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,
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.


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