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.


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.

Personal Problems: 11th Account

N.B. i do believe in fairies, i do, i do.

dear lover,
tell me something so innately personal
that it makes you feel like the way you first fell in love with me.
the way God pushed me over that familiar cliff into your heart.
or better,
so personal that it tears you with a meat cleaver
until you are nothing but slices of guilt and regret.

you suppose I write because I hate you,
but no.
you are just not the boy I thought you were.
take heed of when I call you “boy”.
maybe it is the Peter Pan in you that calls for a Wendy like me
in life to be your mother,
to clean your room
and wipe down your sinks
because that is my calling in life.

there is no need to dislike you
at all.
not even after everything.
my fault, your fault, our fault.
it is immaterial. like dust.
we are just two children,
you fight your dad like Captain Hook
and I too thought I should never grow up,
but Peter, I must.

for me, lover
it is the having to fall in love all over again
start from cleaner whiter pages
so clear are the raindrops
in my eyes
i must harvest new tears to shed

over other silly Peter Pans like you
and the thought of it is so exhausting
but exciting.
learning to recognise his smell,
making him cups of tea his way,
or watching him fly to the second star to the right

straight on till morning.
all boys are Peter Pan at heart.
there is a shard in their chest
that wills them never to grow up.
it’s what wills them to wear the t-shirt
with the curry stain down the front to the gym.

or wills them to leave pistachio shells all over the floor.
or wills them to leave tea bags on the surface.
the TV programmes litter you like childhood dreams of being a F1 race car driver.
and sure enough,
they hide it with the bills to pay
and their newborn son in their arms

but there is magic in their lungs still
fairy dust lining their fragile ribs
that tells them to go play with their Lost Boys down the pub. get muddy.
no matter how much it hurts me
i know you meant well jumping into bed with somebody else

right afterwards
because you’re just looking for a Tinkerbell. or Tiger Lily.
a friend to nurse the swords splicing your bones after a broken heart
whereas I took to a cloud
and went on home
where Dad had to hold me.

sure I would fall in love in again.
i would fall in love with a man so hard and so different
that we would make the planet fall away from beneath our feet
and we would go to the university of Neverland
and make it our own
i would risk my heart a thousand times

and wash it out
wring it out to dry with the mermaids all laughing at me
for being so naive that I’ll find a sweet one
but washing out my chest
means I’m a shade closer to new
and you eventually disappear altogether, stain.

no I don’t hate you
no I don’t love you
it’s just always disappointing to stain your new clothes, or organs, in my case.
for now
I’d better be Wendy
and not rely on a Peter to love me.

here is magic
the alcohol is nothing
when you can fly alone
and visit each star like i visit my grandfather.
always sweet.
no, no man for me is ever needed to be happy.

but i might stumble across one by accident to share it with
like cake.
and if you should ever run out of Tinkerbells and jäger
i should hope you find your Wendy in the nick of time
before Neverland runs out of magic
and immaturity.

it’s your turn now.

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.

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.

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.

Personal Problems: 7th Account


Last time I spoke to
All the people that don’t love me,
And critics,
and works of art,
And I scratched my head asking,
“What have I done now?”

I type the keys as though I were playing the piano
and these words test me on the page,
I don’t really blame you or anybody for trying to heal me,
I’m standing on the horizon and I’m seeing angels now.

Its a letter to my boyfriend.
Shall we open it?

Dear lover, tell me something so innately personal
That your tears scream out of your tear ducts,
And you’re no longer alive.

I’m passing the book on,
here’s hoping they study me one day.
I’m not sure whether you’re going to tell me what it is you’re feeling
But I hope everybody outside of the people I love,
Are out there burning.
So whilst I tell you what’s wrong,
You’ve got to repay me in some way,
Whilst you think,
I’ll tell you another of mine.

I am wasting my life on studies.
Pursuing poetry, defenceless against the sunset,
I’m drowning in near-paradise,
But my soul’s never felt so let down before,
Was this meant to be it?
And you’re somewhere other than here
Does it do well to test the strength of a relationship
By putting acre after acre after acre of grass and sheep and arm and leg
Between us,

I’m hardly learning how to breathe
But there’s a whole sea in my stomach
and the waves are choppy,
My heart’s little boat can nearly stay afloat,
But whatever,
I’m the one telling you which one would you do,
Savannah Stern or Alexis Texas,
And don’t call me mainstream for eying up the success
of the “best women out there” using sex to get ahead…

Some people out there have dreams
Of sucking a dick belonging to their boyfriend,
But he’s sleeping in another room,
and his lower torso has snaked around the distance
Just to meet your lips
And be eaten with your eyes.

I don’t really know what’s of us,
But I tried to deny we were even in a relationship
Just to save people chittering
because they didn’t have much better to do with their lives,
Talk about the tables turning, crutch under the other arm now,
I chitter about their lives
And they either know or don’t,
Fine by me.

I’m sick to death of the dragging carcasses I carry,
Ironic in a flat of girls, it could still be so messy
And two women have left their plates on the side for 5 days now,
I’m gonna smash them over their heads.
Its just like school again isn’t it,
The amount of times I wanted to bash old friends of the head with their own self-certainty
And arsiness,

I burn cigarettes into their arms,
Into their eyes,
They melt like blood and harden like a boner.
Feeling flushed yet lover?

Why’d you have to do it,
Why’d you have to put my chest into your ribcage,
God calls it a safety jacket,
I prefer to call it a built-in prison,
I don’t even get to shower inside you,
But I suppose when you give your heart to somebody
they get to decide what it is they wanna do with it
And if I get crushed,
Well, I hope I make a great smoothie.
Unforgettably good.

Nothing’s gonna make us stronger than the next 3 years,
but hell, why am I tying myself down,
And why do I think and contemplate the future when I don’t even know who I am
or what I’m looking for in myself,
but I’ve been rummaging through the same chest of drawers in my brain
and all i’ve found is poetry

Just to write what I feel,
Well, this is one part of what I feel,
But I am perfectly entitled
To blowing you away with the champagne corks
and showing you
just exactly what I’m made of”.

And there you go,
I’m stained in blood of others,
“Why’d you have to go put my name down”
“Why’d you make me look so bad”
Truth is,
I don’t really care.

After years of people telling me I wasn’t worth it
because I’m weird and strange and I don’t earn a place amongst you guys so we can be friends
girls ruining christmas ball for me because of their personal vendettas,
other girls ruining school for me because of their pernicious mothers or pernicious personalities
Truth be told,
I haven’t got a single teardrop left to smear across the face of this dirty scummy planet,
And fuck anybody here who says I can’t break the barriers,
I’m about to toss the world up into the air like a coin
And it lands only on MY SIDE
when nobody else is around you
Cast your mind back to kissing in the car at early morning,
and in dying in that split second, we’d be happy,
I feel your arms around my torso pulling me in closer
but you’re not any closer,
And its breaking me.

And fuck it, we have to busy ourselves, prepare ourselves for the worst,
But truth is I don’t want to get hurt,
Who really prepares themselves for the sell-by date on what nourishes them most in this life,
More than pizza, more than hot chocolate,
I just want Halloween again as a young girl
and my mother holding my hand on the streets
she’s cradling me on the sofa in a warm blanket
And we’re happy,
I’ve never felt more protected than being in her arms,
And that’s why every bad day at school there ever was
(I’m really sorry to say that most days there were bad)
I’d turn the TV on and sob into her shoulders
And I don’t even have that and the winter air biting my head off
To do that.

I’ve just got breezes.
And I’m making amazing friends with stories you wouldn’t believe.
Suffering is so common, happens to everyone,
But I don’t give a shit if I’m offending “the man she loves”
Because I don’t fucking love him. LOL.

What I’m trying to say is,
I wanted to come to the beach and take everyone I love with me
And you should’ve been here on this really sunny day.
Just take care of yourself,
I’m wearing your skin now.

So, that’s that for now,
But if you get the chance to ever reply to me,
Just send something back.
Anything, this time, really.

Personal Problems: 5th Account

(NB. Did you click the fucking link again? How stupid can you be? I want you to listen very carefully. I’m in trouble. I’ve gone to hell and I’m stuck here. I have Judas on speed dial. I can contact the dead. Things are getting crazier. Unless you love decapitation and medieval torture, go away right now. If you do, well today you can open Door No. 5 on your Personal Problem Advent Calendar. I had an endearing thought whilst Satan was carving out my insides. I thought about what my Mother would do. Mothers are, in most cases, the most important relatives you will ever have. My mother is my own personal God in some ways, and that there is no equal or better equivalent. There’s a lot of women out there who need to be killed. Including mothers, too.
Especially the ones who belong to your partners, are as real as the Anti-Christ. For Nana, wherever she is).

I have a fuckload of these.
I have no words for the expulsion.
Do you think my mother knows about my tattoo yet?
If you think you know which mother I am dismembering here,
Give yourselves a round of applause.

But make sure you pay attention.
I am about to peel her face off and slice it with a bread knife.
I am going to spread my words over the skin-loaf like marmalade.
I am going to pluck her lips off her flabby face, and place them on her gravestone.
I wonder if she can carry on gossiping then.

Here lies all the women I can kill.

Tonight I am red.
And my martini is in my hand,
And in my black Cavalli gown I am holding the black dial phone,
I am the Holly Golightly that every Mother wishes she still was.
And I am sobbing, once more.

I have been put on hold by the pearly white gates.
Disciple Peter says to wait.
And I am calling Joyce.

Tonight I am making a deal with she.

How are you? Is paradise everything you ever dreamed of,
Do you not count the pennies anymore?
Nana, poverty is a blessing, when you’re so cut off from the world,
You’re not aware of what you could have.
You’ve never seen the people that I have watched at school,
Swaggering in their new clothes.
Because they can spit £45 at a flimsy shirt from Topshop,
And still look shit.

Nana, tell me something so innately personal
Where the feeling of pain is so real,
You are resurrected from the dead.
And walk the earth again with your soft palms.
And wrinkly elbows.

It is so painful and so real
That your vessels flow with blood once more,
That you can boil potatoes again,
Just like you used to.

You’re going to be thinking for a while, and the line here crackles a little when neither of us talk,
So I’ll kick off with something personal of my own.
My ex’s mother.
She’s a godless woman.
She’s got the worms writhing in her eyeballs.
She speaks and maggots drip from her tongue.

Its this mother who believes she’s superior
Because she purchases her furnishings from Next.
And we all laughed and laughed at that.

Nana, this woman,
She used to shave my hair with stress.
She used to shave my skin in flakes, with unworthiness,
She used to vomit into my mouth, and make it rain pus from my teeth.
She was a godless woman.

Not fit for paradise. Not fit to shake the pearly white gates. Tell Disciple Peter to watch out.

For a fish out of water, I did well for a while.
“She’s very pretty, isn’t she?” she said to her son about me once,
Funny what words can do
When they uppercut the surface of the skin,
And bleed,
The liquid bubbles on the white shirt
Until you are crimson all over.
That is blushing.
It is more violent than simple scarlet fish swelling and swimming in your capillaries.

Well when I blushed,
I bled into my cheeks so hard I committed suicide.
Because I know Mothers.
Protective of their sons and daughters.
Judging. Hard to know.
Their shield has no heart.
This mother was like no other.
She was not fair of face.
She was as real as the Anti-Christ.

I want to bomb that entire family.


She calls my father a terrorist,
Little does she know she’s looking at it.
I’m the one with the words, these bombs, I’m the one that can drop a nuke
On her world and she’ll burst,
And I’ll scatter pieces of her like bird feed.

Nana, what do you do with mothers who love their sons for their own personal gain?
What do you do to women who make their children pursue the wrong careers?
I give you reason.
To kill.

I don’t give a shit anymore.
I thought that people who I didn’t love were worth it,
And they’re not.
Humans are told to isolate themselves over Instagram
And throw a cloak over their cove of family and selected friends

Even if we are able to make small talk over the shop counter,
Strangers are stranger and we’re so self-conscious it’s all about danger,
So back to Twitter, Generation Y must forever carry on liking Ruby Rose posts.
And my best friend is bugging me like crazy, her introverted bullshit is worthy of me stabbing her in the chin,
Can’t be bothered to have a real conversation,
So when I go home tonight I’m going to condemn these people to hell,
I’ll transform into another soul, revisit the witch in me,
And soon enough I’ll grow horns,
I am the Devil.

That is the thing with women,
With Bolton School, with bitches,
With money,
You become a live wire, fizzing like cherryade,
Filled with the belief you’re better than everybody because you owned a Toywatch in Year 7
And soon you’re an atheist who pops drugs at Leeds Festival
And you’re making big mistakes like shagging the guy who wears tweed suits in sixth form…

Nana, I couldn’t stay a virgin till marriage like you.
I wish I had.
I spend up all of my new experiences in youth.
Where I can forget them like kisses.

I know godless women,
Mothers who buy cakes and eat and eat and eat
Until Size 10 is no where within their reach.
Until their son’s girlfriend is so pretty,

That it carves into their heart,
They strip the walls bare and still their wrinkles stain their chests,
The insides of their walls, it stares at them in the mirror,
And their stomachs turn inside out, like cockroaches.

I want to bomb that entire family, Nana.

I am dismembering here Nana, the bleach is in the bathroom.
I can smell her.
I’ve canned her hatred like chicken broth,
And I’m done here, to the blue bin to decompose.

I will never be a good mother!

Nana I’m not going to hell for this.
But I’m going to burn them all,
And I’m going to take them to the cliffs and make them watch their mothers fall
Deep into the ocean.

Break their families like bourbon biscuits.
Break their children like the fast.
I have the night sky on my side, and the Devil’s nodded,
But God’s not turned up to the meeting,

So if you could ask Willy Wonka to slip a gold ticket into heaven for me,
Through a prayer, or maybe through a bowl of Special K,
My soul might be saved, but not hers,
Not my ex’s mother.

Nana put a good word in for me.
God knows I’ll need it.
That she used to plant weeds in her son’s brain,
And they used to grow,

And then he overthrew me because I had those eyes,
I had eyes of a clown,
A mentally-ill patient,
The stuff I’m saying is crazy Nana,
But here me out, because I’m running out of martini here,

And it’s costing me £20 a minute to ring you,
This will be worth it, don’t hang up,
The breeze held you on the day you were buried,
So reunite with it and hold me too.

Hold me forever.

The Anti-Christ is dead.
And I am a horrific young woman.
My own Mother’s eyes are rolling over and over, doing cartwheels in her brain,
She sees me and the dread floods her like cancer,

She is dying when she is seeing me.
Enough of the cruel women Nana,
The adults are even worse,
They’re infected with bitch.

Can you book a Chevy and God to drive me into the bottom of the universe,
Where Jesus is crushing cups of my ex’s mother’s blood with the Devil,
Can you get more saintly than that?
For now I am in swimming pools.

Clear blue and magic.
You can read Voltaire through this water.
She is tossing in her fire,
Meanwhile the blue bin’s got a funky smell.

The chemicals like her decapitated head a lot.

Nana I’ve said my piece,
You’ve had enough thinking time,
If you’re around when I head off to Cornwall, stop by,
Drop me a kiss as I sleep in this scratchy bed.

But we owe each other for all the days of each other’s lives we have missed,
So tell me your biggest pains Nana,
I love you, you remind me of hibiscus flowers in Granada,
And thick gravy, and Youth Dew,

So tell me over this dial phone,
I promise Disciple Peter won’t hear,
Tell me loud and clear,
Your voice filled with glassy tears, let yourself bleed like a grapefruit,

Because it’s your turn now.

Personal Problems: 4th Account

(NB. Look out. It’s another one. No I’m not responding to the fact I deleted names from the 3rd account. I will be. Wish me luck. I have gotta tell you, that this personal problem is a universal one. Who USED to be BEST MATES with somebody? Old friendships are one of the biggest pills to swallow. At sixth form, I had nobody. And I didn’t really need anyone either. It is tiring being the class clown or the weirdo. And sometimes friends dump you because your differences humiliate them).

It is a sucker of a bruise. A pool of black and blue surrounding one of the deepest scars on my brain.
I feel much to tell you of.
This fairy tale from long, long ago.
Where I walked along the school corridors
And dragged my fingertips across the smooth white walls outside the math classrooms.
A ladybird friend.
And a butterfly.
I was a centipede. The tallest of my friends.
I was not pretty.
I was not sweet.
I did not fly.

In Personal Problems,
I endeavour to leave no stone unturned,
Of the lashed whips that have struck me over my years at secondary school.
That women,
Really are brutal.

Tonight I am proposing a deal with an old friend, an old one.

Old friend, tell me something so innately personal that it leaves a strange emptiness in that dark cavity your heart shrinks in.

Does it feel weird, after all this time that I should be writing to you?
I’ll tell you of loneliness. I’ll get to that.
I’ll get to school lunchtimes spent alone and 7D laughing at my shoes.
I’ll get to the popular girls from 7B stealing my ID badge temporarily at PE out of my blazer pocket to scare me.

I lost things. And humans broke me.
I am that wind-up toy.
Whilst you think of your pain, let me spoon feed you my own.

I am 12.
I do not know anybody. And this large school does not remind me of Hogwarts, except for the Turret Library,
Which we used to visit only to stare bewitched with eyes filled with scarlet crushes on Edward Cullen.
In December that stair case was chilly.
I am 12. And I am that quiet snowflake but with a chip missing,
I was not a fan of Paul’s Boutique until everybody wore Paul’s Boutique.
I tried to fit in, I tried so hard to have tan skin, fresh faces, 4 netball badges on my pleated skirt, and money.
I wore red Hunter wellies and beamed, so they’d look at me.

And I was still the creepy centipede.

Old friend when it was Tuesday,
A girl would fall out with me over spilt milk, over words to the wind, over air falling over, over dogs sleeping.
For years it was hit and miss,
Does she like me, does she not,
There was a nothingness to resolve our bipolar friendship.
I had to date her brother so she could fully decide which.
And then this much proved I was still a creepy insect people want to flick off their shoulders.

Old friend,
I remember your walk.
The way you fluttered in a haze of sunshine and dark hair, dark eyes, strikingly pretty,
That when you fainted on the 60m in that burning sun in the summer,
Only I had helped you up and we went to the next class,
Only to find that the next PE lesson we would have,
I would not have a partner.

And there my sadness begins.

You must throw a shadow over your clique,
To prevent anyone from seeing who is inside that party, that group, that wonderful ship.
Nobody can go in.
It’s like the forbidden road your mother refuses you to cross alone.
You don’t know how to cross roads.
You don’t know the password.
You aren’t invited to the tree house.
You are a centipede.

If I were to go back in time
I would suffer the same things again.
That same misinterpretation.
That longing to be understood,
That I did not wish to hurt,
That I went through the same scratches and bled the same colour of blood.
I at times had spent lunches alone.

Until I loved to be without those groups.
Until I learned that I did not need cliques.
Or to be treated and man handled like a cast iron pot,
To be thrown on the floor like an old creased tshirt,
I was nobody’s liquor bottle to suck from.

That these feelings of the lonely,
Still pierce me through my eyes.
And I feel the way I felt alone at lunchtime,
Sea water stinging, she cried.
To there,
It was in those 7 years I went from dependant
To secure in my own costume,
In my sweet skin.
Not even my lover could pull me out from the dreams I live in.

Old friend, all is forgiven.
All is well.
You weren’t aware that you and your friends ruined 4 years of a young girl’s life.
And that is a fact as sharp as a gunshot,
As quick as blood,
As real as a blade.
It shouldn’t hurt too much to read.

I can hardly speak the rest of the list of people I was
Stamped on by, as though I were the white elephant amongst the grey,
As though I were child’s play, to those people,
They are watercolour. I washed them off.
I burned them down like wax,
They melted, they are a hot pool of nothing.
But you were that acrylic that never scrubs off the school maroon sweatshirt.
That small green mark, a lick of something that wouldn’t disappear.
It was aggravating. Frustrating.

My kooky looks, my pensive kiss,
Channeled into a cartoon where I am Tom and you are Jerry and I always get hit.
Just for a taste. Not of food, but of friendship.
These small materials that I stitched
Humiliated you, I am an embarrassment
And I do not care.

Old friend, this pain is an old but familiar one,
It gives me the same feeling as when I have read my old schoolwork from English and History class books.
It is a small ache. But has the density of acrylic. You.

You taught me of women.
Of bad friendships. Of bitter lemons,
Stuffed into my mouth,
One by one,
The acid peeling off the skin of my tongue.
Can you work out the answer to this fragrant problem, this personal mishap,
This unfortunate lesson, I had?

Unlock the secret of this secret?
For this problem I require repayment.
Take your personal problem,
Divulge it to me as if you were unwrapping yourself like chocolate.

Speak your sorrow like candy flakes to me.
There will be a bitter lemon centre.
Tell your personal problem old friend,
It’s your turn now.