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
BLEACHING ALL THAT’S GOOD OF ME.

I HAVE BEEN YOUR FOOL.
TOUCHED TWICE.
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.

it’s funny cos you’re sleeping with him

pain’s a slip of the tongue
passing fancy,
or you find it sometimes in your pockets by accident

your room fills up with smoke
so does your head
you remember conceiving a can of worms on that bed

and he opened it with one final thrust.
you think spring comes alive
whenever you open your eyes.

and in a room full of mirrors you are back
with a baggy of mandy
and scrannin’ whatever you can.

you’re not one colour.
you steal everybody’s cigarettes.
you put your dolly to bed.

you say you hate yourself,
but you don’t really.
you’re a lovely purple on Sundays

and you think you’re a princess of rainbows.
how happy.
how comforting.

and it’s funny when you stare at your ceiling all night
as he paces the floor 10 minutes down the road in his bedroom
anticipating his next wank

he whips it out and bleeds thoughts of you from his pipe.
he begins to wipe away the mess
from his sweaty face.

that he put his heart into you
and you laid waste
to a winter he loved centuries ago.

//

you were my new year’s resolution.
i would’ve put you in my lungs
and continued to cough you out.

your fingers dripping with a lemon smile
and it’s worthwhile
to note we’ve all carefully sucked God’s balls

at our most vulnerable.
but you’re a trick of the light.
an unreal scent.

and i just think it’s funny how we’re all sleeping together in bed.
i think it’s funny how much my nails have grown
so i can scrape your dirty face from my memory.

and how many times i’ve seen your face in Deansgate
sat with a cheeseburger
as you try to inconspicuously rub your fanny.

is it itchy?
or is it just what you do when you see me,
the memory you get paying for a special mistake pill over the counter?

does it hurt?
did you find anything in your pockets,
or see a passing fancy?

did you love him better than i ever could?

mdma in the library

i guessed half as much the night wouldn’t come to this
we bombed the pcs up
i am like the way your heart stops when you download a virus
onto your laptop
and i am like the fear of losing your words
i am mdma in the library
and coke lining your kitchen sink
and i am fucking the sun with my mouth
and begging for a sip
have you ever burned yourself like this?
and you were fucking my mouth
and not knowing who you were supposed to be
you hung your body up on a coat hanger
and wired yourself to my limbs
said to yourself to be someone else’s for a few hours
it was holding the moon between my teeth
and holding my tongue as you hold my hand
there is a shift
i guessed half as much the night wouldn’t come to this
i am like the way your heart stops when you lose your wallet
and i am like swallowing too much seawater
and throwing up at the feet of your mother
somewhere in majorca
and wishing you’d had a better day
i am mdma in the library
and coke lining your kitchen sink
i am the evidence that would wash away 
that would dissipate
but like air, you never forget to heave in  
i am the drowning
and i am never sorry of how i can pull you under
it is because i never once reciprocated.

i needed a break from all of that, y’see

your eyes confuse me because often,
you look angry.

i’ve always misinterpreted our 2am conversations, you give your miracles
but you’re no prophet, not to me.

i sit on your carpet,
you fall asleep in a hurting sun.

i am forever leaving at 6 am.
you, you’ve tied 3 am around your tongue,

and i,
well i needed a break from all of that, y’see

staring into you
whilst you analyse my little head

for all my flaws and mistakes,
they shed and peel, but i am probably the ghost that stands under your archway at night

i kick the leaves outside my home in manchester
i have been thinking about you

i don’t think this is going to work,

do you?

kinda tragic

well they do say third time’s a charm
you fulfilled the brief, what’s your mother like?
you are a kind of word that stays on my tongue
a sort of, cliffhanger?

— kinda tragic man,
your bones are rotting fruit
your heart’s a bag of brittle
you’re overcooked

sometimes i think hard about your excuses
the way they multiply like cancer
oh i couldn’t be here to do this
                i won’t be there to do that

i’m not bitter;
just pensive about the fact you haven’t shaved in weeks.
i used to marry us two together and forge rings in my mouth,
our wedding date clashed with your appointment at the barber’s

sometimes i think hard about your poorly face
how desperate i was to leave
and how you stained my sheets with cheats
god give me strength

it’s kinda tragic
that being happy now means i write less
it’s kinda tragic
that we moved the fuck on.

Personal Problems: 13th Account

N.B. This is the final instalment of Personal Problems. Go die somewhere.

She says “I love a good knobbin’”, “i love giving hand jobs” and he says “snorting through straws is cleaner.” I feel like Puff Daddy doing this through paper notes. I am a kid messing with things I shouldn’t be. The final hour’s upon me, never tell me not to do drugs, fall in love, or divorce men who don’t love me.

Dear Lymh,
It’s Lymh here. Tell me something so innately personal that it stops you from rubbing your heart against your exes’ faces’.
Try as you might, I’m the cumshot you can’t quite swallow. Because I taste so bitter.
I’m the carcass left from all the personal problems you’ve had, all the hate. All the wanting to split yourself into divisions, school bitches go here, school bastards go there.

I’ll go first, as I have always done.
And don’t try to respond to me.
Because my mouth runs harder.

I look at you in the mirror. Come over to my place, let’s Netflix n alienate ourselves. Let’s Netflix n kill ourselves.

The school kids on the coach experience Porn Fridays a 5th time now. We’re only hearing the moans of women being fingered till they are ghosts.

I don’t think I’m ready to love again.
Here my reflection pales and Dad blesses me over the phone.

I went to visit my ex once on the train out of loving him.
Upon arrival I noticed he had disappeared from his body. I turn the key in his heart to find he has already changed the locks, and this is where I fuck off from his life.

My mother believes I have changed and I am the alien in our house drowning in our genes. Maybe it is because we are actually more the same than ever.

I have left school and I don’t experience gastritis anymore because I don’t have to worry about my complexion in front of boys wearing tweed suits anymore. And I don’t have to care what the women think; they are consumed by compact mirrors and I was a half-soul at the time. I do not think about the girls from Year 9 anymore.

04.44. Adam emails you from Toronto and I am collapsing from lack of sleep, I can’t breathe without a dick inside my body. I have made mistakes this month, I have woken up in cold sweats and my heart is pedalling the ocean. This is a comedown from a relationship. This is a comedown for having too much of a bad thing. What a feeling.

Majid Jordan follows me into the night and Stone is focusing in on my collarbones. We are speaking French and I feel safe because nobody understands. Stone loves me, Stone is an important document which I am constantly saving, for fear he will disappear someday from my laptop, crashing with too many notes on file.

I am having my body complimented by horny horny men. You a horny girl. You a horny girl for me.
Look at this guy using you and you don’t care. You look at him and you think he’s a friend but really he’s the kind of weed that doesn’t get you high, so you waste all your money on cocaine.

You see all your personal problems Lymh?
You see all these white people going on gap years, you kinda wanna be them don’t you? You kinda wanna be a part of the privileged lot.
You kinda don’t wanna get spat on at Leeds train station by fascists, and be ashamed to call yourself Algerian because all the white people in the world will use it against you,

But you are white aren’t you? This is black and white is it not?

No. You’re the daughter of a Muslim and you reek of prayer mats, you free fall like a raindrop from terrorism. You’re the storm the media’s so scared of, but really they should be scared of themselves.

And you choose desperately ugly men because you’re so insecure. You’re so tired.

And your best friend thinks she is making a point, she won’t attempt to contact you to make a date to go out because she thinks you’re in the wrong about everything.
And the more time that passes by, the more time she thinks you don’t mean you’re sorry.

But really you’re tired of saying sorry, and you’re tired of her pretending that she’s never made a mistake and you look into your eyes to try and be brave. Staring yourself down.

And you’re sensitive and wrong and unsure. You want to be 5, you want to be 30.

And all of this is so public, so out-there for everybody to see. And you think there should be a point.
You’re not making a point.
You’re just putting yourself in danger.

And you know there’s a gravestone out there waiting for your name to be carved into it.

And you just don’t care when, you just hope people will still put flowers on it long after death.

And you see that’s it Lymh. You think it’s your turn now but it isn’t. It was never anybody’s. I just talk and you listen.

I am Lymh, the twisted. the hurt. the last kiss.
We had a personal problem together and just like that

I disappeared.

my life without you would be purposeless – a speech

hello 2 am, come to haunt me? i thought you would.
cheap liquor, no boy to kiss.
tell me what does the black in your hollowed out sky
tell you
to dismiss, all the feelings for a man i should miss?
is it thoughts that should haunt me in this way?
i cry at that idea.
tears slip into my tea. god forbid a boy should ever get to know me.

so i drop the mug to the kitchen floor.
and here i go. manifesto at the ready.
promises to make, like any politician, i’m not saying i’ll keep any.

my life without you would be purposeless,
i am promising you my ill heart, it is feverish.
high temperature, blood pressure a little on the low side.
i’ve always been a little low though, haven’t i
and you have got to squeeze and twist me like a washcloth.
dampen your hot head with me
because i, my lover, can cool you down.
because i, my dreamer, can give you visions better than a trip on acid.

so i drop the manifesto to the bandstand floor.
and here i go. box of tissues at the ready.
watching myself fall out of love like an audrey hepburn movie.

i peer through my sunglasses
say it one more time, that yes my life would be purposeless without you.
i don’t drink wine i just swallow it like a dick.
because there’s a kind of violence about alcohol that complements the very taste of men
and their bones.
they think i’d collapse under the influence,
i just hide though.
there’s a confession, 2 am, that i never told you before.

my life without him was purposeless,
but i love the strange weather in his eyes now.
it’s like looking a stranger. it’s like looking at nothing at all.

I Want To Understand You

N.B. To a young boy I used to know very well, wherever he is. And to the old version of me who used to love him, because she would know where he is.
it’s hard
turning a shade whiter
trying to swallow the oceans
and wearing myself like the pages of a book
or speak like the rain

but i would’ve done it
if you’d let me break you in
like new shoes
because you might’ve thrown your old heart out
like wasted meat

and i preferred it’s chewiness
compared to the suppleness of it’s new skin now
silkiness is what you wanted
i wanted to understand you
and i would’ve done my best

i would’ve stained the whites of my eyes with sunlight
i would’ve sipped the sweat of your lungs
i want to understand you
but you are a foreign war in some ways
how can i understand if i couldn’t watch my world change?

Support Network

N.B.Screen Shot 2016-03-05 at 17.58.02.png

 

your lips are dry and you have sleep in your eyes
your head is empty
your dreams are looking kinda like pancake batter
you’d think you’d be able to make something with them

sometimes you need a support network
so you crawl up the rungs of people you love
but there’s no designated space for you
and it’s almost as though they’ve poisoned the sky

so it rains on you almost forever
when they need somebody you rush at them like the tide
you kiss their toes with cool water
you keep them collected you don’t want to see them alone

but you’re still in need of a support network
so you skulk like a dying star
across the night trying to find a home
for the insecurities you floss your teeth with

you brush your gums with salt
you clap at yourself
you’re your own audience
you thought you heard somebody else clapping too

that he’d be there
that maybe he’d show
you sweat with paranoia
yeah he was there for a while

and then he wasn’t.