you make me fucking sick

if i had not appeared
________in my torn tights
_____the mascara smudged like
Liquor
_____on your vest
you might’ve sealed the deal with a blowjob
_____________________________slurping between two pairs of lips.

instead
____you call my friend
________say it’s my rock bottom
___________say that i did too much acid
they said i would have my head
_______________In the toilet someday

now you can flush. now you can.

_________and your two party girls next door
__float to Kanye
_______you’d hoped for a threesome that night
_________________you said it was “heading that way”
_____________________but back to now. you said you prefer now.

am i a film?
dad called me a poem yesterday.

i just want you to know
______That you are the final baggy
________of quality mdma
_____________left on my windowsill
____you are the ripest orange
____________you’re the aching ripple
in this swimming pool.

_________i would’ve liked you
_to have had those two girls
_______the one with hot candy floss hair.
the other fair. willowy.
_____i met them on a bed some party back
________way back when
we just did drugs for fun

and they weren’t some serious love affair
___________________________that i could suckle on
__no you
_________You, my butter-love
________________________and you,
_____________________________my popcorn-kiss

Well you just make me feel fucking sick.

well you just
____________exist. in this 19 year old body.
you are a mutation in my ribs. hair loss in my mirrors. you are an accumulation Of all those comedowns
_______and i would sure love to be
____________________________________Loved. By You.

so had I not appeared
__________at your black door
___2 am, mugged, soaked, cold
_numbed from my own addiction
_________you would’ve had your three-way
______________i would’ve tied a noose to our relationship
__________Hung hope from the end of your cock.

 

i stole the opportunity
_______the tricky sweet that you’ve dreamed of for so long

are you a woody allen movie?

rack me up another line.

mam said maybe she is a poem to my
Dad yesterday.

 

and you
_________You
Well you just make me feel fucking sick.

_______________________________________Thinking you’re all. That.

Thinking You’re the apple _____________________________________Of my eye

___But we two,
__________We two are worms inside the same Fruit

We two,
_________We two are bad cuts of coke
_____And we two
_____________________________are addicts to the same difference.

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i’m not normal

it’s Albany place and Tesco metro is around the corner
and tears are dripping down my face
and now my make up is ruined.

i’m not normal
my chest feels tight with the weight of every word
anyone ever says to me

and I trip half way down the street.
Trelawney.
there’s a house on this road I want to move into.

i have been busy at home making a new face for myself.

i have been making it very pretty with nice highlighter
And a nice smile
And i have made sure this face hasn’t been eating too many pizzas.

this face goes to the gym and takes photos and has a laugh
this face is not fragile.
this face enjoys life.

midnight, Netflix in the background as my eyelids crash
there is a cobweb on the ceiling
it is a metaphor for all my friendships

there is only one star in this cloudless sky tonight
i cannot fully shut my window
and my mouth tastes like cigarettes.

i have been fumbling with my jeans on toilets
And trying to avoid dusk.
i have not been to any parties.

i am not normal.
i am a baby screaming at her rattle.
i am crying because I don’t know which sandwich I want.

can u tell me where the train station is

it’s like five streets down,
y’know,
heart full of worry, full of tomato juice
“it’s not my place to tell you when to fuck me”
and when we could’ve been together
i was on that train
and when we could’ve been together
u was on that white stuff

coked up
fuck up
drench aber in Jäger
drench fal in tequila
i tell em’ i’m on a million
takes a picture of me or somethin
jake’s on the wine like it’s heroin

man said that’s dirty
dad said he’s disappointed in me
i said i’m on a date this thurs
people not in my knickers
confessers, vicars, n dealers

i lived for it
and pal i lived FOR U
somehow made room for u in my tiny ribcage
brain’s makin me pay bedroom tax
for anyone renting out my chest
we ain’t working
this ain’t working

where u goin
FOR A WALK BEN
takin doggy down roads
manchester’s like my older brother yanno
and syringes like this
they’re leaking piss
and i’m confused as to what i’m doing here
gives into the fear,

you said it’s clear
clear as mud
rehab is a must
what coulda
what shoulda
‘whatever’, says your mother
i told her

it was a waste of time
regardless she said she’d be fine
and she wired her way into the moon’s heart
kickstarts
its beating
take him for a severe kissing
they never knew i was probably on something

shit that’s never been heard before on at mono
tells him where to go and i know
that no one person has seen darkness like i have
to ur attention i grab
listening to this song makes me so sad
to the point of killing yourself on north pier
ur life is too dear

did you remember that mistake u made last summer?
try to remember.
ur face turns white
save it to your hard drive.
it’s like five streets down.
y’know, brain full of love
and the heart’s stuffed.

Adjusting, y’know?

(NB. 2 Months In. This ‘Drake Can’t Dance’ video is trending everywhere. So are post-Freshers photos. Brothers is the cider everyone buys here. Nobody can afford Kopparberg. And I hate Asda).

I have to believe
That when I thread the static through your chest,
That we tap the xylophone to our heartbeats,
And you’re betrayed,
I know, there’s blood in your eyes now,
And you’ve been shot in the mouth.

And I sit myself down, and say,
Its okay to feel this way darling.
Because when you need me I’ll hammer your brain to juice. With the overanalysing.
I get around, town to town,
People in Falmouth don’t know just what I can do yet,
But its Cornwall, only the Atlantic knows me,

Fucking skateboarders outside my room every afternoon,
Enjoy yourselves just not outside Block F, Flat 4,
Ugh.
Dicing the cocaine, the amount of bolshy boys here, its insane,
Its like I never left Manchester.

Let me sip on this Brothers.
Wild Fruit. I picked the raspberries from your tongue
And sing you a song
About your old school and old friends
And the daisies you used to pick for them,

Do you miss it?
Because I bought a shovel and some bleach and buried it for you.
I never planned to be the type to write threatening post it notes about cleaning the fucking dishes,
But here we are.
I watch Gavin and Stacey on repeat,
Pretend that somewhere Mum’s putting dinner on
And I can smell the herbs from my bedroom.

Oh I’m in love. Its hard.
I wish I had control of my limbs around his face,
But I still buckle every time I see him breathe.
Rubbing my cheeks to lose the blood rushing to the surface,
I take the xylophone tapping to my chest
And I feel the rhythms that Jake dreams of spinning,

Put Chic into Spotify and chunder everywhere at 4am,
Won’t make it to tomorrow’s lecture, don’t tell Mum,
Yes I’m scared of Rupert, I bet he owns a cane,
But you need a scary guy like him to crack a whip
And realise that its £9,000 a year for shit like this
And so it wouldn’t have been, if y’all hadn’t believed Tories love our economy,
Nah, just their mothers and pockets.

What did I go and fall in love for,
What did I go and fall in love for,
Love for that, and peaches and cream on summer grass
Fireflies dead in my eyes, I will be returning to these shores,
Beached on the bay, fire’s turned to gold,
Sweating on my back returning for Ben’s fingers plaiting my hair again,

Sweating on my back waiting for Mother’s hold around me again,
Sweating on my back anticipating Dad to tell me he loves me one more time,
Feathers in my hair,
What’s with all these stares,
Scribbling the poetry down, d’ya think this shit’s good enough for With magazine?!!!!

I’ve already been deleted by people at uni already,
What can I say, butter wouldn’t melt on my lips,
Spit spit spit.
Laura’s hot chocolate’s good.
Bitch I’m faded.
We get to 3 am because I slept all day
And my body clock’s fucked.

Is this the same for everybody?
Towel rail’s hot,
And Flat 3’s walking around again.
Xylophones to my chest.
Shower drips.
And I’m never losing this accent.