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.


fucking waste of time

you think that all the language in the world
will unhinge the fact that you might just be
grade 0, rock bottom,

or maybe just even plain bored of all of us

because in the fields of whys and wherefores
you could never really make definitions
around a shapeless concept like me

and you could never really speak about how
your chest thumps like the sun
when you see her in the streets

and throws up like the moon
when you see me
lying on your pillow.

you think that all the language in the world
will unhinge the fact that when i dropped
you couldn’t pick me up

you held me and made me colder than your grandfather’s last breath
whatever was funny back then
never mattered now

whenever we hung out
you were the syllable that got stuck in my throat
and i just couldn’t cough you out

because you,
you, male, ventriloquist of the kiss
could never see

i was, am, always,
a thousand times worth more
than one beat of your heart.

how to disappear

sometimes you’ll look at your fingers turn to glue

you’ll stick to the walls
call yourself a fool,

perchance were you to tell the air to swap existence with you
then you’d be invisible
and everyone would love you,

you don’t know how to disappear
you think it would be easier now
with half the world hating your


you have a familiar moon
inside your face
it is turning the shade of green
maybe do not speak to any of them
why be good to them
perchance were you to tell the night to swap existence with you

then you’d be invisible,
and everyone would love you.

can u tell me where the train station is

it’s like five streets down,
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
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
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.

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

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: 11th Account

N.B. i do believe in fairies, i do, i do.

dear lover,
tell me something so innately personal
that it makes you feel like the way you first fell in love with me.
the way God pushed me over that familiar cliff into your heart.
or better,
so personal that it tears you with a meat cleaver
until you are nothing but slices of guilt and regret.

you suppose I write because I hate you,
but no.
you are just not the boy I thought you were.
take heed of when I call you “boy”.
maybe it is the Peter Pan in you that calls for a Wendy like me
in life to be your mother,
to clean your room
and wipe down your sinks
because that is my calling in life.

there is no need to dislike you
at all.
not even after everything.
my fault, your fault, our fault.
it is immaterial. like dust.
we are just two children,
you fight your dad like Captain Hook
and I too thought I should never grow up,
but Peter, I must.

for me, lover
it is the having to fall in love all over again
start from cleaner whiter pages
so clear are the raindrops
in my eyes
i must harvest new tears to shed

over other silly Peter Pans like you
and the thought of it is so exhausting
but exciting.
learning to recognise his smell,
making him cups of tea his way,
or watching him fly to the second star to the right

straight on till morning.
all boys are Peter Pan at heart.
there is a shard in their chest
that wills them never to grow up.
it’s what wills them to wear the t-shirt
with the curry stain down the front to the gym.

or wills them to leave pistachio shells all over the floor.
or wills them to leave tea bags on the surface.
the TV programmes litter you like childhood dreams of being a F1 race car driver.
and sure enough,
they hide it with the bills to pay
and their newborn son in their arms

but there is magic in their lungs still
fairy dust lining their fragile ribs
that tells them to go play with their Lost Boys down the pub. get muddy.
no matter how much it hurts me
i know you meant well jumping into bed with somebody else

right afterwards
because you’re just looking for a Tinkerbell. or Tiger Lily.
a friend to nurse the swords splicing your bones after a broken heart
whereas I took to a cloud
and went on home
where Dad had to hold me.

sure I would fall in love in again.
i would fall in love with a man so hard and so different
that we would make the planet fall away from beneath our feet
and we would go to the university of Neverland
and make it our own
i would risk my heart a thousand times

and wash it out
wring it out to dry with the mermaids all laughing at me
for being so naive that I’ll find a sweet one
but washing out my chest
means I’m a shade closer to new
and you eventually disappear altogether, stain.

no I don’t hate you
no I don’t love you
it’s just always disappointing to stain your new clothes, or organs, in my case.
for now
I’d better be Wendy
and not rely on a Peter to love me.

here is magic
the alcohol is nothing
when you can fly alone
and visit each star like i visit my grandfather.
always sweet.
no, no man for me is ever needed to be happy.

but i might stumble across one by accident to share it with
like cake.
and if you should ever run out of Tinkerbells and jäger
i should hope you find your Wendy in the nick of time
before Neverland runs out of magic
and immaturity.

it’s your turn now.


he hit me right over the head
bled and bled and bled
he sucker punched me to the sky
when i came back down

he kicked and kicked and kicked
the bruises defiled me, disfigured my face
and the blood dried in my hair
fingernails burned away

he dragged his axe
through me

all of this done smiling
and i remember the last strike
blinding me in the eyes
and i was gone.

i dragged my carcass to the hospital
my fingers trembling
i fixed my own drip
filled up bags with the blood of friends

which they’d donated with complimentary kisses
i lay there deader than pluto
when i checked myself in
and people i loved watched me sleep

they watched me breathe weakly
my ribs raise
the anchors of my heart sewing themselves slowly
back into the cavity

none of us expected him to give me a real beating
but who does?
we all lay there and waited for me
and one morning my eyes flew up like the sun.

we stuck some gauze onto my wounds
and sterilising them
the pain meant acknowledging how bad it was

we cleaned my hair
had it smelling of rosehip and jojoba
we threaded our needles and started stitching
we soaked up the blood from the floors of my house

with paper towels
they went and bleached it
he’d done a runner
long gone

we filled in the paperwork
we filled in the holes
filtered blood into my veins
filtered life back into my eyes

he left like a bruise
in some amazing way
the black and blue
become purple and yellow

and the yellow to cream and skin
we watched me breathe harder
and when it was time

i stood up
and made the bed
i let the drip fall to my feet
i removed the gown i’d worn like a disease

i discharged myself of a broken heart
the stitches still dissolving
the scabs swallowed by my own kiss
i opened the door

went home
stared at my kitchen floor
cleaner than a baby’s two eyes
and warmer than a mother’s hands

bleached bare
no pain in the crevices of the tiles
banking the walls

no we all came home to my house
and we all watched the moon pass our faces
we all smiled
the past disbanded as memories often do

then i was whole and free.

Why We Can’t Be Friends

maybe its stuck to your tongue.
maybe “hopefully we can”, someday,
just doesn’t do it.
my hair stands on end when i think
about your last words to me on the bus
at night
and i have to remember to breathe.

maybe when you were a vanilla boy,
and you liked to hold my heart
as though it were newborn
maybe when you were careful and calm
you might’ve seen or understood
that my veins don’t tend to strangle you
with my black days.

that i don’t pull out your teeth for fun.
that i’m still kissing you goodnight.
and if you had an ounce of good
left in you
then you wouldn’t have turned the key
in the lock
and gone on home.

we can’t be friends because
it would be like peeling off the earth’s skin
like wallpaper
and trying to paint it a solid colour
like cream or beige

we can’t be friends because
it would be like telling God
to grant me a mortgage on the universe
but have the universe
with walls and a roof, limited forever

and it would be like
tearing out the last 3 pages of cinderella
and never getting to wear the glass slipper yourself
it would be you
on top of me in bed
not being able to cum

time and time again
and telling yourself you can’t
rub yourself raw inside of me
and telling yourself this is how sex has come to be
and it would be listening to me
sob on the floor in the shower.

we can’t be friends because you made it that way.

this wasn’t love.

this was your idea of it.

Personal Problems: 4th Account

(NB. Look out. It’s another one. No I’m not responding to the fact I deleted names from the 3rd account. I will be. Wish me luck. I have gotta tell you, that this personal problem is a universal one. Who USED to be BEST MATES with somebody? Old friendships are one of the biggest pills to swallow. At sixth form, I had nobody. And I didn’t really need anyone either. It is tiring being the class clown or the weirdo. And sometimes friends dump you because your differences humiliate them).

It is a sucker of a bruise. A pool of black and blue surrounding one of the deepest scars on my brain.
I feel much to tell you of.
This fairy tale from long, long ago.
Where I walked along the school corridors
And dragged my fingertips across the smooth white walls outside the math classrooms.
A ladybird friend.
And a butterfly.
I was a centipede. The tallest of my friends.
I was not pretty.
I was not sweet.
I did not fly.

In Personal Problems,
I endeavour to leave no stone unturned,
Of the lashed whips that have struck me over my years at secondary school.
That women,
Really are brutal.

Tonight I am proposing a deal with an old friend, an old one.

Old friend, tell me something so innately personal that it leaves a strange emptiness in that dark cavity your heart shrinks in.

Does it feel weird, after all this time that I should be writing to you?
I’ll tell you of loneliness. I’ll get to that.
I’ll get to school lunchtimes spent alone and 7D laughing at my shoes.
I’ll get to the popular girls from 7B stealing my ID badge temporarily at PE out of my blazer pocket to scare me.

I lost things. And humans broke me.
I am that wind-up toy.
Whilst you think of your pain, let me spoon feed you my own.

I am 12.
I do not know anybody. And this large school does not remind me of Hogwarts, except for the Turret Library,
Which we used to visit only to stare bewitched with eyes filled with scarlet crushes on Edward Cullen.
In December that stair case was chilly.
I am 12. And I am that quiet snowflake but with a chip missing,
I was not a fan of Paul’s Boutique until everybody wore Paul’s Boutique.
I tried to fit in, I tried so hard to have tan skin, fresh faces, 4 netball badges on my pleated skirt, and money.
I wore red Hunter wellies and beamed, so they’d look at me.

And I was still the creepy centipede.

Old friend when it was Tuesday,
A girl would fall out with me over spilt milk, over words to the wind, over air falling over, over dogs sleeping.
For years it was hit and miss,
Does she like me, does she not,
There was a nothingness to resolve our bipolar friendship.
I had to date her brother so she could fully decide which.
And then this much proved I was still a creepy insect people want to flick off their shoulders.

Old friend,
I remember your walk.
The way you fluttered in a haze of sunshine and dark hair, dark eyes, strikingly pretty,
That when you fainted on the 60m in that burning sun in the summer,
Only I had helped you up and we went to the next class,
Only to find that the next PE lesson we would have,
I would not have a partner.

And there my sadness begins.

You must throw a shadow over your clique,
To prevent anyone from seeing who is inside that party, that group, that wonderful ship.
Nobody can go in.
It’s like the forbidden road your mother refuses you to cross alone.
You don’t know how to cross roads.
You don’t know the password.
You aren’t invited to the tree house.
You are a centipede.

If I were to go back in time
I would suffer the same things again.
That same misinterpretation.
That longing to be understood,
That I did not wish to hurt,
That I went through the same scratches and bled the same colour of blood.
I at times had spent lunches alone.

Until I loved to be without those groups.
Until I learned that I did not need cliques.
Or to be treated and man handled like a cast iron pot,
To be thrown on the floor like an old creased tshirt,
I was nobody’s liquor bottle to suck from.

That these feelings of the lonely,
Still pierce me through my eyes.
And I feel the way I felt alone at lunchtime,
Sea water stinging, she cried.
To there,
It was in those 7 years I went from dependant
To secure in my own costume,
In my sweet skin.
Not even my lover could pull me out from the dreams I live in.

Old friend, all is forgiven.
All is well.
You weren’t aware that you and your friends ruined 4 years of a young girl’s life.
And that is a fact as sharp as a gunshot,
As quick as blood,
As real as a blade.
It shouldn’t hurt too much to read.

I can hardly speak the rest of the list of people I was
Stamped on by, as though I were the white elephant amongst the grey,
As though I were child’s play, to those people,
They are watercolour. I washed them off.
I burned them down like wax,
They melted, they are a hot pool of nothing.
But you were that acrylic that never scrubs off the school maroon sweatshirt.
That small green mark, a lick of something that wouldn’t disappear.
It was aggravating. Frustrating.

My kooky looks, my pensive kiss,
Channeled into a cartoon where I am Tom and you are Jerry and I always get hit.
Just for a taste. Not of food, but of friendship.
These small materials that I stitched
Humiliated you, I am an embarrassment
And I do not care.

Old friend, this pain is an old but familiar one,
It gives me the same feeling as when I have read my old schoolwork from English and History class books.
It is a small ache. But has the density of acrylic. You.

You taught me of women.
Of bad friendships. Of bitter lemons,
Stuffed into my mouth,
One by one,
The acid peeling off the skin of my tongue.
Can you work out the answer to this fragrant problem, this personal mishap,
This unfortunate lesson, I had?

Unlock the secret of this secret?
For this problem I require repayment.
Take your personal problem,
Divulge it to me as if you were unwrapping yourself like chocolate.

Speak your sorrow like candy flakes to me.
There will be a bitter lemon centre.
Tell your personal problem old friend,
It’s your turn now.