Erase Me

Erase me
from your life
from your words
from your existence
like watercolour i can wash away

you have been all the gravity
you have been all the stains
but i have been momentary
like last summer
and i know the feeling
of this darkness growing inside you

it grows in me too.

but if you can’t stand it any longer
i’ll take the insect off your back
sucking your neck dry
and i’ll squash it against my eyes
i’ll erase us both from your days
and sometimes you’ll see faint lines

from where i used to be
i can’t remove those
but i can no longer be in your view
just colour you into something new
erase me if it makes you happy my love

i am grown and so are you.



N.B. For all the tempestuous sisters in the world making other peoples’ lives a misery.

She said,
That the fault lies on your hands,
His wrists bloody from the cutter that you used on him,
Your handcuffs dug into his skin,

She said,
That when your words fall to the air,
They twist like a knot into his head,
Something he will never be able to untangle himself out of,

He is too vulnerable, like a saint, like the lips of a baby, like a dove wing.

Oh she,
She said his eyes boiled under your careful watch,
You turned the heat up and he bubbled, then fell away,

You squeezed his head up until his brain popped,
And she said that you were tying the noose for his neck, as it were,
That is to say you wanted to kill him,
Put his body in a drain and leave him to the sewage,

That you had muddied him,
Ruined him, she said you wore him once then you shredded him at the seams,
She said you had a smile so convincing that it could change the weather,
That you were growing inside him like a tumour.

I promise I was never such a woman.
He could’ve been the pearls of the rain.
She said I was somewhat of a murderer,
But her hands still held the knife.

My Ex At the Kitchen Table

You still have jet-black hair gelled back.
We argued yesterday,
Do you still forgive me?

You kiss me on my forehead over the kitchen table,
You read your texts, your thumb squashing the keys quickly.
Am I those texts?

My ex is at the kitchen table,
Stirring his coffee, his white t-shirt clinging to his body,
Have you been working out?

He smiles, eyes full of poison.
But the dreams glide on that bronze skin, you have to be God,
The man knows he’ll destroy me.

He says he’s never smoked a cigarette,
But there’s a glass ashtray at the bottom of his bed on the floor,
And he plays video games with an addiction.

If I were fruit, I would rot on his tongue,
If I were meat, I would be salted by his teeth,
If I were any of these things, as my heart is,

He’d cover it in the bitterness of his tears,
Which never fall,
And I would never reach to his dark heart,

Only to the black sewers of his throat,
I would be half-eaten, half-loved, half-wanted,
My ex at the kitchen table rolls his dinars, fingers to thumbs.

With a smile full of rain,
His eyes black, because he has not quite finished making the stars in his eyes yet,
Decorating the universe is an art form of God’s, they say,

I have to remember the pull of my ex is as delicious as being pushed away from him.

You Are The Wound

N.B. You will fall in love, somehow, with something, and this thing will thread through your veins, it will stick in your gums. Hard as you try, the things you love may never leave you as you were. This is what I call, an incurable wound.

You must be stuck in my lungs somehow,
The choking is spreading, massacres.
You are the wound shrinking my heart to stone.

I am the embers of these kisses,
Words whispering on the curve of the writhing cell,
Coughing the endearments to your lips.

You are the wound,
You are cancer in my tongue,
Rabies in my eyes.

You are the host and the disease, you are homing me,
You are stitching into me, unravelling me,
The temperature uncoiling me.

You are that illness that never went away.

Cheese Fries

We ordered them with bacon and the guy put them on the table.

You gave me a quizzical smile.
I’d had two cravings that week:
Cheese fries and blowjobs.

You didn’t recognise it,
My smile, or my kiss,
It waved at you but you didn’t see them from across the street.

You ate your food,
I ate the cheese fries.
The bacon trimmings were pathetic.

Our wedding will need more nachos and more Finding Nemo on repeat.
And I happen to think Love Actually is a really wonderful and shit film,
And that the lines in our palms pressed together,

Could map the underground lines of Paris.
I think we could’ve slept together on 20 occasions this week
But we didn’t because I have to muster some self-respect together,

As though I were scooping up all the blood you’ve battered out of my head,
From rejection, of course,
With 20,000 kitchen towels and red smears all over my kitchen floor.

You come to share my cheese fries
And I’m sharing your skin,
Your heart,

We’re sharing the same organs,
You swallow, and I breathe.
I wanted you more than the cheese fries,

But either way, I’d still end up with an empty bowl.
And I don’t mind that.
We paid the order.

We went home, and again I said goodbye.

Worn Out

They put me into a cage,
Where I pulled the stems of feathers out of my back
And the green in my tongue glowed like a worm.

They wore me out,
The work kneeding my shoulders and bloodying me,
I rot in their jaws.

I peel the scolds and scrape the bruises off my teeth,
I warm my thumbs under my breath,
They wore me out, the curious stares and shaming my bones,

Trying to cleanse them with a matte kiss,
But I was dirtier still,
And carried my dry-bone heart and crumpled head back to size 8.

Personal Problems: 8th Account

I remember being just like you.
That kid with the rucksack.
I was the only one carrying the McKenzie brand.
I was the child from Walkden,
Kicks from JD and Rainbow House chippy.

I wasn’t aware of the term ‘chav’. I must’ve been one, then.

Dear Izzy,
Tell me something so innately personal
That God takes a meat cleaver
And slices your hands off to prevent you dipping into your purse,
Filled with Daddy’s dough and his measuring tape,
That he uses for dick-measuring,
With the rest of his rich-beyond-sense colleagues.

Whilst you think,
I’ll unhinge my boxes for you.
I’ll confess.
I am humble, deep down.
It is the waves of traffic and Chanel bags that abuse me.
I am not meant for hair, as straight as a bullet in motion,
I am not meant for make up, painted as though Monet spat all over you,

I am the kid that had tissue thrown at them on the coach.
Who fought to sit at the back and waited the 7 miserable years to look effortlessly cool,
By which point,
Seats no longer mattered.

Do your first class seats to the Bahamas matter?
I just wondered.

They ask me why now,
Why does this all come out now,
Why do you confess now,
And I don’t really know.

Maybe I am resentful.
Maybe I am disgusted.
We were all children once,
We all threw things at people,
We all grieved and gave each other grief.

Its been a while since I remembered the details,
But I needed brands to define me at school,
So I could be the private school girl.

At university, they plague me for it.

But I do not mind.

It is funny Izzy,
That in different worlds, different people
Scoop you up into a glass,
And watch you.
They often toss you out of the window like you were the unwanted guest,
The small insect nobody wanted in their home.

I wear myself like the skin of a cockroach,
With the words on my tongue
As though the sea had tattooed me with its salt,
And I wear myself free,
From Paul’s Boutique, from Kors,
From Mini Coopers and Volkswagen Polos at the age of 17.

I wear myself inside out Izzy,
I bleed rain.
And it doesn’t matter when the traffic goes or how many Urban Outfitters I see,
I can’t afford this stuff, really.
Drop us a KFC any day over this prom dress lark.

I didn’t go to prom anyway.
But I still consume because the world tells me I should be more like you.

I wear the skin of the oceans,
I nuzzle my heart  as if it were made of feathers,
I breathe like how we drop dice,
And that urge for two sixes finally appears.

Older as I become,
A cottage with 3 children sounds more fun
Than Gucci bags,
But every man for himself,
Every woman for herself;

I used to care, I used to dick-measure,
Now I am happy with lemonade and my Mother at my side.

That’s it for now Izzy,
I don’t have any other manuscript from the air to translate to you.
We all die.
Old age seems so far away doesn’t it,
But its 2016 next month?

So strange.

Anyway, we made a deal.
Tell me your secrets,
The treasure in your tongue,
The designers stuffed in your wardrobe.

What’s it like on the other side of the coin?

Its your turn now.

I Drink To Forget

I drink to forget that I was just like you.
I rolled in the mud,
I grew up with stars for light.
My heart that shrivelled seed.
You rummaged around inside of me.
I drink to forget that I have been forged and sold and tattooed by the night on his hands,
On my face his kisses still burn me,
I drink to forget other women will be me.
I drink to forget the lies that have snaked their way up my throat and slithered off my tongue like liquid poison.

I drink to forget that I have married an impossibility,
Where my veins carry blood they whisper heartache,
It flows to every inch of my scalded skin
My fingertips quivering at that loss
Tears and smiles,
I drink to forget them,
To forget my old self,
Free and intact,
Held together by a steel ribbon.
How a force greater than me loosened my knots
And tossed me into the oceans of his boundless words
That charm bloodied me
And I smiled.

I drink to forget my body
And the coast washing me up on the shores of this bar counter.
I drink to forget my lips,
Two velvet doors ever opened to meet his.
I drink to forget the millions that succumb to honey as sweet as this
That eyes will sail in the golden of his stare
That you will love him ever more,
Bleeding rain as he hacks out your heart
I drink to forget my empty chest
And the old words of a boy who merely bet on the touch of my skin.