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.

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i keep colouring us grey

–  you’re the last petal on this daisy.

don’t know the truth hanging on your lip
just keep colouring us grey.

in the bar i punch you
in the bed i hum you

to shake off the guy in my hair
to be a fragile girl sucking her heart like a dummy.

tomorrow you’re reading a book
i’ll not really notice

but see you smoking outside
i’ll die in my own arms

broken bits of stars in my eyes
you’d smile that smile you give

in awe
in pensive mood

just keep colouring us grey.
can’t shade us cerulean over beer sex and feminism

can’t give you violet with fat joints and doorstep kisses
can’t stream emerald on our carcasses

we’re boys night out and your blonde hairs on my fur coat
we’re pool tables and the smell of your apartment on my jeans

your grey
my arch

vomiting rain day by day
your eyes stained of cloud

no i couldn’t cry at all
yes i could burn away tomorrow

–  i’m the last daisy in this field.

and you love me not as i love you
and you love me as i love you not.

a text that never sent

i guess every time the moon changes phase
i lick up another line for the way i’ve been candy flipping my heart over you
it is a coin i keep tossing with my fingers
it is a big bad red penny
and i learn slowly, that i don’t like you half as much as i did
or should.
i toss and turn
and fail myself again.
my bedsheets move and so do voices on the tips of the cotton waves
i seem to make as i shrug with pain.
god’s thumb begged me to forget
and i gave him the devil’s fingernails instead.
i picked them from out of my underwear
and i tried to dream about planets
that fell into my carcass instead of you
it was an earth of impossibility
it was a terrorist in my lungs
but as i dreamt,
i saw you maybe loving me again one day.

mate i’m not a drive-thru

whenever i kiss a guy i hurt him
not sure why;
i guess out of habit i have to bite his lip, graze him
it’s not about leaving a mark
but a guy needs a receipt, right?
i’m fast food, take-out, noodles on a tuesday
and the sauce is all over your dashboard
i’m a drive-thru
i’m a napkin to take on home
i don’t like to be eaten.
you can’t idealise mass-produced, processed crap like me
when you just stuff it in the cheeks of your stomach and say,
‘i ate it’
oh yeah you fucked that up like
the way you fist bump god on the street
n invite him round to watch the city v. utd match
with your chicken legends dripping down your faces.
you guys meet every sunday.
not in the chapel at 9 am,
but on your bedroom floor whenever he rings your doorbell
with pages from the holy bible for plates.
and he’ll tell ya
“mate she’s not a fucking drive-thru”
and you’ll say to yourself you wish you never brought this up “i never said she was”
but she so was.
she was the please-enter-your-chip-and-pin
and she was the sweaty package handed to your arms
over the sleeve of your car.
so whenever i kiss a guy i hurt him
like hot food.
not sure why;
out of habit i’ve become a bit of a meal,
a moment on the lips, y’know.

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.

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.

absolute mess

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

you see,
sugar,

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

HEARTBREAK HURTS
HEARTBREAK HURTS
HEARTBREAK HURTS

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

support

i feel that money fade
              it’s shiny
     queens and kings,
 politicians wink
            papers for crystals
      stuck in straws
‘it’s cleaner this way’
         you said you’d support me
i feel that smile fade
      sing me
            woman,
   you’re the kind of friend
                    i need to leave
  mean
  it’s something in your veins
               it’s the drip
                   in the mornings
preaching
relentless depression
              elevation
                    she got addicted
     and no one listening
she sells crack in the other division
    sleeping between two males
             pretending
             you blink
eating your food
                you miss a heartbeat
lack of support
    poor rapport
                   her father
  with the cat’s eyes
                 you the swim
this is a vision
        twisted
                 money for crystals
they excavate from her lungs
          you judge
                        like a demon.

boy meets girl, algiers, 1956

a french soldier came along someday
and “fucked” this woman in one of the streets
but woman knows that she’ll get pregnant
and thus here we all are
berbers ignored as the underwood is
where we get fucked by little pieces of western eyes
and wear the evidence under our shirts
all the way home, yeah,
all the way home.

then baby gets born and our sons never come home
because their hearts get mangled in the wire fighting him who’s fucked me
and i hold on tight to my face because it’s the last piece of me i have
so hold on tight, little identity picture, hold on
and we don’t get a say in how the world defines us
because someday your people will tell you we’re your terrorists
and we’ll be the people that want to cut your babies
and play football with their heads

not that none of you ever did that
not that that french soldier ever did that
when he glided his paper skin against me
and after every spill i look at myself in the mirror
i see him baring his teeth in my stomach
and i want to cut it all out of me,
yeah, i want to cut it out of me,
but instead he does it for me.

I Can Fit Two Years Into An Old Boux Avenue Bag

this is your destination now
there are some gifts you gave me i won’t wear
necklaces from the amazon
a painting of a toucan
a locket keyring with our faces smiling inside
love letters
a USB of photos i didn’t have the heart to delete
plus a bunch of other things that shouldn’t matter
but hell they did and still do
when i’m 40 i’ll dig em’ up
and rake my insides with our youth
it’s good to give your heart a quick shake
now and then
our universe is packed into this little lingerie bag
and i think that’s kinda magical, don’t you?