Gris Lee Stories

It’s the middle of the night and I’m trying to pick what song to play at my funeral. I plug myself into the music matrix. Physically here, mentally gone. Idly shuffling through every sad song that saved me. Dwelling in the irony, of my catharsis becoming the closing credits. The songs play and the people enter; beta testers to my demise. Tears fall, and tears rise, on all consecutive tries to find the bloody one that’s right. I have to, if I want to fight the nails coming for my skin. I’d rather be a ghost in fictional hell than the literal one my body is in. Quick, it’s coming back. Play another one; tune in, so I can tune out. Vision turning black. Ignore the bitemarks breaking out as a bruise. It doesn’t even matter, as in the end, Linkin Park is what I choose. Memories that kept me sane, now poisoned by pain when the voice behind it all came to its own end. Keep me in your memory, they said; and leave out all the rest. So, as a test I leave i...

Three vases worth of roses. I found them by the door, barely sheltered in the rain; I took them in to drain, then watered them again. They found homes in cups and coffee pots, catching lots and lots of petals and lots and lots of thorns. My room was torn apart to give them all the space for all the light. And for once, everything was bright. That silky red had managed to thread my thoughts together. I kept them on display during periods of good weather. As part of my routine, I made sure they were seen. Kept them fed watered happy pruned and clean. My efforts were not in vain. For all the times a thorn had caused me pain, we nipped it in the bud and carried on again. The scent was sweet; it soothed my nerves. The petals were soft; I loved their curves around my finger and the way their visage would linger as I drifted off to sleep. But the longer that they lived, the harder they were to ke...

Fury is not unknown to me. It manifests in times of crisis and I find it’s far and few between the times it’s actually seen. When someone’s died or hurt or wronged it won’t be long before this knight's on guard. Don my devil horns and angel’s armour, for I’ve sworn I won’t be calmer until the threat is barred and banished from our realm. A child before a dragon. A friend before a foe. A lover before themselves. So be it. I land the final blow. I live to serve by instinct. No need for the castle nor the hassle or for you to be distinct about the things I’ve done. As long as you are safe, then I have won. But when the knight’s alone, at home no visible threat at hand, I’m unable to resist. When, for unknown reason the fury still persists. No outlet. No villain to berate No evil to condemn to fate. Just a wall of unrelated words from nobles in their castles and no sort of hassle with them. ...

I braved the storm today. Masked up, arms bare. Dystopian mode operational. Filtering out the sandy wisps. Scouting out the wasteland for some pasta and a couple packs of crisps. I’m the protagonist of this story. Britain’s answer to Mad Max with snacks instead of gas. A tribute in the Hunger Games, satisfying hunger pains. Legs burning like the turning wheels on a red iconic bike. I refuse to be left to fester Fuck New York Escape from Leicester . Is what I’d like to say. I don’t think I could survive another day without turning my life into some kind of tv show. Pretend this is all scripted; That I could’ve predicted how fast they wrote the plot twist in it. And how in just one minute, it wiped out half the cast. I thought I wanted chaos and disruption. My own personal dystopia. Be a hero. The survivor. Find the cure. Scavenge the supplies with Katniss in the cornucopia. But there's n...

I don’t know how to talk about it, beyond the screen. Programming metaphors; weaving in the cries between the lies. Waiting for one reader, to intercept and intervene. Spitting numbers into letters. The inner voice screams at my therapist machine. Pent up pain wiping the slate clean. Banging my fists against the glass. I’m desperately looking at the little lights in green. Seeking some response, before I do something obscene. Come on. One of you must have seen! Did you not get what I mean? My online conscious Is disjointed. Infected by malware. Transferring files in routine. They must’ve been corrupted.     After all, the hardware, my avatar, in flesh and blood, isn’t to be trusted. It withholds information. Whatever’s manifested; Glitches and bugs on the surface, all shunted aside. Error messages: Reconstructed. Unresolved issues: Cannot be deleted. Hide them all unde...

Another night, I couldn't sleep. I didn't weep as the overflow took my hands. I complied to its demands. Just a little chore; Rake the leaves across my arms. Ignore the harm it does to the environment. Numb. Raw. I saw to it to keep going. Sowing seeds of pain. Water them with bloody rain, so they'll sprout fields and fields of attention seeking grain. Weeds I did not want. When the harvest was done, all they did was taunt. Too late now to help. Stayed up another hour, stitching up the scratched up seams. Bandage, band aid, pins and needles. Tuned out to reddit. Fingers feeble. Numb now to the sting. I'd softly sing, guessing if it'll leave a mark. Once patched up with blankets of fake soil, in the bed of dirt for which I toiled, I went back to the dark. Tried again to go to sleep. And yet, I still can't weep.

I broke the vase I was holding behind my back. I could have put it down kept it steady and sound. It’s still at risk of tipping, bodies clipping the edge and causing it to tumble. The risk of fumble is still there. But it’s where we can all be aware, and keep a careful eye. Even just to hold it front, and hold it close if that’s what you chose, then they could still see it. A flash, a hint, covering cracks,  but leave enough so you admit to the trouble you have holding it. But I held mine behind. Stretching arms, shaking pay no mind to the man behind the curtain. Tell me more, about the ones we see, the certain. Those vases need more care. A little rusty, chipped, worn, a flair of years of trauma. I grew warmer to these vases, and I ignored my own. We talked about the edges, sharp and out of reach, through my gritted teeth, as the ones behind my back dug right through the skin. Exhaustion ...

The decade was made for this mind to decline. Almost ten years taken, to recover from an existence that is broken. I spent the first dawn in the dark; the sun stuttered by the carving of a bleeding cross drowning it out. If it weren’t for the faces barely there in the shadows, whispering cries and murmuring love, the drops down the arm would have almost snuffed it out. I managed to stumble blindly, still holding the sun hostage, seeking out solace in voices I could barely hear. Halfway through the decade, And the voices convince me To let go of the sun, Just for a bit. I loosen my grip, and then in the penumbra I see something new. Beyond the living nightmares, Something glows. Inviting, warm, safe, a chance. I run for it, clawing and screaming until I found myself somewhere else. The voices followed, distant now, mixed in with the new ones. I let go a little more, shed the light. ...

Hands tied at the pole, I stand before the firing squad. Soldiers line up in ranks. Family, friends, peers, obscured by the uniform, eyes behind goggles, scowls behind smiles. Guns adorn their backs, each one loaded with love. The order goes out by the general. “To those who are about to die, we salute you” Feeble attempts at salvation. The rope is loose. I could escape anytime. No more pain. No more bullets. No more… Yet, I stand grounded, and my grit my teeth. Not yet. Just a little more. The whistle blows. Whizz. Bang. The bullets come barrelling. The shells are etched with praise, and kind words, ripping shreds through my skin. Psychological warfare by attention. “You did so well” My muscles ache. “I’m so proud of you” A bone breaks. “I love you” My legs shake. I collapse. Drained, and too tired to run. I look at the scars starting to heal. It hurts. It always hurts. So why do I love it still?

I would write a poem to tell you how I feel, but the words have gotten lazy; Barely strung together by aching fingers and exhausted thoughts on a foundation that is crumbling beneath the weight of hate and jealousy and uncertainty. It stands only a few flights tall, missing bricks next to pristine skyscrapers; Certified landmarks whilst I’m certified safe. That's not enough, not to be remembered. But the longer I hold it up the more it hurts. The slower I am. The higher they get. And every time I look up I lose a few more bricks. Maybe it’s time to scrap the foundations and start over with new blueprints. Something that can stand without the both of us breaking. Or maybe it’s time to accept defeat and stay grounded, lest I keep looking up at the skyscrapers only to find myself falling.

I stand in the scattered dust of my father’s garage. With my life in bags, I accept my gift from time itself. This place isn’t mine; Not anymore. Yet, they waited for me. I’m coming back. I’ve shattered the other side of the hourglass. My fuel is an elixir of blood and water. Still half awake, but now I control the nightmare.

The adrenaline has settled and without a tangible form of hope what was left has drained needing to be refuelled. Where has it gone? That motivation to create and care and move. I'm destined to live out my days bundled in childhood blankets, replaying the same games, watching the same shows. Over and over, dying to see myself in the credits. Instead, I'm just lying here, as my body rots whilst my mind lives inside. It plays out fantasies that I just don't have the energy for. I need fuel. I need adrenaline. But I can't handle either. Any more and I might just burn out for good

I lie, outstretched, on the bare bones mattress. With my life in bags, I accept my defeat against time itself. This place isn't mine; Not forever. So wait for me I'll be back; Looking at you from the other side of the hourglass.

Stacking boxes, locking the door, I say goodbye to the child that still isn't ready to grow up. Look at me kid. Papers are due, and so is the rent. We can't keep living in a dream if we want to stay in this imperfect heaven. I'm sorry to say, in order to gain we have to endure the growing pains. So stop hurting me, because nothing will change. Yes, I had to trash that silly story from year ten. Don't cry. We've made better things since then. You can scream all you like, but I can't control the clock. I'm not god. We're both more human Than we thought. I promise, I'll make it work. We can survive on our own. Live normally, like Deku without his quirk. Look I'm tired. You're tired. We've always been tired. So let's stop fighting, before we break ourselves. I'm kissing him goodbye now. I'm handing the last bag to mum. Time to go. You coming? ... Please? ... Don...

Inspired whilst watching the anime film Akira. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Rubber licks the concrete A bitter, drawn out kiss along the dirt No grass Only riot guards Fixated behind their mirrored glasses Plain sight hiding Watching who passes Only me My friends And our five metal steeds Who pay no heed To pigs in wolves clothing As we glide we are blind To the towers scraping skies To the smiles spouting lies To the signs The badges The mindless flies Screaming stop Or our helmet heads Will be on chopping blocks Still, we ride Knights in leather jackets Forming a crusade against commercialism A fight against fascism A massacre on the modern world With anarchy symbols painted on our shields And we yield for nothing less Than the freedom To fuck shit up

A poem about the experience of being non-binary. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I don’t seem to fit Easily into categories I’m a living contradiction Too much, too little Of one thing Or another My brain doesn’t work in boxes But open fields and curved lines My mind pales In the wake Of male and female I’m a little bit of both But not enough of either I seem to fail your tests Of what is normal As if there’s a formal agreement I mean I’m fine with it But you’re not So I’ll give it a shot To explain It’s like a song I know Too Normal, Too Weird Well I’m Too pink for the blue Too blue for the pink But you don’t think It can be that way You don’t understand But of course You can’t understand When your perspective Is pink And blue But I don’t need you to I just need you to Open your eyes Recognise That’s there’s more t...

There’s a cataclysm of chaos Under the skin Kept calm As the palms of my hands  Are shaking Overthinking Drinking in the environment Seemingly silent Though I’m battered By a whirlwind Of sensory violence There are some sensations Sex Love Flowers Food Much more pleasant to my mood And yet The small things The petty things Are like hailstones Cold Hard Endless Chipping cracks  In window glass Extending the duration Of the shaking And it’s taking A long time For the storm to pass

I’m tired. I’m still awake. I want hugs. I need my space. I’m not hungry. I’ll eat everything. I want to talk. I can’t think of the words. People are kind to me. They won’t miss me. I’m loved. It’s a lie. I trust you. I’m scared of you. I’m open minded. I hide so much. I could do great things. But that’ll never happen. I’m strong. I’m breaking. I want to die. But I don’t. I can handle it. I don’t know what to do. Kill me. Save me. I’m of two minds. And I can’t decide.

Before the birthday when I would turn three. These are the things that mum said to me. It’s too late for tea. It’s too late to ski. It’s too late to plant a brand-new tree. It’s too late to look out the window baby. So hurry my child, move quickly. It’s too late to dance. It’s too late for prance. It’s too late to try and save both of the aunts. It’s too late to take that vacation to France. It’s too late to give your sweet mummy a glance. It’s too late for pie. It’s too late to fly. Just go with your sister and daddy outside. It’s too late to cry. It’s too late to try. Don’t try and save me if you don’t want to die. Please don’t try and plea. Just take the car key. Go with the rest of the family and flee. It’s too late for tea. It’s too late for me. Your mummy has turned into a zombie.

On the 30 th of June, in the early hours of the summer’s dawn, I couldn’t breathe. Surrounded by merriment, the drunken chatter, the flattery of my lover. The air was clean despite the smoke. Still, I found myself about to choke. With enough sense to put down the third glass of vodka I rushed to the sofa. Not enough time to be alone, I moaned and reluctantly clutched at the curve of my neck. Blinded, my sanity no longer in check, I couldn’t stop the demon forcing its way into my lungs. My struggle to breathe sung a perishing cry that called the others from the outside. The lover ran first, followed by my friend and the strangers. Not a stranger situation had I seen. Until now the demon had kept me to themselves. Pain had to be secret you see. I didn’t deserve to be healthy and clean. And yet the man I didn’t know and the one I didn’t want to show this side felt inclined to believe otherwise. They said things I wanted to believe were lies. They looked me in the ...