Lessons Learned #15

maybe someday he will turn to you after an argument
and call you a “guest”
after several years of loving each other

tell me
is he just home for the holidays when he is a few inches deep inside you?
does he pay rent to live in your heart too?

– the boy who was never really worth it 

 

Lessons Learned #11

there are some young and beautiful girls
who define beauty
on the basis of how able they are
to distract a man
from his wife
from his fiancée
from his girlfriend

but someday
they will not be able to accomplish this
and someday a young and beautiful girl
may distract
their husbands
their fiancés
their boyfriends

– the true design of ugly

Lessons Learned #3

maybe someday you’ll be in standing in the zoo in the rain with him,
and the air just doesn’t quite fit inside your lungs,
or even taste right.

                             then you can’t breathe.
                             and you look in the mirror,
                             and his hand is always there, around your neck.
                                                                                                                                 – when you must let go

Lessons Learned #1

sometimes people will translate you
into weird
into arrogant
into aggressive

sometimes people will take you, singular,
and fish around you,
for faults

let them.

                                                                                                                                               – never react

nightmare #31

we have spiders in our veins
from time to time i have looked at you
glass figure,
creeping through my arms,

popping out my mouth like ghosts.
kiss of steel,
heart as hard as thunder,
you’re the cold sweat killing me.

 

Personal Problems: 13th Account

N.B. This is the final instalment of Personal Problems. Go die somewhere.

She says “I love a good knobbin’”, “i love giving hand jobs” and he says “snorting through straws is cleaner.” I feel like Puff Daddy doing this through paper notes. I am a kid messing with things I shouldn’t be. The final hour’s upon me, never tell me not to do drugs, fall in love, or divorce men who don’t love me.

Dear Lymh,
It’s Lymh here. Tell me something so innately personal that it stops you from rubbing your heart against your exes’ faces’.
Try as you might, I’m the cumshot you can’t quite swallow. Because I taste so bitter.
I’m the carcass left from all the personal problems you’ve had, all the hate. All the wanting to split yourself into divisions, school bitches go here, school bastards go there.

I’ll go first, as I have always done.
And don’t try to respond to me.
Because my mouth runs harder.

I look at you in the mirror. Come over to my place, let’s Netflix n alienate ourselves. Let’s Netflix n kill ourselves.

The school kids on the coach experience Porn Fridays a 5th time now. We’re only hearing the moans of women being fingered till they are ghosts.

I don’t think I’m ready to love again.
Here my reflection pales and Dad blesses me over the phone.

I went to visit my ex once on the train out of loving him.
Upon arrival I noticed he had disappeared from his body. I turn the key in his heart to find he has already changed the locks, and this is where I fuck off from his life.

My mother believes I have changed and I am the alien in our house drowning in our genes. Maybe it is because we are actually more the same than ever.

I have left school and I don’t experience gastritis anymore because I don’t have to worry about my complexion in front of boys wearing tweed suits anymore. And I don’t have to care what the women think; they are consumed by compact mirrors and I was a half-soul at the time. I do not think about the girls from Year 9 anymore.

04.44. Adam emails you from Toronto and I am collapsing from lack of sleep, I can’t breathe without a dick inside my body. I have made mistakes this month, I have woken up in cold sweats and my heart is pedalling the ocean. This is a comedown from a relationship. This is a comedown for having too much of a bad thing. What a feeling.

Majid Jordan follows me into the night and Stone is focusing in on my collarbones. We are speaking French and I feel safe because nobody understands. Stone loves me, Stone is an important document which I am constantly saving, for fear he will disappear someday from my laptop, crashing with too many notes on file.

I am having my body complimented by horny horny men. You a horny girl. You a horny girl for me.
Look at this guy using you and you don’t care. You look at him and you think he’s a friend but really he’s the kind of weed that doesn’t get you high, so you waste all your money on cocaine.

You see all your personal problems Lymh?
You see all these white people going on gap years, you kinda wanna be them don’t you? You kinda wanna be a part of the privileged lot.
You kinda don’t wanna get spat on at Leeds train station by fascists, and be ashamed to call yourself Algerian because all the white people in the world will use it against you,

But you are white aren’t you? This is black and white is it not?

No. You’re the daughter of a Muslim and you reek of prayer mats, you free fall like a raindrop from terrorism. You’re the storm the media’s so scared of, but really they should be scared of themselves.

And you choose desperately ugly men because you’re so insecure. You’re so tired.

And your best friend thinks she is making a point, she won’t attempt to contact you to make a date to go out because she thinks you’re in the wrong about everything.
And the more time that passes by, the more time she thinks you don’t mean you’re sorry.

But really you’re tired of saying sorry, and you’re tired of her pretending that she’s never made a mistake and you look into your eyes to try and be brave. Staring yourself down.

And you’re sensitive and wrong and unsure. You want to be 5, you want to be 30.

And all of this is so public, so out-there for everybody to see. And you think there should be a point.
You’re not making a point.
You’re just putting yourself in danger.

And you know there’s a gravestone out there waiting for your name to be carved into it.

And you just don’t care when, you just hope people will still put flowers on it long after death.

And you see that’s it Lymh. You think it’s your turn now but it isn’t. It was never anybody’s. I just talk and you listen.

I am Lymh, the twisted. the hurt. the last kiss.
We had a personal problem together and just like that

I disappeared.

watching my mother sleep

mother your eyes are open books from all the lessons you have endured
                                                                                                   and perhaps enjoyed.
some days you will fingerprint this world with derision.
                                i now, 19 years, am sort of whole.
i unfold myself, see my lengths and my curves
and wonder how you grew me.
                   soft and new, our bodies concentric circles.
                                                   you dream of weird things.
i never know which bouquet to buy you.
i never know which colour you truly are.
                     your eyes talk of the day you have had and so you go to sleep.
i hear your pulse when you tuck me under your shoulder.
i smell your heart heaving when i cry.
my tears absolve; you wash me down with words
                            and change me as though i were two again.
me and my flesh muddy from all the same lessons you have endured,
                                                                                                    and perhaps enjoyed.

mura masa//dating school boys

N.B. for all the lads driving audi a3s or volkswagen golfs (i know a man that’ll come to your house and pop — president t & jme)

the banter was always on point.
gel-up, suit up, dig another kid on the coach for being sat too far at the back.
where is the respect these days?
— how tragic.

piss ourselves with excitement at sankeys
and pills we’d only take to seem edgy,
so we could sit on certain kinds of chairs in the middle of the sixth form centre
— do you hear mummy and daddy’s divorce papers rattle?

“i was a mura masa listener before any of you guys were”
step back, twist it out,
my ex still uses the porn blog on tumblr i made for him
— just to seem okay with the fact he’ll look at other naked women

and i forever a bitter bitch,
sew up the love bites he gave me which scarred a bit.
you couldn’t drink me, lemons like me too sour
— kinda like yonce’s last album.

except i can’t make money out of my heartbreak.
i just ain’t desperate or famous enough.
and i just ain’t ’normal’ enough to wear skorts
— you tell me if dad’ll let me wear em.

together we were the bitches’ and the bastards’ division.
and we can feed off a kind of hatred on each other
so dark that it dissolves your blood til’ you’re a whole other colour
— unless you’re born that way

because napa is where it’s at
and rock climbing is where it’s not
and if you’re wearing tweed i can promise you you’re a dick
— god forbid you remember me forever

yeah spin that MK or something
if you can afford acid for all your mates then sit with us
be the kind of girl i could break like a cracker
— then you can date me, you say, then you can date me.

my life without you would be purposeless – a speech

hello 2 am, come to haunt me? i thought you would.
cheap liquor, no boy to kiss.
tell me what does the black in your hollowed out sky
tell you
to dismiss, all the feelings for a man i should miss?
is it thoughts that should haunt me in this way?
i cry at that idea.
tears slip into my tea. god forbid a boy should ever get to know me.

so i drop the mug to the kitchen floor.
and here i go. manifesto at the ready.
promises to make, like any politician, i’m not saying i’ll keep any.

my life without you would be purposeless,
i am promising you my ill heart, it is feverish.
high temperature, blood pressure a little on the low side.
i’ve always been a little low though, haven’t i
and you have got to squeeze and twist me like a washcloth.
dampen your hot head with me
because i, my lover, can cool you down.
because i, my dreamer, can give you visions better than a trip on acid.

so i drop the manifesto to the bandstand floor.
and here i go. box of tissues at the ready.
watching myself fall out of love like an audrey hepburn movie.

i peer through my sunglasses
say it one more time, that yes my life would be purposeless without you.
i don’t drink wine i just swallow it like a dick.
because there’s a kind of violence about alcohol that complements the very taste of men
and their bones.
they think i’d collapse under the influence,
i just hide though.
there’s a confession, 2 am, that i never told you before.

my life without him was purposeless,
but i love the strange weather in his eyes now.
it’s like looking a stranger. it’s like looking at nothing at all.