the big comedown

used to listen to youth a long time back.
fourteen. balling the moon up in my fists.
a pub closes down
my guts are uncertain. boiling.
i am ready to lose my virginity.

feel tired in his arms.
carry me to bed. seventeen.
heart a little more alive
rosebud at the edge of noon.
it might be a dandelion. who knows?

blowing away my scars.
i used to drag the point of a compass
across my stomach
just to fill the silence in my bedroom
as i toss pills back.

he asks what kind of pills
and my salty fingers fish up some rennie.
and a half eaten box of sushi.
a daughter licking out the wax of a candle.
i chewed grass my dog pissed on.

and didn’t know.
the ground is deaf to my footsteps.
water fails to touch me.
a raindrop on my sore back.
a porn video left by my best friend’s dad.

blot clots stuck around my nose.
nineteen. hollow pit
and shakes in the shower.
Elvis gets his groove on
as i try to find my last period.

hair loss. my mother sweeps the ocean off my face.
sweat harassing me.
i find my debit card and chop.
the airport never notices my sullenness.
i groan.

my body clears the cuts.
i am unspeakable.

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rock bottom.

maybe i was born blind and i can’t see a bad idea in front of me
with the night leaving teeth marks in my skin
i could be married by now
with 2 muddy children and a dog that chews my shoes.

but i’m not
and i’m on my third breakdown of the week
dragging my bloodshot body to outside your window
one light on, faint smell of incense.

you could have leaned against my palms
and fallen into the nets of them
i’ve spent my moons cradling questions to my chest
eyes of honey in my head.

most of the time when we’re together
you play me suzanne as i skulk the far corner, always by the radiator
temporary home for me and my blues
my paper cheeks stained purple with tears.

most of the time when we’re together
we’re considering bhagavad gita and ginger beer
shrooms and trying not to love each other
whilst puffing away our scars to the air.

i do not know what kind of homicidal maze you are
i do not think i ever wish to know
but i think it funny that whenever i cry past midnight
i think of leonard cohen.

i’m only good for the cigarettes in my pocket

someone puts a spoon in me and stirs.
i am piccadilly circus on amphetamines
the alcohol gurgling in my eyes

i go to the bathroom, i throw up
the boys help themselves to my cigarettes,
to my self-respect, but they don’t even know it.

and i can’t help but wish
someone was holding my hair behind my neck right now
to stop my mistakes sticking between the strands

and a heavy heart of disgrace
as a friend blames me in his slurry state
for getting kicked out of a lock in we weren’t invited to

there’s coke on my shoulders
and a kid inside my bones wailing to get out
i think of the freesias my mother gave me for my birthday

and shiver
because i have lost the Barbie girl in me
who loves daisies and swings and orange juice

this woman threatens me in the mirror,
she gets afraid of the confronting night
and storms out of the apartment, angry,

that she’s only good for the cigarettes in her pocket
and that she shares nothing
but all of herself

to wasted thursdays under the glare of red wine
and abuse from people who don’t even ask her
where the hell she comes from

but spill their pride like cum all over her face
and tell her to clean up
and tell her to bleach away the bruises speckling her smile.

i never saw such a woman.
but she wore six inch boots and fur coats
and she scared me.

the hours gloop down my throat
and so i give up on people
and so i quit smoking.