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.

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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?

I hope he fucks her so hard her mum feels it.

excuse the bluntness of your wife’s body.
the moon is rounder than her belly,
holding the bump.
this is so sad but she’s waiting for you.
you disappear, your wedding ring melting into the mattress you share.
and she doesn’t see anything, but my god she feels you go…the clock falls,
You stand naked, waiting on the corner
yum yum yum yum eating someone else.
and you writhe on her.
you writhe on that body,
that dripping container.
and there is a stillness in her room.
you could crack the air in half.
you could drink lead.
oh i bet you could, i bet you could, you bleach your insides as you move in her.
there’s nothing to it, you don’t feel a thing, it’s cheap as chips, this casual business.
but the ocean’s never tasted sweeter in your wife. 
y’know,
brace yourself for this, she sat opposite me last wednesday,
looked like a bleeding lamb, running her thumb around the edge of a coffee cup.
she said,
“i hope he fucks her so hard her mum feels it.”
the trees sank in her stomach.
the sky stopped beating.
her kid burst.
you writhe on her.
the blood.
the sinks swelling with sick.
the gum you chew,
and chew and chew
and chew and chew
and chew and chew
just to get the taste of (she wasn’t even that great was she)
that thing out of your mouth (it’s fucking disgusting)
so that your wife won’t lick it off your lips.
(aw try harder why don’t you?) (keep going, lol) You do it by yourself.
you fuck her so hard
that your wife,
that mother,
Feels it.

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.

Pregnant, Half 3

It is 3:30am
And I am pregnant.
This word carries two syllables,
Two people,
Cupped into each other.
It is 3:31am
And I am young.
That is the burning book between my pupils,
My Bible tossed,
My Qur’an, wasted.
Landscape trashed.
I have been on the absinthe,
And the green tea.
Neither affords me newness,
Look at the limbs growing inside of me.
I haven’t been weeded monthly,
I am pregnant with kisses
And accidents and a tossed condom,
With a forgotten hole leaking it’s way through into my body,
The latex that burst and the womb that burst,
It is 3:34am
And the pregnancy stick waved a wand over my head
And for a while I had two brains,
Two hearts,
4 legs and 4 arms,
Extra organs for extra work,
More air to be inhaled
And more to be known.

I took myself to the garden centre
And threaded a needle through my belly button,
And I unpicked the stitches lining my supple bloodiness.
It is 3:37am
And I have tossed the weeds in the bin,
And the extra brain and extra heart never grew a shoot in spring.