it’s your fault i’m this miserable

shame in my nail beds
that i’ve watched stars wretch under your fingernails
and watered the weeds in your stare.

your breathing
the the the ache of your sound
the etched into my womb

every morning after pill has a name.
i baptise them like babies
and i look at the bloody state

in my palms.
ooooooooooooh doctor will i ever consume.
you grip my hand

as once more i unfold.
another iron pill.
another month.

you used to be obsessed
with with with with my wire.
but now call me a summer lay.

dry my tears
i am lost over the way you were last active
11 minutes ago

tell me you’d fucking die for me
ttttttttttttttttttttttake your talons
aaaaaaaaaaaaaand latch onto me

your grease,
your fucking evil

gggggggggggggggggod where do i go to settle this?

to make it fair?
divorce papers lick their lips
in my dreams.

i had a vision you’d told me
yyyyyyyyyyyyyyou were done with me
bbbbbbecause i had given you my sex.

and because i were some bitch
hanging over your kitchen counter
wired still. going mad.

crippled by the disappearing trick
ooooooooooooof my insides.
oh doctor will i ever consume.

you. you’re the reason i’m miserable.
you’re the reason for the black ink
grilling my underwear 6 days before i ovulate

yyyyyyyyyou. walk over to me as i sleep
the deadline of the new moon
wwwwwwrites another poem nobody sees.

no light, no light.
your fate’s design only leads to my heartache.
what laughable devastation am i

take your needle
aaaaaaaaaaaaaabort me

and tell me it’s my fault you’re this miserable.


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.

Soulmate #2

should your mother ever lose her grip on you
and i hope she should

let her know how many things she ruined for you
because being your first beau should’ve been a wonderful thing

and whilst you did score so high on that BMAT
and whilst your mother did get kicks out of pressing her ear up against your bedroom door

whenever we were getting off
it never sufficed did it

“soulmate #2”?
should you ever realise that brains aren’t everything

and nobody likes a cold fish
then you’ll obviously realise too that making your sister your competitor subconsciously

isn’t too healthy for a sibling partnership
i wonder how many times your mother had to call my dad a terrorist

before you decided the best thing to do was dump me
in order to save your own skin before she carpeted our relationship with enough bombs

to burn the earth of us down
so should your family ever know or understand

that sometimes your A* doesn’t trump my violent grudge that i still have on you
or how mad it still makes me feel to know you think you were right

then they’ll also know what a silly mistake you made
listening to your mother again and pursuing a career which deep down doesn’t suit you as a human

but together we’ll keep it our little secret
because for a while i knew you better than mummy ever did

and it tore her at the seams to see her son stray so far away
so she threw you a bone and you picked it up and left

your mother plants her own seeds in your brain
(the roots of your genius, maybe)

so that you will never know how dumb it is
to rid yourself of many opportunities to fall in love

not just with me
but with anybody or anything

i was not in a relationship with you
i was in a relationship with your mother

and the timetable
and your exquisite superior intelligence, maybe

and for that reason, “soulmate #2”
i was glad to have lost all my faith in somebody supposedly as “clever” as you.

Soulmate #1

it is almost 5 am
i have to be somewhere in a few hours
and not a day goes by where i don’t think of you

or the first time you spunked in my hand
and called it ‘love’
not a day goes by where i don’t remember your face

but i think i have been conditioned to remember you everyday
“soulmate #1”,
because you said if i didn’t i would die

it is almost 5 am and again i have thrown myself against the page
owing language to you
dedicating the minutes of the early morning to you

you are the reason my body clock broke its spine
and started sniffing coke on the bathroom sink
and here i am awake again

and there you are puffing on the shisha pipe again
your mum said i was bad for you
you brushed it off because you had evil about you that curdled the devil’s blood

and it was so intoxicating
that you were destined to be
“soulmate #1″

because you took a little girl and forced her to stare at the sun
so she became blind and grew up all too young
because you were desperate for her to be a woman

so woman she did
and so you used her you did
in all the best and worst ways

i have that to stain my hands of you
never mind your semen on my belly
so-called “soulmate #1”.

Personal Problems: 9th Account

(N.B. I have never been so honest to myself, to you, Reader, to humanity. I hope I never meet you. I hope your eyes never cut my face).

Some time back I said I fuck with words.
I still do.
I am their prostitute.
I am their dirty little whore.

My father holds me against the world,
If I could still keep his protection I would,
But I put 20 oceans between us for the sake of education.
Welcome to University.

Father, tell me something so innately personal
That it takes you back to you standing on the edge of your own father’s grave.

I know these cuts on your skin,
Father, Foreigner, Friend.

You never tell me your deepest secrets so easily,
I peel you back, layer by layer, once every 3 or 4 years.
So this time it will take you some time to think.
I’ll give you some of my own to soothe the pain you’re feeling.

I am your dirty half-breed daughter,
They called me that at school.
And I know it breaks you into two,
That you couldn’t whip humanity’s tongue back into the sewers of its throat.

I don’t blame you,
I don’t blame the blood running through my veins,
I’m happy to be this different,
I’m happy to stare in everybody’s eyes and be weird.

Your family try to love me, but not wholly,
Because I’m half Mother.
Mother’s family try to love me, but not wholly,
Because I’m half you.

Either way, both sides of the same coin are not in my life at all.
How long has it been since I stared into the eyes of my superior cousins?
So long.
So I live by the words,

And I’m sorry to say Father,
I’ve sold myself short to words.
I’m the Sasha Grey of language.
I don’t use protection, either.

How many times I’ve been knocked up,
I’ve lost count,
But I know that this coping mechanism hurts me so much sometimes
That I might as well abort myself.

If I weren’t in your life
Maybe I wouldn’t have licked the paddles of the racism,
I have swam in seas of other peoples’ spit,
So I go home and fuck another word or two.

Father, I’m sorry.
I’m sorry for not being a mathematician.
I know you don’t say too many words in your life.
I know you will never like this work.

But I love you.
I love selling myself for free.
I’m fairly good at it; just like sex,
You get better at it the more you do it.

Every poem of mine is another ex that you never knew about
And every word is another sore you never saw
But you don’t have to heal it
Or bind it with “daddy strength”

If you need to know,
Scroll the pages.
Go through my texts and call up my ex-words,
My one night stands with syllables,

Because I haven’t seen them in months.
I miss them.
I miss Mother.
I miss you.

Maybe the fact we’re so hated by so many people who don’t know us
It turned us into selling ourselves short.
You still respect yourself.
Maybe I don’t. Maybe I do.

I chuck the coins from the spaces between my legs
And hopefully someone will eat them,
I’m not doing this for the money,
I just want somebody to listen, even if its not you.

So there you go Father.
I’ve said my piece.
You’re not somebody to shirk out on a deal,
You’re a man of your word.

Its your turn now.

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.

Marked As Unread

Oh honey,

Were that you a blow to the wind,
I would’ve wiped your smears away from my dark heart many months ago.

That your mistakes stained your hands like blood,
The reasoning behind your eyes is cross-stitched, you read my messages and then fold the pages of the diary back.

I would’ve tossed your empty literature into the fire.
I would’ve buried the embers underneath the sea.

I have no place for you inside me.
It is with a heavy bag I carry my dry bones, the marrow stuffed with mistakes like you,

Meeting you, knowing you,
Learning to be friends with you.

Oh honey,

Were that you a final kiss,
I would’ve sponged away your glossy pout away from my lips.

I would not have bought your book,
I would not have invested into your emotions, whatever spirals you “out of control”,

You wear your flesh insane,
But your insides are measured, calculated and cool.

I have seen the darkness in your irises, the lies that drip like pitch off your tongue,
They are reality with a twist, a cocktail of your deceit.

Oh honey,

Were that you a stranger,
I might never have made you a friend at all.


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.

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.

My Ex At the Kitchen Table

You still have jet-black hair gelled back.
We argued yesterday,
Do you still forgive me?

You kiss me on my forehead over the kitchen table,
You read your texts, your thumb squashing the keys quickly.
Am I those texts?

My ex is at the kitchen table,
Stirring his coffee, his white t-shirt clinging to his body,
Have you been working out?

He smiles, eyes full of poison.
But the dreams glide on that bronze skin, you have to be God,
The man knows he’ll destroy me.

He says he’s never smoked a cigarette,
But there’s a glass ashtray at the bottom of his bed on the floor,
And he plays video games with an addiction.

If I were fruit, I would rot on his tongue,
If I were meat, I would be salted by his teeth,
If I were any of these things, as my heart is,

He’d cover it in the bitterness of his tears,
Which never fall,
And I would never reach to his dark heart,

Only to the black sewers of his throat,
I would be half-eaten, half-loved, half-wanted,
My ex at the kitchen table rolls his dinars, fingers to thumbs.

With a smile full of rain,
His eyes black, because he has not quite finished making the stars in his eyes yet,
Decorating the universe is an art form of God’s, they say,

I have to remember the pull of my ex is as delicious as being pushed away from him.

Worn Out

They put me into a cage,
Where I pulled the stems of feathers out of my back
And the green in my tongue glowed like a worm.

They wore me out,
The work kneeding my shoulders and bloodying me,
I rot in their jaws.

I peel the scolds and scrape the bruises off my teeth,
I warm my thumbs under my breath,
They wore me out, the curious stares and shaming my bones,

Trying to cleanse them with a matte kiss,
But I was dirtier still,
And carried my dry-bone heart and crumpled head back to size 8.