you make me fucking sick

if i had not appeared
________in my torn tights
_____the mascara smudged like
Liquor
_____on your vest
you might’ve sealed the deal with a blowjob
_____________________________slurping between two pairs of lips.

instead
____you call my friend
________say it’s my rock bottom
___________say that i did too much acid
they said i would have my head
_______________In the toilet someday

now you can flush. now you can.

_________and your two party girls next door
__float to Kanye
_______you’d hoped for a threesome that night
_________________you said it was “heading that way”
_____________________but back to now. you said you prefer now.

am i a film?
dad called me a poem yesterday.

i just want you to know
______That you are the final baggy
________of quality mdma
_____________left on my windowsill
____you are the ripest orange
____________you’re the aching ripple
in this swimming pool.

_________i would’ve liked you
_to have had those two girls
_______the one with hot candy floss hair.
the other fair. willowy.
_____i met them on a bed some party back
________way back when
we just did drugs for fun

and they weren’t some serious love affair
___________________________that i could suckle on
__no you
_________You, my butter-love
________________________and you,
_____________________________my popcorn-kiss

Well you just make me feel fucking sick.

well you just
____________exist. in this 19 year old body.
you are a mutation in my ribs. hair loss in my mirrors. you are an accumulation Of all those comedowns
_______and i would sure love to be
____________________________________Loved. By You.

so had I not appeared
__________at your black door
___2 am, mugged, soaked, cold
_numbed from my own addiction
_________you would’ve had your three-way
______________i would’ve tied a noose to our relationship
__________Hung hope from the end of your cock.

 

i stole the opportunity
_______the tricky sweet that you’ve dreamed of for so long

are you a woody allen movie?

rack me up another line.

mam said maybe she is a poem to my
Dad yesterday.

 

and you
_________You
Well you just make me feel fucking sick.

_______________________________________Thinking you’re all. That.

Thinking You’re the apple _____________________________________Of my eye

___But we two,
__________We two are worms inside the same Fruit

We two,
_________We two are bad cuts of coke
_____And we two
_____________________________are addicts to the same difference.

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eating granola alone

each time u touch me
my body becomes a veil of smoke
because i cannot run after the jagged in ur ease.

tonight i may freeze in a pile.
i long to hate u and find a way to turn ur bones to gravel in my arms.

i sit here
eating granola alone
thinking of the way u cut me with kisses

and the way u grind the knife between my lips.
i was butter once.

i was soft and made to melt
in the palms of a wet god
and inside my steam was made for love.

the crumbs of me
are wasted on ur invalid
that i were a text message away from paradise

and a phone call away from normal.
u tell everyone we’re not trying
but all my efforts bleed back into ur eyes.

u tell me i’m the kind of beauty
that would make the sun fall into the water
and the rest of night would turn pink in my gaze.

and i don’t want to miss u
sat here, eating my granola alone
but all i can be, is, alone.

my fashion is ur winter.
i hope u wear it.
and i hope that u will lose ur purpose

when u lose me.

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.

the landlord is giving u ur notice

clean it. clean the floor.
kings of leon and the bacon clubhouse double
medium meal
the faded ginger around the corners of popped eyes
sticking lemon in hot water
waiting for the change and crash
pills crushed on ur settee
radioactive meals, stolen shampoo
quiet evening, planet party, sunset comedown
worth it too
swallowed, sniffed a way to brain death
the damage like broken glass around the bed

still though, there’s some oxygen in ur lungs
and a box of chicken wings next to ur new eyeshadow palette.

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?

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,

pretending,
imposing,
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.

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.

Personal Problems: 12th Account

N.B. Now ain’t it strange? Your Tarot cards will get you through it, so light a candle, go to sleep. Leave the cocktail pitchers for another day.

There is a deep kind of magic
That you have to deep throat on before you can really
Taste fairies and taste the world as God made it
Where you don’t have to miss your mother Eve
and blame her for your being conceived.

Dear Mother,
Tell me something so innately personal
That it tears me from your womb.
That filters my blood from yours, our genetic separation.
God wouldn’t pay attention to the fact
I’m your daughter,
If tomorrow he decided to gut me on a highway
And the cars ran over me like insects.

In return,
I will give you the favour
Of hearing me speak out my pain
Because no such pain is worse
Than the one that plagues your child.
Am I still your child Mother?

I have been hearing of a woodpecker for many days now
Pricking the sides of my house
It is interrogating me for reason, for decisions
And Mother I have no boyfriend
No best friend except for my bones and the blood
That run through us
Fountains of centuries that are tucked neatly
Into the smiles of our eyes.

Mother what the hell am I doing?
I took my bags and dragged them away from our house
I left like a spell of rain.
Mother why am I this way?
What do me you?
Come again my friend tell me what to do.

When it all runs dry
And I have no more tears left to cry
The ducts in my eyes
Have shrunk to pin-pricks
And I only drink from this emptiness
Pour yourself wine, leave it on the coffee table,
I will sip it in secret as you flip steak in the kitchen.
I am 6 years old again. Curious as kittens, as spiders.

Mother my heart’s in a little place called Cornwall
And I don’t feel the need to fight myself
So let me cave in
I am my own worst enemy
Though I hope to sip myself like your wine,
I am a great fruit

And heaven hope I’ll find a man
Who’ll pitch up my dreams with me
And we’ll live inside them like a tent
Because that’s what you want me to do, no?
Mother why is it we can never have what we want?
Why does nobody need me?
And yet I am the stain on their favourite t-shirt
That just won’t wash out.

I take to my Tarot cards for advice
Because you are far away, sleeping.
I am 5 am and dying.
I am 3 pm and I am the girl from Ipanema.
A man takes photos of me
And I am somehow beautiful
And how nobody could ever want me

When the world is at my feet
I will work all at night
Then walk with a boy all over campus
And tell him I like to walk
And hear the world come to life
I would go to the supermarkets with my new friends
And tell them being there at 2 am
Is like living in some kind of dystopian novel.

It will rain tonight and I just want my teddy bear.
Instead I want to be kissed by someone new.
And I reject them because I want Dad to keep my heart
Locked in a cage
I want to be untouched
I want to be dissolved of all previous failures
Live and learn you say but it’s stopping me from living
And then of course, learning.

Mother I left the shower an hour ago to tell you all this.
Where’s the kiss I gave you by the green gates
At primary school
Something’s gone amiss,
I write endless lists of why I should be closer to you.

This is my world Mother.
I hope you love it.
Carnations and coastal walks and all.
Pittas and chicken with avocado
And pain.

There’s nothing else to describe
But your blue eyes
I wish I could’ve had.
Tell me what you’re thinking.
Tell your problems.

No problem ever existed without people.

It’s your turn now.

i am not clever

i am not clever. my hands are clear of knowledge and i am not interested in the structure of my dna or how to please the man scanning my examination paper. i am only cleaning my knife. i am only bruising myself on other kinds of skin. i am learning by touching familiar faces through a white sheet on the other side of my palm, where my fingers poke through the holes and grooves of their eyes their noses their lips i cannot see. i am not clever because i cannot calculate a sum. i am not clever because i cannot hold together an atom and feel my way around the skeleton of a liquid. i cannot describe nature to you. even if i place stars in my mouth like sweets. no, i do not live for this kind of education. i live for the lessons inside peoples’ tongues. and i want to rub myself against their language. i want to be the drug they scrub into their gums. and at night i want them to fall asleep with my face imprinted into their dreams. i am not clever by books as books. i am only a genius with the books people wear on their faces. and i read them. time and time again.

but no, i am not clever.

i’m prepped to kill you

i wanted to be the little girl
who could beat her father up
and suck off his bruises
with one giggle

but i’m not strong like that
and you boys,
you young things
can strip me away to dusk and to nothing

i’m prepped to kill you
to put your body into my kiss
but i won’t suck off your bruises
and i won’t bite your gullet just to

save you from talking.
i want you to scream
to hush your heart into myself
i’m prepped to kill you always

your murder will be my resurrection.