absolute mess

N.B. post-party depression. don’t do drugs kids. – lymh, 99 BC

you see,

it’s spun from your words,

sometimes i have found myself lost from your orbit
sometimes i have found myself inside your mouth

trying to taste my way back to the surface for air
some sort of gravity

to drag me here
my head hurts

you are like ingredients to me
and i am like a recipe for disaster

the burnt cake on your 20th
and the way my fingers run run run through your hair

liquidate the stars you animal


i’m so fucking high right now m8

i’m going to find you

at the top of the stairs somehow

ring on your finger
oceans begging you to drown yourself

no eggs left
i don’t know

where the fucking tea bags are
i don’t where your fucking car keys are

i asked you to drop your heart into my palm like a fat strawberry

and you said no no no no no non nonnononononononnonoonononononono

and i said yes yes yes yes ye sy esy ysyesy eysyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyyesyesyes

and then we squeezed sugar out of suns together

until sunrise,

messed about


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.

deep love

N.B. for people who know how to love deeply

deep love is like being sat at the bottom of a swimming pool
with your goggles on and feeling like you’re a different species.

it’s alien in all the ways you’ve ever dreamed of them being
and you just have to be in a car one night for it to slam you.

you’re the reason you crash and you’re the reason your heart’s skipping
double-dutch and it’s beating harder than the bass in your eyes.

deep love is a whole new game
and you never find it.

it finds you.

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.


I know for a fact
That at some point,
A familiar breeze will have rolled in
Through the gap in your window
And you will have smelled me entering your room.

I stand at the foot of your bed
Waiting for you to scream
For you to say that you’re really sorry
That you mean you want us really,
To be friends,
But the summer months are coming

And all I feel is the muskiness of your lies.
They are deathwatch beetles in my pockets.
I fish them out into handfuls
I pour them about.
You get scared.

I say let them crawl across your face
And you hope that it’s punishment alone
But I am just killing off any love I’ve had for you
This you,
Lying in bed,
Satisfied you’ve done by what you think is right.

Tonight I walked into my bedroom
And had a flashback of the time we fucked on my bed
Thoughtlessly, irrationally, in anger, in sadness
Because you were going one way
And I was going the other.

I don’t know how to handle separation.
Or how paths split into two like hair.
I have broken you off like an end
With that thought alone,
The beetles vanish from between your eyelashes

They dissipate with a final kiss,
And the rest crawl back into my pockets
Nothing but an alarm clock tells you it’s time.
Time for me to give up on your carcass.
I had already eaten and suppered on what’s best of you,

And now there is nothing left. No good of you. Too bad I didn’t share.

And with that thought alone, I came as I went, again,

On an April-Breeze,

And you were alone.