big pill in my throat

N.B. a 16 year old girl is sad and tired outside tesco express in 2013

sometimes i drip big fat tears from my eyes.
to avoid them raining down my face
i knock my head down
so they fall hard and splash on my big black shoes.

u reckon that the big pill in my throat
when i see ur eyes shift like a laser
will cut me through me?
i will have to swallow u like a cloud otherwise.

i texted u the oceans.
my phone rang when i tried to disarm myself from the moon.
i was arrested
the police spat on me.

i took more drugs;
mum said she was proud of me.
u reckon i still look pretty in front of sunsets?
i’m addicted to the way i look when i swallow this big pill.

ur the big pill in my throat.
the pull of the wind
and the cracking of my capillaries
when they try to imitate a kind of dead life in me.

i slung the night over my back and went home, cos
my body’s tired and i don’t belong to u no more.

dirty commodities

you were on top and he said,
“you’re bleeding quite badly now”.

you had to make sure you were bleeding.
so he’d believe you were a virgin.

you were fresh ceramic
then you were cracked plates, dirty commodities.

it’s a pain you can write out,
you scratch and it’s under your fingernails.

you were only a young teenager when you slept with him.
and people don’t think that’s abnormal anymore.

you are married 30 years down the line,
you look at him and you know he’s misplaced your lungs on purpose.

tucked your heart down the sofa.
put his wedding ring in the dishwasher.

and you look into his eyes
and all you can see is the reflection of his phone in them.

sexting.
telling a girl when you’ll be out.

when she can lie on your side of the bed.
when she can invite her lips to sip from your coffee mug.

y’see to a lot of men,
you’re just a thing,

and commodities, more often than not,
go out of style when a new one comes along.

That Woman

Were that she were made of runny honey
And red raw strawberries, all the refined sugar of the world,
Would it be that woman could still give you kisses that lingered like last Autumn on your clothes?

Would it be that woman would stay beautiful,
Holding the sun in her palms and making her light rain on you like wishes,
That woman with a scarlet heart of magic?

Well you’re mistaken. That woman,
Poison flowing in her teeth,
Her cheeks blossoming with mud and mulch,

Wouldn’t be yours or mine,
She’d be ugly, and know it,
Cry over her face with a bottle of red wine.

And the mirror would stand up to her and stare at her like a dagger.
It would be the bully who picked at her face.
You wouldn’t date her. Her thighs wider than the ocean, or so the boys on the bus used to say.

You’d marry an island,
Her, and her thoughts would be hungry, as always,
And would swallow the world up like a tub of ice cream.

That ugly, that disfigure, that asymmetric lip of hers,
Talks too much, doesn’t it?
But then again,

How would I know,
How would I know about her?
About how you see that woman,

How you in fact, must see me.

She

N.B. For all the tempestuous sisters in the world making other peoples’ lives a misery.

She said,
That the fault lies on your hands,
His wrists bloody from the cutter that you used on him,
Your handcuffs dug into his skin,

She said,
That when your words fall to the air,
They twist like a knot into his head,
Something he will never be able to untangle himself out of,

He is too vulnerable, like a saint, like the lips of a baby, like a dove wing.

She,
Oh she,
She said his eyes boiled under your careful watch,
You turned the heat up and he bubbled, then fell away,

You squeezed his head up until his brain popped,
And she said that you were tying the noose for his neck, as it were,
That is to say you wanted to kill him,
Put his body in a drain and leave him to the sewage,

That you had muddied him,
Ruined him, she said you wore him once then you shredded him at the seams,
She said you had a smile so convincing that it could change the weather,
That you were growing inside him like a tumour.

I promise I was never such a woman.
He could’ve been the pearls of the rain.
She said I was somewhat of a murderer,
But her hands still held the knife.

Girls

Little Girls: When father gave me carbonated water the taste made my eyeballs ache and my tongue shrivel, electrified, and my nose was stained with the unpleasant taste.

Reckless Girls: But since finding other men, I encountered a naturally racist young Nazi scouting Cambodia who could make me laugh harder than the wind knocking branches at my window on Halloween night.

Love-Sick Girls: It was fishes rippling my ribs, bubbles rising in lemonade tickling my sides, that was laughing with you. Carbonated liquid smiling in my chest.

Curious Girls: When father drove me and mama home on late November nights the street lights used to sprint backwards on the motorway, and if I squinted my eyes hard enough, the moon’s stare used to blend with them until my vision made the lights and the moon-rays appear like UFOs landing on the car roof.

Scared Girls: At 14 the streetlights were still tall and in nightmares they could bend their backs and tap their bulbs onto my bedroom window.

Regretful Girls: And before the council refitted new bulbs the old lamps used to shine different oranges and reds and ochre yellows. It reminded me of grandmother’s fruit-bowl, passed down to my mother. We kept it in a corner in the kitchen. Midges used to eat the apples.
Now the streetlights stain the sky mud.
I never enjoyed growing up.

Successful Girls: When I finished paying off my bills, I looked up at the sky and figured, I was here, countless of bullies had bruised me with the belief I wouldn’t be. I hung up my cashmere coat, and with it, hung my old enemies by the neck on my doorstep.

Mean Girls: Uncle would come round on New Year’s. I used to go to the bathroom when the doorbell rang. I could feel his fingernails digging into my skin again. His hands were always muddy, and his fingers fat. He never cut his nails. They were long and yellow. His breath was peppermint and cigarettes, and he flashed a crocodile smile and handed my parents my Christmas present. It was always a box of chocolate orange cremes. When I was little, I used to love them. I told him they were my favourite, before I grew tits and became pretty.
A new girl brought them in one day and at lunchtime I beat her face in.
Her face reminds me of my own when my Uncle has to look after me after school.

Lonely Girls: My boyfriend’s always out. He comes back smelling of somebody else’s kisses. Forget Chanel. I can smell the lust on him. Like roses. I grew like a weed in the sinews of his heart, and I pace the floor on Friday nights, checking my phone, spying on the clock. The TV blares into the night and the cold can of beans festers on the carpet. That’s me, Apartment 3A, Orlean Heights, on 9th. I smoke so much I’ve turned yellow like the Moon. Little does he know I’m smoking his side chick into the night.

Mentally-Unfit Girls: The Devil’s on the inside of my brain, and he is saying “scratch, scratch” into the night, burning his tongue on my forehead, licking my tissues, lapping up my blood like milk. If I cut and cut and cut my face, he bleeds out in the form of my mother’s ghost.

Teenage Girls: But Daddy, I hate him!

Fat Girls: My gut’s bigger than ever before. Can I carve the words “lose weight” into my brain? No? My arm will have to do.

Thin Girls: My head’s so small that my Princess crown won’t fit my head. Can I carve the words “lanky bitch” into my heart? No? My arm will have to do.

Old Girls: Such is life. “Raised by parabolic dunes”, Grandmother. Here I am, sat by his side on the porch, drinking lemonade, surrounded by all our children and grandchildren.

Heartbroken Girls: That’s the way of the heart. You can easily snake it around your fingers, hand somebody the key and they will lace you into their lips. They lace your heart with themselves. Drugs are good. You took yourself away from me, no more high. I just want to drink your blood, baby.

Vain Girls: Grew the fuck up, and found out that Santa has orgies with his elves on Christmas Day. Biggest orgy of the season. Carbonated water’s bad for you. Anything with “carb” in front of it is bad for you.

Big Girls: I still hate carbonated water. Oh, to be little again. I wear nighties now, contemplate my pay cheques, try to eat lots of fruit, avoid walking at night when the streetlights are on, don’t date anybody, and just generally try to forget how easy it used to be.
I want an exercise book for everything in life. Let me practise and give me a gold star.