The Road to Finding Oneself

Give me ways to fall asleep,
I’m floating across this reef.
The moon’s the apple of my eyes,
I will crunch a chunk and dip it into the stars.

I pretend I am real,
I am stuck into your routine,
I fall in love with the way I air dry
Tell the world I am free and alone.

And I mean it,
When I say I’ll make what I can out of this,
Harvest life’s crops into concentric circles
Like I dropped an acorn into the river.

Angels are my Daddy’s lover,
And Mama’s carer,
When I go home I want their hold to crush me to their hearts
That I can no longer heave out the air from my lungs.

I push the kisses into the bottle,
Send them across the sea,
Can anybody find me?
I am smothered by sea air and 3 showers a day,

Spending the money like sailors on liquor,
The clouds are my eyeshadow,
The night my eyeliner,
The sunrise will be my lipstick,

I lacquer layer upon layer of insecurity onto my feeble soul,
Don’t you know what its like to feel whole?
Open your arms wide, there’s creativity inside,
And passion puts itself on a spin,

I loved you this whole time.

Advertisements

Adjusting, y’know?

(NB. 2 Months In. This ‘Drake Can’t Dance’ video is trending everywhere. So are post-Freshers photos. Brothers is the cider everyone buys here. Nobody can afford Kopparberg. And I hate Asda).

I have to believe
That when I thread the static through your chest,
That we tap the xylophone to our heartbeats,
And you’re betrayed,
I know, there’s blood in your eyes now,
And you’ve been shot in the mouth.

And I sit myself down, and say,
Its okay to feel this way darling.
Because when you need me I’ll hammer your brain to juice. With the overanalysing.
I get around, town to town,
People in Falmouth don’t know just what I can do yet,
But its Cornwall, only the Atlantic knows me,

Fucking skateboarders outside my room every afternoon,
Enjoy yourselves just not outside Block F, Flat 4,
Ugh.
Dicing the cocaine, the amount of bolshy boys here, its insane,
Its like I never left Manchester.

Let me sip on this Brothers.
Wild Fruit. I picked the raspberries from your tongue
And sing you a song
About your old school and old friends
And the daisies you used to pick for them,

Do you miss it?
Because I bought a shovel and some bleach and buried it for you.
I never planned to be the type to write threatening post it notes about cleaning the fucking dishes,
But here we are.
I watch Gavin and Stacey on repeat,
Pretend that somewhere Mum’s putting dinner on
And I can smell the herbs from my bedroom.

Oh I’m in love. Its hard.
I wish I had control of my limbs around his face,
But I still buckle every time I see him breathe.
Rubbing my cheeks to lose the blood rushing to the surface,
I take the xylophone tapping to my chest
And I feel the rhythms that Jake dreams of spinning,

Put Chic into Spotify and chunder everywhere at 4am,
Won’t make it to tomorrow’s lecture, don’t tell Mum,
Yes I’m scared of Rupert, I bet he owns a cane,
But you need a scary guy like him to crack a whip
And realise that its £9,000 a year for shit like this
And so it wouldn’t have been, if y’all hadn’t believed Tories love our economy,
Nah, just their mothers and pockets.

What did I go and fall in love for,
What did I go and fall in love for,
Love for that, and peaches and cream on summer grass
Fireflies dead in my eyes, I will be returning to these shores,
Beached on the bay, fire’s turned to gold,
Sweating on my back returning for Ben’s fingers plaiting my hair again,

Sweating on my back waiting for Mother’s hold around me again,
Sweating on my back anticipating Dad to tell me he loves me one more time,
Feathers in my hair,
What’s with all these stares,
Scribbling the poetry down, d’ya think this shit’s good enough for With magazine?!!!!

I’ve already been deleted by people at uni already,
What can I say, butter wouldn’t melt on my lips,
Spit spit spit.
Laura’s hot chocolate’s good.
Bitch I’m faded.
We get to 3 am because I slept all day
And my body clock’s fucked.

Is this the same for everybody?
Towel rail’s hot,
And Flat 3’s walking around again.
Xylophones to my chest.
Shower drips.
And I’m never losing this accent.

Girls

Little Girls: When father gave me carbonated water the taste made my eyeballs ache and my tongue shrivel, electrified, and my nose was stained with the unpleasant taste.

Reckless Girls: But since finding other men, I encountered a naturally racist young Nazi scouting Cambodia who could make me laugh harder than the wind knocking branches at my window on Halloween night.

Love-Sick Girls: It was fishes rippling my ribs, bubbles rising in lemonade tickling my sides, that was laughing with you. Carbonated liquid smiling in my chest.

Curious Girls: When father drove me and mama home on late November nights the street lights used to sprint backwards on the motorway, and if I squinted my eyes hard enough, the moon’s stare used to blend with them until my vision made the lights and the moon-rays appear like UFOs landing on the car roof.

Scared Girls: At 14 the streetlights were still tall and in nightmares they could bend their backs and tap their bulbs onto my bedroom window.

Regretful Girls: And before the council refitted new bulbs the old lamps used to shine different oranges and reds and ochre yellows. It reminded me of grandmother’s fruit-bowl, passed down to my mother. We kept it in a corner in the kitchen. Midges used to eat the apples.
Now the streetlights stain the sky mud.
I never enjoyed growing up.

Successful Girls: When I finished paying off my bills, I looked up at the sky and figured, I was here, countless of bullies had bruised me with the belief I wouldn’t be. I hung up my cashmere coat, and with it, hung my old enemies by the neck on my doorstep.

Mean Girls: Uncle would come round on New Year’s. I used to go to the bathroom when the doorbell rang. I could feel his fingernails digging into my skin again. His hands were always muddy, and his fingers fat. He never cut his nails. They were long and yellow. His breath was peppermint and cigarettes, and he flashed a crocodile smile and handed my parents my Christmas present. It was always a box of chocolate orange cremes. When I was little, I used to love them. I told him they were my favourite, before I grew tits and became pretty.
A new girl brought them in one day and at lunchtime I beat her face in.
Her face reminds me of my own when my Uncle has to look after me after school.

Lonely Girls: My boyfriend’s always out. He comes back smelling of somebody else’s kisses. Forget Chanel. I can smell the lust on him. Like roses. I grew like a weed in the sinews of his heart, and I pace the floor on Friday nights, checking my phone, spying on the clock. The TV blares into the night and the cold can of beans festers on the carpet. That’s me, Apartment 3A, Orlean Heights, on 9th. I smoke so much I’ve turned yellow like the Moon. Little does he know I’m smoking his side chick into the night.

Mentally-Unfit Girls: The Devil’s on the inside of my brain, and he is saying “scratch, scratch” into the night, burning his tongue on my forehead, licking my tissues, lapping up my blood like milk. If I cut and cut and cut my face, he bleeds out in the form of my mother’s ghost.

Teenage Girls: But Daddy, I hate him!

Fat Girls: My gut’s bigger than ever before. Can I carve the words “lose weight” into my brain? No? My arm will have to do.

Thin Girls: My head’s so small that my Princess crown won’t fit my head. Can I carve the words “lanky bitch” into my heart? No? My arm will have to do.

Old Girls: Such is life. “Raised by parabolic dunes”, Grandmother. Here I am, sat by his side on the porch, drinking lemonade, surrounded by all our children and grandchildren.

Heartbroken Girls: That’s the way of the heart. You can easily snake it around your fingers, hand somebody the key and they will lace you into their lips. They lace your heart with themselves. Drugs are good. You took yourself away from me, no more high. I just want to drink your blood, baby.

Vain Girls: Grew the fuck up, and found out that Santa has orgies with his elves on Christmas Day. Biggest orgy of the season. Carbonated water’s bad for you. Anything with “carb” in front of it is bad for you.

Big Girls: I still hate carbonated water. Oh, to be little again. I wear nighties now, contemplate my pay cheques, try to eat lots of fruit, avoid walking at night when the streetlights are on, don’t date anybody, and just generally try to forget how easy it used to be.
I want an exercise book for everything in life. Let me practise and give me a gold star.

Escaping Marriage

Strip back your nails, dear.
You’re the biscuit crumbling on my tongue,
Butter wouldn’t melt,
You’re 23 and young.

Gather your hair into a pony tail,
Wear yourself like a Chanel suit.
Be fabulous.
Scrap the cigarette ashes off your teeth.

You’re all wonders,
You’re all no cares,
You’re not just a hole to men,
People fall in love with the breeze in your eyes.

Its time.
That you redid your French manicure,
And married yourself to wall-less contours of your mind.
You’re liberated from me, be free.

The Party

We get older,
We outgrow our hot pants and glitter,
The mixers and slippery kisses
Tracing our waists.

Insects skulking our rotten oranges,
Tea at the bottom of mugs,
Lips dry from the pencils in our teeth,
And paperwork runs through our paper-thin blood.

They chuck me into their diary,
And that my drugless spine doesn’t get off on space cakes anymore
And I don’t believe in Urban Outfitters
But the knitted jumper and keys to lock my doors at night.

We all still have fun,
But there’s the rub,
The grey face, world-wearied, reliving the cheats.
Woods won’t keep secrets.

I put the peanut butter to my tongue
And am remembered by countless childhood kisses
From the fresh faced blooms of blossoms
And slide dens in the garden, swimming pools and itching with chlorine.

Moonlight creeps and I let myself slip away into the night,
And I grow older with every blink
And breath.
But who ever knew I was here?

I whip myself to the sky
And there the words overtake me, God’s in the fast lane,
Eyelids twisting with the weight of lead crushing them,
Creaming them to waste,

I can’t see anymore.

Black Coffee

Put your cigarette in my mouth.
Do you feel its bitter tongue lock you in fumes?
I know this feeling.
Its guilt. As grey as bad meat.

And it makes its stains on your eyes.
Patches of it bruising your cheeks,
What are you hiding in your sleeves?
Halloween, love of my life, and black coffee.

I can’t drink it.
I can’t back out from the pain scoring my vessels,
It burns and I melt with it,
I am flushed into a puddle of nothing.

He blew me away.
And I knew that I couldn’t fathom the separation,
It took all my heart to heave itself onto the coastline
And wrap itself around the edge of the sea’s frothy lips

To realise that it was more than just a simple kiss,
It was falling in love in a car in a field in a new world
And his shirt stained in new colours beyond what I’d imagined,
I’m burning on the sofa from the distance I hadn’t anticipated,

Drinking black coffee I can’t swallow.
It hurts my chest,
And my bones dry from the frost on somebody else’s t-shirt.
I could hardly tell you their name.

I’m submerged in black coffee,
And I like the quiet darkness of it,
I fall asleep.
I don’t pretend to be dead. I am dead.

It was Italian tapas, many lunch times ago,
That brought us together,
Over conversation and questions
And “how’d you dos”

But I can’t remember the details of it all.
I’ll not forget you my angel.
The cigarette’s almost burned down to the bottom,
The crux of this poem is simple,

I shouldn’t have drank black coffee when I knew I didn’t like it in the first place.

Personal Problems: 7th Account

(NB. IDGAF)

Last time I spoke to
All the people that don’t love me,
And critics,
and works of art,
And I scratched my head asking,
“What have I done now?”

I type the keys as though I were playing the piano
and these words test me on the page,
I don’t really blame you or anybody for trying to heal me,
I’m standing on the horizon and I’m seeing angels now.

Its a letter to my boyfriend.
Shall we open it?

Dear lover, tell me something so innately personal
That your tears scream out of your tear ducts,
And you’re no longer alive.

I’m passing the book on,
here’s hoping they study me one day.
I’m not sure whether you’re going to tell me what it is you’re feeling
But I hope everybody outside of the people I love,
Are out there burning.
So whilst I tell you what’s wrong,
You’ve got to repay me in some way,
Whilst you think,
I’ll tell you another of mine.

I am wasting my life on studies.
Pursuing poetry, defenceless against the sunset,
I’m drowning in near-paradise,
But my soul’s never felt so let down before,
Was this meant to be it?
And you’re somewhere other than here
Does it do well to test the strength of a relationship
By putting acre after acre after acre of grass and sheep and arm and leg
Between us,

I’m hardly learning how to breathe
But there’s a whole sea in my stomach
and the waves are choppy,
My heart’s little boat can nearly stay afloat,
But whatever,
I’m the one telling you which one would you do,
Savannah Stern or Alexis Texas,
And don’t call me mainstream for eying up the success
of the “best women out there” using sex to get ahead…

Some people out there have dreams
Of sucking a dick belonging to their boyfriend,
But he’s sleeping in another room,
and his lower torso has snaked around the distance
Just to meet your lips
And be eaten with your eyes.

Curious.
I don’t really know what’s of us,
But I tried to deny we were even in a relationship
Just to save people chittering
because they didn’t have much better to do with their lives,
Talk about the tables turning, crutch under the other arm now,
I chitter about their lives
And they either know or don’t,
Fine by me.

I’m sick to death of the dragging carcasses I carry,
Ironic in a flat of girls, it could still be so messy
And two women have left their plates on the side for 5 days now,
I’m gonna smash them over their heads.
Its just like school again isn’t it,
The amount of times I wanted to bash old friends of the head with their own self-certainty
And arsiness,

I burn cigarettes into their arms,
Into their eyes,
They melt like blood and harden like a boner.
Feeling flushed yet lover?

Why’d you have to do it,
Why’d you have to put my chest into your ribcage,
God calls it a safety jacket,
I prefer to call it a built-in prison,
I don’t even get to shower inside you,
But I suppose when you give your heart to somebody
they get to decide what it is they wanna do with it
And if I get crushed,
Well, I hope I make a great smoothie.
Unforgettably good.

Nothing’s gonna make us stronger than the next 3 years,
but hell, why am I tying myself down,
And why do I think and contemplate the future when I don’t even know who I am
or what I’m looking for in myself,
but I’ve been rummaging through the same chest of drawers in my brain
For YEARS
and all i’ve found is poetry

Just to write what I feel,
Well, this is one part of what I feel,
“COOEEEE!!!
IT TAKES GUTS TO SPILL YOUR GUTS
AND OPEN YOURSELF UP TO A BUNCH O’ CRITIQUE N STUFF
But I am perfectly entitled
To blowing you away with the champagne corks
and showing you
just exactly what I’m made of”.

And there you go,
I’m stained in blood of others,
“Why’d you have to go put my name down”
“Why’d you make me look so bad”
Truth is,
I don’t really care.

After years of people telling me I wasn’t worth it
because I’m weird and strange and I don’t earn a place amongst you guys so we can be friends
girls ruining christmas ball for me because of their personal vendettas,
other girls ruining school for me because of their pernicious mothers or pernicious personalities
Truth be told,
I haven’t got a single teardrop left to smear across the face of this dirty scummy planet,
And fuck anybody here who says I can’t break the barriers,
I’m about to toss the world up into the air like a coin
And it lands only on MY SIDE
when nobody else is around you
Cast your mind back to kissing in the car at early morning,
and in dying in that split second, we’d be happy,
I feel your arms around my torso pulling me in closer
but you’re not any closer,
And its breaking me.

And fuck it, we have to busy ourselves, prepare ourselves for the worst,
But truth is I don’t want to get hurt,
Who really prepares themselves for the sell-by date on what nourishes them most in this life,
More than pizza, more than hot chocolate,
I just want Halloween again as a young girl
and my mother holding my hand on the streets
she’s cradling me on the sofa in a warm blanket
And we’re happy,
I’ve never felt more protected than being in her arms,
And that’s why every bad day at school there ever was
(I’m really sorry to say that most days there were bad)
I’d turn the TV on and sob into her shoulders
And I don’t even have that and the winter air biting my head off
To do that.

I’ve just got breezes.
And I’m making amazing friends with stories you wouldn’t believe.
Suffering is so common, happens to everyone,
But I don’t give a shit if I’m offending “the man she loves”
Because I don’t fucking love him. LOL.

What I’m trying to say is,
I wanted to come to the beach and take everyone I love with me
And you should’ve been here on this really sunny day.
Just take care of yourself,
I’m wearing your skin now.

So, that’s that for now,
But if you get the chance to ever reply to me,
Just send something back.
Anything, this time, really.

Love

I need it,
sometimes it turns me to pulp
and it shreds me into bits of emotions
leaves me holding onto my mother’s knee, sucking my thumb

when I hear my family can’t sleep at night
my arteries change seasons
don’t you know that I’m falling this year
for the whispers of ocean in men’s voices

and the kisses cut from the devil’s hair,
not afraid to say what it is,
I’m desperate for self-esteem, as ripe as the moon
as ready as a woman’s sad blue eyes

it doesn’t matter to me,
I crave it,
more than the needle to thrust into my tongue
let it come from you.

Clear Water

I believe in finding happiness from holding somebody’s hand
Diamond heart, I’m fragile, being this far away has cut me into prisms of misery
I can taste his tears all over me,

Measurable by the distance,
The stretches of arms across fields and flowers,
Our fingertips touch.

Liquid grey, mercury tinged with a blue,
I could drown in it, I could read a book through those clear eyes.
Goosebumps grow as his lips trace my spine.

I meet somebody,
Tall, skinny, BFG-type, the boys you see in films playing in fields,
All freckles and sunshine,

And every bit sweet.
But now deeper and taller and stronger.
And all of me crumbles.

My heart scratches its way out of my ribcage to be with his.

I Can’t Give This Poem A Title

(NB. Logic I find is probably where humans feel the need to detach themselves and become objective in their approach to things in life, and my answer to that is that its unnecessary. I’ve been at university for 3 weeks and my A Levels literally don’t matter anymore, I’m not even kidding, feel inclined to disagree).

You turn the tap on,
Hot water, lather up in bubbles,
Too hot, where’s the cold?
Make it cold.
Make it ice. Frozen to the artery.

Some people are born with icicles for bones.
And their heart’s cold pulp, glaciers in their brains.
Tell em’ to fall in love
And they’ll refuse the words like God’s existence.

Tell yourself that you should go to Cambridge
And spend your days referring to people below yourself as the ‘common man’
We do it for our middle class wits
And our ice age world,
Pick up the phone and isolate yourself on Instagram.

Nobody’s listening, darling.
So what do I have to say to somebody like you?
Can you pick up a pen and write a poem
About how much it hurts to heave the air into your lungs,
To anchor yourself to the soil
But the world is being dragged out from underneath your feet.

Try to talk but you can’t,
You have a thousand cherry stones in your mouth
And you lack the confidence to spit em’ out.
Poor you,
Objective with your 3 A*s and not much left to go on,
I love your wisdom,

Riddle me this.
That when you cover yourself in your 13.5 tog duvet every night
And Mummy’s put the phone down to make a roast dinner
Do you choose to wash away your feelings about the one person you love
Off like watercolour?

Who’s your canvas, who’s going to paint you?
Your life was painted a primary colour,
And nobody cares for casual blue,
I want to start seeing the cerulean in you.
You don’t feel the clouds drift over your skin during the day,

You don’t stop to appreciate,
The Sun on your back, heat as hard as though God were stubbing his cigarette butt in you.
You’re his ashtray.
You think poetry’s all about “the morning dew on the grass and lemons in your basket”
But its actually about HIV and prostitutes drinking apple juice at 2 am.

You think I could care less about my exams,
Oh dear, my CV’s just not good enough for somebody,
Dog eat dog, well I’m a wolf,
I’ll devour you.
I’ll squeeze you like a toothpaste tube,

Vomit your minty fresh grades all over my sink,
I’m scrubbing out your words from my flesh,
Honey I won’t do my best,
You don’t deserve it,
Wanna come round for just Netflix?

We all want to be powerful,
But I wield it with my tongue and I whip it into your faces,
If it was really all about the money
I’d be off to Cambridge living my bog standard life too,
I wouldn’t be dissing and kissing and drinking and “sleeping about”,

Wishing I was 1000x better than I am now,
Wishing my material was good enough for The Rialto (HAHA)
Wishing I would one day be good enough for The New Yorker (HAHAHA)
Wishing one day Meryl Streep would read my work and make some philosophical quote about much she loves me,
(Now that, I do want)

But I spend my days putting this up for free,
Wiping the dick off my mouth,
Trying to taste him, remembering what its like to be in love again,
Reminding myself my Nana’s ill still,
And how she loves me less now, less than her pills.

And if I didn’t have wordpress they’d be trailing the depths of my diaries,
I don’t care if you read them,
Walk into my room and throw yourself into it,
I would say work hard and get your A*
But what the hell does anybody who’s started Year 12 at Bolton School care,

We’re all just too scared to hand the report paper home to our parents,
And some of you will get a new car for smoking weed on week nights (as so many of my year did)
And don’t give me the bullshit about “I’m doing this for me”
You’ve been conditioned to think that making money is all you really need,
My answer,

Well,
Go ahead and lose yourselves.
Come back at the end of your life on your deathbed
And tell me you wish you’d make a couple extra zeros on your cheques,
Or that you’d fallen in love harder with someone who wasn’t on a contract,

That what the world needs is more Vuitton
And less love,
And the belief that our icicle bones won’t thaw
Whilst we believe what the government tells us
And that nobody really saw 9/11 coming,

And that all Muslims believe in ISIS,
And that Labour left the country penniless
and that the Conservatives really give a shit about your Daddy’s money,
and our economy and austerity and fidelity to the taxpayers of Britain
It curdles my blood just to think about it,
But suck it up through a straw,

This is my homemade soup,
And you’re about to drink,
And I won’t have anymore of it,
I’m angry damn it,
HOW MUCH DO YOU LOVE YOUR LOGIC?

Strange isn’t it,
The way we stick shards of ourselves into our savings accounts
And promise the numbers’ll get bigger, better,
And we won’t be making curly fries in the oven forever
For post-drunk nights out,

And you know how important you are,
Shaving the stars into your eyes,
Cosmic galaxies for you to find,
Drop you into the oceans,
And realise,

You’re more than this brain, this body, this £65 A-Line skirt from Topshop.

Turn the cold water off.

Go be vulnerable. Disarm yourself, dictionaries and guns don’t help.

Wear you naked.