2 am toast

rob’s making toast at 2am in his kitchen
and i’m kind of confused
because i don’t know where i am.

we’re young and convulsing under the stars.
“what’s your story?” “tell me about yourself?”
“where’d you lose your virginity?”

they just wanna eat their toast for fuck’s sake
and i’m crying questions
to boys who feel weirded out by a curiosity

of mine that never dies, that never kills me.
oh i bruise up on the surfaces,
clench my jaw, wish i was the life on mars

that everybody was so desperate to discover,
won’t you be the first to discover me,
and not what’s in my underwear?

rob swallows the toast and i’m disjointed.
i’ve come round just so i can leave because i’m the kind of company
that wilts after 3 days of socialising,

my kind of humanity can’t be bothered
with this kind of humanity,
where we sit listening to The Who feeling a little dead post weekend.

i’ve been so weird this year.
so i drag myself back to my flat
and i’m kind of confused because,

i don’t know who i am.


cigarettes are bad for you

N.B. for being young and heartbroken and complex and unforgiving and hating the world

we are sucking the life out of us aren’t we darling?
we are complicated and weird,
hurt by foreign bodies that used to wedge themselves
deep inside our hearts.
how on earth did we ever dislodge them friend?
I say, “cigarettes are bad for you”,
and you light up another, so I laugh at your lungs decomposing
and what fun it must be to be so addicted
to something so bad for you.

then I remember that I was once wearing those shoes.
dragging on the same cigarette.
snorting, injecting, rolling with the sun.
I saw moonlight every time I looked at him.
they wonder what could’ve made me such a heartless wretch,
well, as Romeo says,
I never saw true beauty until this night
but then of course, I lost it like heart’s needle.
and so the story goes I had my lungs turn to ash in his hands.
forget the world, and God too.

there is a strange in your eyes,
and for this I treat you with a dick-sucking,
because how many more of me are there in the world
who won’t feel sorry for you the next time you make a mistake?
how many will visit you when you’re heartbroken?
standing on the bones of your dead relationship.
hearing he’s broken condoms in half on other women,
and you,
eating dry cereal out of the box at 4 am.

cigarettes are bad for you,
but I guess broken hearts will be the death of us,
tell me was it your mother that broke you in this way?
or was it your father who cleaved your soul into two?
I am a bad girl, you are a bad boy.
we are famous for our kind of cold,
but something is stale on my lips, it’s my ever-forgiving soul,
so once you have used me, done with me,
come out here on the balcony, light another cigarette,
and die tomorrow.

i am a beautiful disappearing trick

you wanted me to be something quiet.
something soft to mould
and fold under your word.

out from my lamp I rose
where you rub me dry
I cry under your careful watch

no tissue offered
but under a curse you lay me in
I gave you what you wanted.

it was old magic
spun from my careful hands
withered by your empty kiss.

it was wish after wish
spell after spell
written in your name.

I bore you the young of my time.
the patience, the security.
and in that I crossed another bridge.

where the seconds flew by you smiled
dribbling wine from your eternal parch
I grew loud, now.

angry with the sores on my back
for the shackles you sacked me in
from this I couldn’t weep a drop of freedom.

I got out from an honesty
so addictive it might be called love.
so pure it might be cocaine.

you wanted me to sink in deep
into a silence that coiled
and twisted hard in my stomach.

in the guts of you
I grew and became something much bigger
a dissatisfied slave

every drop of magic gone in me
and instead a tough seed waiting to kill you
it bore into the night.

quiet at a time where I can be
I will submit to your dreams lover
but quiet when I am all used up?

ah, that shall never exist.

do whatever you want to me

N.B. i will reiterate the casual fuck back to you

whether that be trailing yourself
across the centimetres of my lips
it is for you, to you
to throw me to the bunkers

i am that slave redefined by your kiss
sometimes your words trail behind me
sometimes i follow them
either way you are that command

i want to touch
and if it would take you beyond the reaches
of horizon to horizon
where i don’t spend another night blurring into day

where i don’t remember yesterday
it would be this, staining the bedsheets with cigarettes
telling you you can do whatever you want to me
i am that emptiness with zero heart

no matter,
i seem to have misplaced my feelings
no doubt they’ll return on a surfboard with the night
straight back into you.

I Want To Tell You

N.B. for friendships you’re not sure of

that you and people like me go hand in hand.
i am a child by definition,
my eyes wet from staring at the moon.
and i haven’t much to say to you, you are a friend
so naturally, kiss me if you have a minute to spare.

my fear comes from thinking i’ll be 14
wearing lipgloss, thinking i had a chance at ruling the world again
the things  I want to tell you
are sunken just beneath my ribs,
but not quite close enough to my heart.

i admit i am a wretch with no emotion for you
i want to tell you now that no good can come of me
and you will have to smile your way through that
pretend you have some sort of laugh
as you taste my guts,

spilling all the secrets.
i want to tell you that i am a daughter
of people that have hollowed out their backs
for each other, who would believe i’d ever have any talent?
who would ever really know me?

i want to tell you
i’m not interested in the whys and wherefores
but for you to discuss your soul with me
over granola and yoghurt
or pizza, if you’d prefer.

my eyes are wet from staring at the computer screen.
believe me i have nothing to give.
question all others, they have stripped all of me away.
this is half 3 in the morning
our midday maybe.

you are a friend of stranger innards
cut from similar pained organs
only interested in licking the stars dry.
we will wipe each other’s tears from our cheeks
if there are any to shed.

or just pretend we can cry, somewhere on a roof, young and alive.

Personal Problems: 12th Account

N.B. Now ain’t it strange? Your Tarot cards will get you through it, so light a candle, go to sleep. Leave the cocktail pitchers for another day.

There is a deep kind of magic
That you have to deep throat on before you can really
Taste fairies and taste the world as God made it
Where you don’t have to miss your mother Eve
and blame her for your being conceived.

Dear Mother,
Tell me something so innately personal
That it tears me from your womb.
That filters my blood from yours, our genetic separation.
God wouldn’t pay attention to the fact
I’m your daughter,
If tomorrow he decided to gut me on a highway
And the cars ran over me like insects.

In return,
I will give you the favour
Of hearing me speak out my pain
Because no such pain is worse
Than the one that plagues your child.
Am I still your child Mother?

I have been hearing of a woodpecker for many days now
Pricking the sides of my house
It is interrogating me for reason, for decisions
And Mother I have no boyfriend
No best friend except for my bones and the blood
That run through us
Fountains of centuries that are tucked neatly
Into the smiles of our eyes.

Mother what the hell am I doing?
I took my bags and dragged them away from our house
I left like a spell of rain.
Mother why am I this way?
What do me you?
Come again my friend tell me what to do.

When it all runs dry
And I have no more tears left to cry
The ducts in my eyes
Have shrunk to pin-pricks
And I only drink from this emptiness
Pour yourself wine, leave it on the coffee table,
I will sip it in secret as you flip steak in the kitchen.
I am 6 years old again. Curious as kittens, as spiders.

Mother my heart’s in a little place called Cornwall
And I don’t feel the need to fight myself
So let me cave in
I am my own worst enemy
Though I hope to sip myself like your wine,
I am a great fruit

And heaven hope I’ll find a man
Who’ll pitch up my dreams with me
And we’ll live inside them like a tent
Because that’s what you want me to do, no?
Mother why is it we can never have what we want?
Why does nobody need me?
And yet I am the stain on their favourite t-shirt
That just won’t wash out.

I take to my Tarot cards for advice
Because you are far away, sleeping.
I am 5 am and dying.
I am 3 pm and I am the girl from Ipanema.
A man takes photos of me
And I am somehow beautiful
And how nobody could ever want me

When the world is at my feet
I will work all at night
Then walk with a boy all over campus
And tell him I like to walk
And hear the world come to life
I would go to the supermarkets with my new friends
And tell them being there at 2 am
Is like living in some kind of dystopian novel.

It will rain tonight and I just want my teddy bear.
Instead I want to be kissed by someone new.
And I reject them because I want Dad to keep my heart
Locked in a cage
I want to be untouched
I want to be dissolved of all previous failures
Live and learn you say but it’s stopping me from living
And then of course, learning.

Mother I left the shower an hour ago to tell you all this.
Where’s the kiss I gave you by the green gates
At primary school
Something’s gone amiss,
I write endless lists of why I should be closer to you.

This is my world Mother.
I hope you love it.
Carnations and coastal walks and all.
Pittas and chicken with avocado
And pain.

There’s nothing else to describe
But your blue eyes
I wish I could’ve had.
Tell me what you’re thinking.
Tell your problems.

No problem ever existed without people.

It’s your turn now.

When We Die

N.B. 10/2/16 03:48am, I wrote this only hours before you left me. How could I have known? My sixth sense is strong, no? How time has changed me. How time has changed you. My face is not crushed in the disappearance of your kiss. But it is fixed by no longer loving the single cold form you are, that no one will ever, can ever, appreciate.

You think that when we die
or fizzle out
that maybe you’ll just go out drinking and replace me with the night

right up until the birds are saying go to bed at 5 am
you think that when you replace me
everything will fall into place better than it did before

at 19 I find aches in places I didn’t know existed inside me
I’m waiting for a call to say I’m redundant
and my heart’s just not needed anymore

when broken glass skirts the corners of where you live
and you taste somebody else’s lips with your liquor
you’ll remind yourself that we were the misfit that confused everybody

we were so different
like A and Z
yes we were all wrong for each other

and doing this is fine and it’ll be okay
if you just close your eyes
and forget that a different pair of legs are straddling you

in some other broken universe
you can find me digging graves
for all the different pieces of me I shared with you

I’ll take my broken bones
and heave them into the soil
and find a new body to steal

I haven’t lived inside my own body for years now
I demolished the thing when I moved into yours never thinking we’d die but now
I know that we will and when we die

you’ll have the night to turn to
you’ll have the daybreak to confide in
and the hangovers to blame

but I’ll just have my face smashed into the concrete of your disappearing kiss.

i am not clever

i am not clever. my hands are clear of knowledge and i am not interested in the structure of my dna or how to please the man scanning my examination paper. i am only cleaning my knife. i am only bruising myself on other kinds of skin. i am learning by touching familiar faces through a white sheet on the other side of my palm, where my fingers poke through the holes and grooves of their eyes their noses their lips i cannot see. i am not clever because i cannot calculate a sum. i am not clever because i cannot hold together an atom and feel my way around the skeleton of a liquid. i cannot describe nature to you. even if i place stars in my mouth like sweets. no, i do not live for this kind of education. i live for the lessons inside peoples’ tongues. and i want to rub myself against their language. i want to be the drug they scrub into their gums. and at night i want them to fall asleep with my face imprinted into their dreams. i am not clever by books as books. i am only a genius with the books people wear on their faces. and i read them. time and time again.

but no, i am not clever.