When I was a kid, Bonfire Night was my favourite day of the year, the only holiday I always loved, better than Halloween or Easter or Christmas. The past three Bonfire Nights in a row have had significant traumas and hardships associated with them, to the point that I do not think I will ever be able to take it back, to enjoy the day again. This is a poem about trying to reclaim that day, that love. It is dated 12th February 2021 and contains description of break-ups, pet death, and depressive periods.

The Fifth of November:

Remember, remember,

being prone on the floor of your bedroom,

mind strobing in and out, body paralysed –

“non-epileptic seizure”; voice on the phone

to your housemate, body just shutting down,

a brain so certain it cannot survive that it

turns off everything it can, only the damned

heart still beating despite your best efforts,

even the lungs trying not to work, conscious

but immovable staring at the door with eyes

that will not blink for ninety-five minutes,

the mark the carpet left on your cheek for

two days, the bruises from the fall, the words

you would write poems about for years.

 

Remember, remember,

holding him against you as the needle goes

in, the panting, lolling tongue resting on

your arm going dry, panicked brown eyes

you had stared into so many times glazing

over, the softness of his ears you will never

forget, the way you kissed his forehead

over and over, tried to inhale his warmth

as if you could hold it in your lungs forever,

“he’s holding on, I’ll deliver a second dose

now”, the scream building inside you that

you would hold in until the car, the marks

your nails left on the hard rubber of the

floor, a permanent record of your grief.

 

Remember, remember,

curled up on the sofa, numb and quiet, a

global exhaustion stretching into a months-

long silence, the smell of damp that would

worsen and refuse to leave in an empty flat

that slowly crushed you for six months, the

decay growing over your books like you

wished it would grow over your bones, all

meaning of time and celebration long gone,

wondering how you will lie to an eight year-

old tomorrow who looks at you with trust and

adoration that you didn’t spend the night curled

in silence trying not to hear the fireworks, after

telling her it was your favourite day of the year.

 

Remember, remember,

holding the sparkler, the glee of letting out a

shriek as it swarmed around your hand, the

softness of a glove and the cold of the air,

the glow of the huge bonfire warming you

from fifty feet back, the smell of it in your hair

for days, wood and smoke and joy, the crunch

and sweet of a toffee apple, the crush of the

crowd you could ignore by focusing on the sky,

bursting with colours you would try to hold

in your eyes forever, the dizziness that came

from staring up for too long, spinning around

and pretending to fall, absolutely enchanted

by the light and colour and warmth and noise.