Personal Problems: 9th Account

(N.B. I have never been so honest to myself, to you, Reader, to humanity. I hope I never meet you. I hope your eyes never cut my face).

Some time back I said I fuck with words.
I still do.
I am their prostitute.
I am their dirty little whore.

My father holds me against the world,
If I could still keep his protection I would,
But I put 20 oceans between us for the sake of education.
Welcome to University.

Father, tell me something so innately personal
That it takes you back to you standing on the edge of your own father’s grave.

I know these cuts on your skin,
Father, Foreigner, Friend.

You never tell me your deepest secrets so easily,
I peel you back, layer by layer, once every 3 or 4 years.
So this time it will take you some time to think.
I’ll give you some of my own to soothe the pain you’re feeling.

I am your dirty half-breed daughter,
They called me that at school.
And I know it breaks you into two,
That you couldn’t whip humanity’s tongue back into the sewers of its throat.

I don’t blame you,
I don’t blame the blood running through my veins,
I’m happy to be this different,
I’m happy to stare in everybody’s eyes and be weird.

Your family try to love me, but not wholly,
Because I’m half Mother.
Mother’s family try to love me, but not wholly,
Because I’m half you.

Either way, both sides of the same coin are not in my life at all.
How long has it been since I stared into the eyes of my superior cousins?
So long.
So I live by the words,

And I’m sorry to say Father,
I’ve sold myself short to words.
I’m the Sasha Grey of language.
I don’t use protection, either.

How many times I’ve been knocked up,
I’ve lost count,
But I know that this coping mechanism hurts me so much sometimes
That I might as well abort myself.

If I weren’t in your life
Maybe I wouldn’t have licked the paddles of the racism,
I have swam in seas of other peoples’ spit,
So I go home and fuck another word or two.

Father, I’m sorry.
I’m sorry for not being a mathematician.
I know you don’t say too many words in your life.
I know you will never like this work.

But I love you.
I love selling myself for free.
I’m fairly good at it; just like sex,
You get better at it the more you do it.

Every poem of mine is another ex that you never knew about
And every word is another sore you never saw
But you don’t have to heal it
Or bind it with “daddy strength”

If you need to know,
Scroll the pages.
Go through my texts and call up my ex-words,
My one night stands with syllables,

Because I haven’t seen them in months.
I miss them.
I miss Mother.
I miss you.

Maybe the fact we’re so hated by so many people who don’t know us
It turned us into selling ourselves short.
You still respect yourself.
Maybe I don’t. Maybe I do.

I chuck the coins from the spaces between my legs
And hopefully someone will eat them,
I’m not doing this for the money,
I just want somebody to listen, even if its not you.

So there you go Father.
I’ve said my piece.
You’re not somebody to shirk out on a deal,
You’re a man of your word.

Its your turn now.


My Choices

I have pinned them to my face
Everybody sees these

Everybody doesn’t care
Some do
And some froth jealousy from their teeth

My choices paint my skin different colours
You can photocopy them if you’d like

We can print them out
Read them together
Stick them to our gums

Some days I am blinded by them
They give me scars that turn me to waste
But I’m sure to recycle the memory into something new

They are papers of my life
Stitches of my body’s ex-wounds

I understand them
They understand me

Beyond their text
They turn me into vapour

And I knowingly rain on them
From time to time
My choices are my friends

They are the shade of me
And if I touch you, you’ll turn the colour of them too.

On Reflection, Love

You weren’t funny,
I had never smoked a cigarette,
But the way we hung out together,
It looked like we chained it. Regular destructive couple. Kurt and Courtney.
But wasted as human beings, with no talent.

I spoke French better,
I sounded hotter to my English friends back home
And even my French teacher was jealous of my accent
Because I happened to do better than her at A Level French.
But I never happened to do better than you at the time.

I had wit,
I had dreams bagged in my suitcase every time I stepped on a plane to see you,
And I reckon for every prayer I made wishing we’d tie the knot,
Another lovesick girl somewhere in the world plunged a knife into her gut,
Another lovesick boy somewhere in the world held a gun to his head and it leaned on him like a friend.

I leaned on you like a friend. Your shoulder, or God’s step I used to say,
Somewhere in the depths of sky I died throwing my heart on you,
You cried afterwards when I heard of your first affair,
Begged for my fingers and my hands and my eyes to run through your hair, your body, your face.
Tonight I stand alone,

And you know I could always shrug it off, the second or the third time,
Took the piss out of it and it was okay
Its a pity I started to write poetry because of you,
But everybody mends a broken heart differently,
Somehow you were dragging the foetus out of me,

Something that I wanted to keep,
It wasn’t just any foetus,
It was twins, it was us.
With the rest of our bodies to come, to expand,
We hadn’t grown into the wedding clothes we’d stitched for ourselves

But you had a sick sense of humour,
And you threaded the knife through my womb and we were gone.
I’ve never known how much I wasted on you
But the years I spent every cell in my body believing in our life together
It all fell away, and I suppose it did not matter to you,

It never did.

That Woman

Were that she were made of runny honey
And red raw strawberries, all the refined sugar of the world,
Would it be that woman could still give you kisses that lingered like last Autumn on your clothes?

Would it be that woman would stay beautiful,
Holding the sun in her palms and making her light rain on you like wishes,
That woman with a scarlet heart of magic?

Well you’re mistaken. That woman,
Poison flowing in her teeth,
Her cheeks blossoming with mud and mulch,

Wouldn’t be yours or mine,
She’d be ugly, and know it,
Cry over her face with a bottle of red wine.

And the mirror would stand up to her and stare at her like a dagger.
It would be the bully who picked at her face.
You wouldn’t date her. Her thighs wider than the ocean, or so the boys on the bus used to say.

You’d marry an island,
Her, and her thoughts would be hungry, as always,
And would swallow the world up like a tub of ice cream.

That ugly, that disfigure, that asymmetric lip of hers,
Talks too much, doesn’t it?
But then again,

How would I know,
How would I know about her?
About how you see that woman,

How you in fact, must see me.

Marked As Unread

Oh honey,

Were that you a blow to the wind,
I would’ve wiped your smears away from my dark heart many months ago.

That your mistakes stained your hands like blood,
The reasoning behind your eyes is cross-stitched, you read my messages and then fold the pages of the diary back.

I would’ve tossed your empty literature into the fire.
I would’ve buried the embers underneath the sea.

I have no place for you inside me.
It is with a heavy bag I carry my dry bones, the marrow stuffed with mistakes like you,

Meeting you, knowing you,
Learning to be friends with you.

Oh honey,

Were that you a final kiss,
I would’ve sponged away your glossy pout away from my lips.

I would not have bought your book,
I would not have invested into your emotions, whatever spirals you “out of control”,

You wear your flesh insane,
But your insides are measured, calculated and cool.

I have seen the darkness in your irises, the lies that drip like pitch off your tongue,
They are reality with a twist, a cocktail of your deceit.

Oh honey,

Were that you a stranger,
I might never have made you a friend at all.

His Face Against The Angel

He held the weight of each bauble in his fingers
Nodded, smiling and hung it on another branch
Said something about how much buying them reminded him of his Mother.

We took the angel and placed it on top of the tree
It fit like a dream.
I looked at his face searching Gabriel’s
And he swore it smiled.

I married a diamond, maybe, in the rough.
I’d like to think we spent every day like this
Stuck in slippers
His kiss unwrapping me, as soft as a ribbon

Surrounded by angels and lights.

Hello Everyone

Hey everybody, I thought some of the people who follow me on here quite regularly and like a lot of the posts might be interested in following my Twitter, I realise on WordPress I tend to have this mysterious “Who is this Lymh/Lydia” persona who writes this very depressing poetry about failures with other people in my life, but I figured if you’d like to read more honesty and more self-pity then you can follow my Twitter page and learn more about my work and how often I tend to think about pain and hardships humans experience throughout their, in perspective, very short but equally just as meaningful lives. Here’s the link below to my page and thanks again for reading my stuff, my small readership here means a lot to me.

“These are the virginity sheets,” He Said

“these are the virginity sheets,” he said

he sent me a photo, blurry
of the blood-stained sheets
where he’d lied to his parents when they saw them
and said he’d had a bad nose bleed overnight

so full of sin that night was
his mother had no idea i was hiding in the wardrobe
waiting for her to disappear
waiting for us to disappear under the duvet

who’d have known that we would emerge a few hours later
dazed and done
adults holding the pillows
and tugging our teddy bears, confused now
we’d lost ourselves to each other.

Boyfriend’s Online

and you think we can be billionaires
living dreams that we dreamed of having
you come online
and my heart knee-jerks

i don’t have many words in my mouth to savour
to suffer
to make you mine
but you have no time to send me your letters

because you were there then you were gone
and we have problems
enough to lick the tides in and out
save the moon a job for at least 5 months

i don’t know what to say when you come online

maybe its better that way.