How To Find Love

(NB. Studies say that marriages are more likely to last when the couples in question are religious. My reasoning for this is when you take a power like the belief of God and bind it into the anchor of your marriage, into your lover, it is very hard to corrupt. Vows are more than simple promises. Vows come from the vessels of life itself. We don’t come from a generation where if it’s broke, you fix it. We come from a screen scrolling and swiping generation. And you ask me why divorce rates are higher these days…)

Roll me daddy,
Over the floor. Take your cigarette
And stub me.
The ashtray girlfriend.
Lick me clean.
I caught the plague in my nose
And sneezed all over my friends.
Clumsy me.
Silly me.
Stupid me.

I am not used to this.
I am learning the tools.
I want to make incisions in all of you.
All of you fools.
With money to throw at Topshop.
I cut myself with razors, razors that I named like the seven dwarfs,
There’s Angry, there’s Insecure,
There’s Bloodthirsty, there’s Stress,
There’s Suicide, there’s Sloth
And then there’s Shame.

I have made an incision down my chest.
And I am bleeding.
And I am bleeding.
I have outpoured my secrets to the mattress I lie on like a slab of meat,
And I am somebody’s treat.
I am 18 and I have the clutch of a boy I love around my neck
And he tells me I’m his favourite girl.

I’m his ashtray girl.
And we drove into the Moon. Crashed into the crater.
Those stars, white blobs on my skin
Had to change current,
And the rip tide had me spiralling back into the arms of the Sun.
And the magnitude of my heart’s explosion,
Moved me, touched me like the White Rook catches the Black King in his plough to victory.

You don’t understand it though, kids.
You don’t know love like I do.
You don’t feel it through your fingertips,
Rip a hole through your galaxy,
You don’t taste it like peaches and cream.
To you it’s an exchange over Tinder,
A bracelet from Tiffany’s, drinks at the Alchemist,
It is Cloud 23 and desserts at the Hilton,
Trips to London, snorting cocaine on the tube from Notting Hill,
Like a great monster, your Jack Wills consumes you like a big bite of KFC.

Look into the Sky,
Find God. He’ll be there, in his red and white striped clothes, his 70s hippy black Harry Potter frames,
He’ll be there.
You just have to wade through the crowd of atheists telling you it’s cool to believe in nothing,
Throw caution to the wind and drop your prayers into the sea.

You take your Snapchat,
And you laugh at things like her twerking for TV,
You remove your dress,
You slip off your belt,
And the picture is there,
True as a Claude Monet.
As glad as gold. As soft as a dollar bill.
And that is your body.
Spilled like a vat of chemical waste,

The secret skips between each of your heart beats
And you aren’t learning your lessons.
Telling me about how largely endowed your boyfriend is.
Telling me about how many women in my year are beautiful.

Nobody is pornography to lick with your horny tongue,
Wipe the snake off your chin,
You’ve a slug for a tongue,
Where’s your heart’s fingers?
Touch your girlfriend, hold her,
Crash into the Moon with her and as you spiral out into the universe,
Hold her hand,
Hold his hand,
Marry yourselves to the flesh of your homes,

For every couple that does this,
I will cut my seven razors in half like credit cards.
I will smile like an outbreak of sunlight,
I’ll glow like ten thousand sunrises,
And I’ll tell you I love you.

Roll me over Daddy.
Over the lawn. I’m not your cigarette;
I am not your ashtray to sting.
You’re not my wasp.
I caught the love bug in my chest
And burst all over my friends like I was drunk in the love that another man gave me,
I didn’t have to Tinder, I batted my eyelashes like a Siamese cat and used my voice.
And I’m alive.

Genius me.
Happy me.
Congratulations, me.

You never knew.
When Daddy closed the door on you,
And Mother couldn’t be bothered paying for your bus fare,
That you slipped into Store Street
And popped amphetamines that raged your skull.
I’ve been there.

And I’m alive.


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