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.

crying in the elevator

mike why’d you have to go n do this to me?
15 minutes into my life and i was staring my mother out

but she won.

and it’s not like it’s some kind of competition but
the capacity to make a man’s eyes water
as he holds his hooch from across the bar

is absolutely delicious.

mike i’m crying in the elevator
with a pizza crust sat like a sad smile
in the bottom of my stomach.

mike i told you
humans are the biggest oxymoron in existence
which makes us amazing

but such a pain in the arse.

i don’t like winning anymore
and so men who settle the score with me
i adore,

cos my heart was decapitated from a head of kisses
that many fucks ago an ex gave me
and he told me, he told me,

you’re amazing, lymh

and he calls me baby and hands me cake like dummies
for i am sickly
and cannot quite manage hangovers as i could 3 weeks ago

i drink to remember what it felt like kissing jäger off his dirty t-shirt
and i drink to remember what a lovely curse i’ve been given
that sucking cocks just isn’t fun anymore

and that i hate the sound of my own voice in seminars

15 minutes into my life mike

my ex was holding my hair behind my neck
wet from the rain
saying

marry me, you shit

what kind of a man drinks hooch
and what kind of a man proposes after a 2am argument as i vomit,
howling tears to the moon?

i dunno mike.

but i’m still crying in this elevator cos of you.

i think about you everyday

i think about you everyday
i think about you when the sun’s on my face
and my friends are laughing about something i said when i was drunk
and i think about you when mura masa’s on radio 1
i think about you when i’m head banging in sankeys
i think about you with my 3 am subway
i think about you when i’m crossing the road
look at my swollen body
it has loved you on sunday afternoons when the sun burns my forehead
and it has loved you on sunday afternoons when the rain soaks me to my veins
i think about you everyday
i think about the raise of you
and the pull,  the pull of you
and the push the push of you
the strings on my date’s guitar
i tiptoe in his bathroom and see you stood behind me in the mirror
i feel your breath on my neck when i sleep
your air has never changed
all of you was a tornado
i am not the same,
and i think about you everyday.

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?

“don’t you miss having a penis inside you?”

my housemate is stirring his cup a soup
and i am wearing my skin inside out on the sofa
thinking no one has noticed how naked i am
yet thinking i don’t care thinking that if i draw attention to myself
my penniless heart will speak again

and it could be the fact that i am getting kicked out of spoons’ with you
and it could be the fact that i am puffing on cigs with you

but i was never ready for the way your eyes
would pinch my cheeks mid-conversation
as your lips smack together weeping inbetween
croaking stuff like
“chomsky, unfair, obligatory, yes, no”

and whenever i light a vanilla scented candle in my room
i think about the way it hurts to be in love with a fantasy
and the way you were like a disappointing subway sandwich
and she put pickles on it instead of cucumber

I am never in the mood for rain these days
I used to love it because i wanted to be more like bella swan
and be complicated n interesting
but now it is changing,
i am wearing clothes like my mother’s

and i have been happy eating birthday cake alone in my room in the afternoon
and listening to magpies beat their tails on my windowsill

and i have enjoyed not having a penis inside me every day
i have enjoyed being held by a man that does not want me
and kissing his cheek as though we were two daisies nodding at each other
i have enjoyed not being sat on the sofa crying over kfc waiting for a phone call.

i have enjoyed fucking a stage to pieces and putting tears in peoples’ eyes
you ask me to tell you what to do
and i could cry
because i don’t know

i just wanna go home take my bra off
sit topless in bed and put season 1 of gavin and Stacey on

and not tell you how utterly utterly broken my ex has left me
and that i am incapable of loving anyone but the sun
and a long walk along the beach
i don’t miss having a lopsided penis inside me
with words like “baby baby” in my ear

i was a change in season and a lick of the wind
and suddenly i am love with myself again.

i’m not normal

it’s Albany place and Tesco metro is around the corner
and tears are dripping down my face
and now my make up is ruined.

i’m not normal
my chest feels tight with the weight of every word
anyone ever says to me

and I trip half way down the street.
Trelawney.
there’s a house on this road I want to move into.

i have been busy at home making a new face for myself.

i have been making it very pretty with nice highlighter
And a nice smile
And i have made sure this face hasn’t been eating too many pizzas.

this face goes to the gym and takes photos and has a laugh
this face is not fragile.
this face enjoys life.

midnight, Netflix in the background as my eyelids crash
there is a cobweb on the ceiling
it is a metaphor for all my friendships

there is only one star in this cloudless sky tonight
i cannot fully shut my window
and my mouth tastes like cigarettes.

i have been fumbling with my jeans on toilets
And trying to avoid dusk.
i have not been to any parties.

i am not normal.
i am a baby screaming at her rattle.
i am crying because I don’t know which sandwich I want.

“she’s had a misspent youth, this one”

you hung out with me at a time when my chest was boundless, dead
the same sentiment you get when you pass roadkill on the motorway
the curious sad “oh” you make as you drive by the carcass.
you thought half an ecstasy pill was enough to keep me high
you thought one-sixteenth of an acid tab was enough to thrill me

my eyes weren’t doing anything.
and you weren’t changing colour.
we have the same dealer.
you think it’s cool that you sometimes run errands for him.
i think it’s boring to pass over a gram every few seconds.
the door never stops being knocked.
and you don’t stop trying to knock my legs apart.
i keep em closed.
and my mouth wide.
i am a fan of old school garage and walking past houses on the councillor’s estate playing T2 from an lg cookie.
my primary school crush wore adidas trackies.
i am a fan of dad pulling over on the a6 and jumping out of the car and dancing to scooter’s rework of logical song.
as a family we’ve always enjoyed chasing sunsets in a blue Peugeot 206 and
i’ve always enjoyed the thrill of leaving class at the same time as another boy just to kiss them in school toilets.
not much has changed.
not much at all.
except I’ve done my fair bit of racking up now
and there’s so many mistakes wriggling around underneath my nail beds.
i need a manicure.
god love me. wherever he is.
i suppose we have many dealers, you and i
you have your favourites
and i date them.
and then when it becomes clear my body’s just another reefer to them
i get a chill and go on home.
fix myself a peanut butter and jam potato cake,
y’all should try it. it’s good.
anyway like i said,
my heart is roadkill.
when you get to my age, you’re having societally expected fun.
and doing things you do in the prime of your millennial life.
but i honestly don’t think i was born in the right year.
i feel about a million years old.
it’s kinda sad that I’m dating boys your age
it’s kinda sad i’m here at all.

don’t you know my love

my love

i have peeled words for centuries
fetched fistfuls of bruises looking for you

my love
my blood crawls across my lips in relief now
don’t you know i have smeared strawberry hearts across my knees in pain

i have been thrown over
and thrown out
i have stitched the sun into my eyes
and been blinded

my love

you have been gone all my life
you have been here all my life
and my love

god gave me every hand of every human in the world
and in them, i have searched the lines of every palm for you
i have searched every wrinkle of the fire
i have searched all the twitches of the soil
and i have searched through the smiles of empty air
for your noise

my love
don’t you know that you are the blow that hunted me out of the universe
and my love

i have dried out every raindrop on my tongue
i have squeezed sunset after sunset like juice into skyscraper glasses
i have screamed at the moon
i have wet the entirety of night with my tears
i have cried feathers of myself
i have plucked hairs out of the ocean
i have made nebulae underneath my fingernails
don’t you know i have killed myself wearing wounds inside out

but i have found you forever.

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.