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.

confessional whore

N.B. for writing explicitly obvious poetry which i never seem to regret publicising

on average i’m pregnant almost every day.
you say why
and what the fuck does that mean
and i’m too tired to explain to you
that when the moon straps me to his ass
he chitters and says “write another bitch-poem, lymh”
and off i go, to my notes page on my iPod.

i go into labour and i abandon my poetry the second
the last syllable stains the surface of the perfect sun
and when you read what i say
they’re immediately adopted by your head
there is no orphanage for poisonous thoughts like these
we have a genre for me
it is teenage angst maybe
or it is just sick of seeing the same tattoos, dip-dyes
and lame excuses for censoring every negative opinion in the world

i want y’all to judge me because i think its cute
an irony i love is that i’m not interested in what any of you strangers really have to say
except that i would like you to blacken my fingers to ash
with compliments
and adoration
i would like you to fuck me hard then call me a slut

so i can go be a failure and give birth to another shameless poem
about other failures like you coming and going from my life
as your dick dries and you wipe it from the edges around my legs
we said confess your secrets
so i go to bed
and i say “eat me out”

i don’t charge people for doing this
and i love it when you break my heart
because then i get to wear my experiences like pearls around my neck
and say i’m a lovely gentlewoman
the banker’s wife
when really i’m just a “confessional whore”

who wants to beat you down with rose after rose
to nip you in the bud to lick the moon’s balls
to kick the sun’s womb ten times over
and to leave you absolutely dead, i hate young people today
i am just a silly little girl with plenty of tears to shed
i never bring it up as my family cos language isn’t my child

 

its just offspring of a pimp who fucked me over, maybe.

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.

Hello Everyone

Hey everybody, I thought some of the people who follow me on here quite regularly and like a lot of the posts might be interested in following my Twitter, I realise on WordPress I tend to have this mysterious “Who is this Lymh/Lydia” persona who writes this very depressing poetry about failures with other people in my life, but I figured if you’d like to read more honesty and more self-pity then you can follow my Twitter page and learn more about my work and how often I tend to think about pain and hardships humans experience throughout their, in perspective, very short but equally just as meaningful lives. Here’s the link below to my page and thanks again for reading my stuff, my small readership here means a lot to me.

https://twitter.com/lydiahounat

Personal Problems: 8th Account

I remember being just like you.
That kid with the rucksack.
I was the only one carrying the McKenzie brand.
I was the child from Walkden,
Kicks from JD and Rainbow House chippy.

I wasn’t aware of the term ‘chav’. I must’ve been one, then.

Dear Izzy,
Tell me something so innately personal
That God takes a meat cleaver
And slices your hands off to prevent you dipping into your purse,
Filled with Daddy’s dough and his measuring tape,
That he uses for dick-measuring,
With the rest of his rich-beyond-sense colleagues.

Whilst you think,
I’ll unhinge my boxes for you.
I’ll confess.
I am humble, deep down.
It is the waves of traffic and Chanel bags that abuse me.
I am not meant for hair, as straight as a bullet in motion,
I am not meant for make up, painted as though Monet spat all over you,

I am the kid that had tissue thrown at them on the coach.
Who fought to sit at the back and waited the 7 miserable years to look effortlessly cool,
By which point,
Seats no longer mattered.

Do your first class seats to the Bahamas matter?
I just wondered.

They ask me why now,
Why does this all come out now,
Why do you confess now,
And I don’t really know.

Maybe I am resentful.
Maybe I am disgusted.
We were all children once,
We all threw things at people,
We all grieved and gave each other grief.

Its been a while since I remembered the details,
But I needed brands to define me at school,
So I could be the private school girl.

At university, they plague me for it.

But I do not mind.

It is funny Izzy,
That in different worlds, different people
Scoop you up into a glass,
And watch you.
They often toss you out of the window like you were the unwanted guest,
The small insect nobody wanted in their home.

I wear myself like the skin of a cockroach,
With the words on my tongue
As though the sea had tattooed me with its salt,
And I wear myself free,
From Paul’s Boutique, from Kors,
From Mini Coopers and Volkswagen Polos at the age of 17.

I wear myself inside out Izzy,
I bleed rain.
And it doesn’t matter when the traffic goes or how many Urban Outfitters I see,
I can’t afford this stuff, really.
Drop us a KFC any day over this prom dress lark.

I didn’t go to prom anyway.
But I still consume because the world tells me I should be more like you.
Beautiful.
Quiet.
Loaded.

I wear the skin of the oceans,
I nuzzle my heart  as if it were made of feathers,
I breathe like how we drop dice,
And that urge for two sixes finally appears.

Older as I become,
A cottage with 3 children sounds more fun
Than Gucci bags,
But every man for himself,
Every woman for herself;

I used to care, I used to dick-measure,
Now I am happy with lemonade and my Mother at my side.

That’s it for now Izzy,
I don’t have any other manuscript from the air to translate to you.
We all die.
Old age seems so far away doesn’t it,
But its 2016 next month?

So strange.

Anyway, we made a deal.
Tell me your secrets,
The treasure in your tongue,
The designers stuffed in your wardrobe.

What’s it like on the other side of the coin?

Its your turn now.

I Drink To Forget

I drink to forget that I was just like you.
I rolled in the mud,
I grew up with stars for light.
My heart that shrivelled seed.
You rummaged around inside of me.
I drink to forget that I have been forged and sold and tattooed by the night on his hands,
On my face his kisses still burn me,
I drink to forget other women will be me.
I drink to forget the lies that have snaked their way up my throat and slithered off my tongue like liquid poison.

I drink to forget that I have married an impossibility,
Where my veins carry blood they whisper heartache,
It flows to every inch of my scalded skin
My fingertips quivering at that loss
Tears and smiles,
I drink to forget them,
To forget my old self,
Free and intact,
Held together by a steel ribbon.
How a force greater than me loosened my knots
And tossed me into the oceans of his boundless words
That charm bloodied me
And I smiled.

I drink to forget my body
And the coast washing me up on the shores of this bar counter.
I drink to forget my lips,
Two velvet doors ever opened to meet his.
I drink to forget the millions that succumb to honey as sweet as this
That eyes will sail in the golden of his stare
That you will love him ever more,
Bleeding rain as he hacks out your heart
I drink to forget my empty chest
And the old words of a boy who merely bet on the touch of my skin.

Frank Ocean > The Weeknd

(N.B. Wish we could all brag about being ” that nigga with the hair, poppin’ pills, fuckin’ bitches and livin’ life so trill” but some of us have to pay the bills to see the sun rise one more time, and as if glorifying ecstasy hasn’t been done before, ugh. I just wanna feel the pride Ocean’s mother felt when he got his Grammy).

Run that mouth into the ocean.
I used to have these values,
They bleed into the sea.
Rubbing cocaine on your gums n’ teeth.
Pretending my ex still loves me.

But watch the world drown and of course,
3 rolls of parma violets later,
I’m dragging myself to L12 at 3 am hearing somebody sing “Can’t Feel My Face”
For the fourth time this week
And I think I’m sick.

I put Frank on because A. His hair’s not trying to be something its not.
and B. I like stories and truths and fantasies
And not singing about feeling sorry for yourself.
Meanings of RnB,
That’s why I say
Frank Ocean > The Weeknd.

But trust, none of that actually matters in this poem
I just wanted a title that sounded genuine to this generation
Because if I had called it “The Fresh Green Hills of Yorkshire”
And put a gif up of a landscape
They wouldn’t have looked, so y’know.

I did give The Weeknd a try though.
But somebody should pass a law which prohibits the use of the word “trill” in songs.
Back to how I feel.
The values rolling into the tide, the vowels spewing the foam,
The emotions curdle and I kiss the sand,

I brush his arms with the syllables of every wave rocking into the coves,
But where’s the absinthe to blow away the memories,
Because nothing else works on me, and say what you like,
Its dangerous
And we need it, Frank drinks it in ‘Pyramids’. I love his sweatband.

Nobody can blow up squares or inject drugs harder than some of the Fine Art students I know,
“What if my mother came over?”, mate, she’ll join in.
I want 3 mugs of green tea, a labrador and a bag of sugared almonds to get me through this flu
All the while the Atlantic coast smothering my ankles with its saliva.
Teeth gnawing.

I remember when all I had was my mother,
And she dropped me into her pool of love and I got brushed into the car
And swept away under the Moon and somewhere far from responsibility
I grew up under a rainbow where childhood never died,
For rainbows to form, it has to rain somewhere.

And my Dad gave me his word
And I mine, that all Earth has to do is show me the way
And somehow the bouncers’ll let me into paradise.
I write and the words bubble and I drink them like poison,
Hearts melt like butter, I stutter at the breeze carrying his smiles

He brushes past in the air
And for a while I am distracted until the night pulls in
And so the tide rubs it salt onto my gums
And so the flat mates rub cocaine onto their wounds
And so the weekend ends and there are oceans of absinthe to drown in,

I am a Fresher and there’s nothing fresh about this experience,
so it becomes a party, soured with separation anxiety, and a distaste for Weeknd lyrics.

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.

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.

Black Coffee

Put your cigarette in my mouth.
Do you feel its bitter tongue lock you in fumes?
I know this feeling.
Its guilt. As grey as bad meat.

And it makes its stains on your eyes.
Patches of it bruising your cheeks,
What are you hiding in your sleeves?
Halloween, love of my life, and black coffee.

I can’t drink it.
I can’t back out from the pain scoring my vessels,
It burns and I melt with it,
I am flushed into a puddle of nothing.

He blew me away.
And I knew that I couldn’t fathom the separation,
It took all my heart to heave itself onto the coastline
And wrap itself around the edge of the sea’s frothy lips

To realise that it was more than just a simple kiss,
It was falling in love in a car in a field in a new world
And his shirt stained in new colours beyond what I’d imagined,
I’m burning on the sofa from the distance I hadn’t anticipated,

Drinking black coffee I can’t swallow.
It hurts my chest,
And my bones dry from the frost on somebody else’s t-shirt.
I could hardly tell you their name.

I’m submerged in black coffee,
And I like the quiet darkness of it,
I fall asleep.
I don’t pretend to be dead. I am dead.

It was Italian tapas, many lunch times ago,
That brought us together,
Over conversation and questions
And “how’d you dos”

But I can’t remember the details of it all.
I’ll not forget you my angel.
The cigarette’s almost burned down to the bottom,
The crux of this poem is simple,

I shouldn’t have drank black coffee when I knew I didn’t like it in the first place.