Writhe.

Bloody

itchy feet

got me in trouble

again,

this time

with that outstanding woman

who hurts

too deep to keep

up

with my dancing, cheap grin

and the chaos I drag behind me,

screaming,

that draws you in.

Your outstanding woman.

I looked at you

brazenly

pulled and pushed you

and the worst part is

I don’t know why.

Maybe it was a game,

one you play until your mother says,

“stop. before somebody cries”

and she cried:

That wonderful woman on your arm,

and I sit here smirking

knowing better,

but being less,

than I have any right to be.

I know I’m sorry

but part of me wants to switch it

off.

And just let myself be

absolutely anything

in her mind

 

or maybe I’ll step off that ledge I called you from

and asked you to come

find me when I was lost inside myself and your city.

Then it could all

just stop.

 

An angel rising from a rooftop.

But how would you remember me?

A woman who lives to love and make shapes in the mess she writhes in?

Paralysed in the shadow I drew,

I knew better.

I knew you.

Riverbed.

Submerged

and steadily losing hope.

Staring at the shifting shapes the sunlight refracts

onto the sand,

beside me and

beside my lifeless body.

It’d be beautiful

if I weren’t so heavy.

Belly full of stones,

I know.

I am to blame since I swallowed them.

But if it’s all the same

to you,

I’ll lay and wait.

The cacophony of surface-life

was drowning me anyway.

The bubbles emerging and pushing up

are slowing

and I am fading now.

It feels right

to let myself die,

my lungs scream

but my chest isn’t tight

and my nails

don’t dig into my palms in secret –

it’s no secret now,

no one expects more

of me.

It used to be only me that knew

that I would wake up

with lungs clawing for air.

That they couldn’t reach

even though

it’s right there.

I could almost see it,

I wanted its

caress

so badly.

Smiling blue

eyes hid my clenched jaw.

It was easier

when it wasn’t my fault,

when I couldn’t control

all of this

mess.

It’s almost comforting,

almost home,

to know

away the tide will wash my sins,

and we can start again.

The way it was meant to be:

when there’s air around,

and breathing is easy.

Clear.

Dear,

The wind punctures

lily skin

and crimson overflows

pouring all the

darkness she knows

into vapour.

It carries

away high

and clear –

the river bed

sediments are

cleansing her,

removing the

darkness beside her heart.

Oh, dear.

Marked.

I hate this society

where no one praises

Sobriety

for wisdom,

we question it with sneaking suspicion.

What is a society

where we wear out deficits

like badges of honour

on our lonely chests?

It’s filled with regret.

It’s overflowing with hurt.

It’s about anger,

Not healing.

When will we learn?

They’re gay,

she’s black,

he’s disabled,

I’m depressed, and

she was a ward of the state,

because her mother was insane

and her father told them to take her away.

But we’re all filled with the same hate.

While all we have is a label

rooted in

our identity

that signifies what we never had,

or what we haven’t got,

maybe what we’ll never have;

but without it

we again have nothing

and nobody knows the nameless

while we roll over the same waves

of shame.

We all need a new name

for what we are,

for the words of love

we can sing.

Now I know that what I didn’t have

brings value

to the moments

where I lock lost eyes and nod with intent

and promise someone

if they meet me halfway we can wreak havoc

and create change.

In a beautiful,

unprecedented way.

That’s my badge of honour

but I promise you it’s not a mark

for what I don’t have.

And not a sign of the way

it will always be.

It’s the beauty that

cleaned skin brings

when the shadow

of those marks has worn thin.

Now,

Let us begin,

 

Buried.

The Earth

fills my veins

and I’ve never felt so alive

or so buried.

The sky

holds my soul

and I’ve never felt so free,

or so heavy.

All I want is to

fall

high and

uncontained

by my premature dreams

of destination.

And I guess,

when I sit here it’s easy

to feel empty

when I see your

adoration.

Words come hard

and fingers tremble

as you dig your hands in,

and

when you

retrieve

something I was so sure was lost,

may I ask that you

not

make it look

so easy?

Smile-Eyes.

For so long

it was only

in the far-off

barren

corners

of my freshly tortured

mind

that original ideas

were free

to rattleravage

in their

unwashed cages.

And yet

somehow

I knew better

beyond

those

fetters that

held my breath

and scratched

dirty words

into washed

filthy skin

and senses.

But what do we

know

beyond

that which

caged us all

for so long?

It became for

you

not slavery

but freedom

from the cold

outsidedoors.

So I look at you

with

distrustful

goodbyes

lurking

forever close,

always

waiting

for the fleeing that goes

with your snake smile eyes.

Worms

Worms

Crawl

And dig deep

Under the freckles that

Mar

My dirty skin.

 

They all watch me

With speaking eyes,

With expectation,

Under a fool’s

Unconvincing disguise.

 

I’m sorry

That I am so unclean,

I’m sorry

That I have something

You all look

To take from me.

I’m breathless

At the thought

Of battles yet

To be

fought

To retain

What

I have every right to be.

I’m sorry, sir,

I’m already empty.

Don’t call.

When you call

I hear

the tears

bubble

in your throat.

When you call

I know

you need

to get

out.

When you call

I do try to listen,

but it’s hard without

getting so attached

it takes me back

to times not worth

remembering,

not worth dwelling

over and in;

it already threatens

to swallow

me

without you here.

 

Can you hear

the distance I force

in my laugh

when you call?

 

When you call

I know you love me,

but it baffles me still

how you sit right in the middle,

and it all springs from you

that none of you are –

none of your best is –

quite good enough.

And you have

no idea

of your own

inadequacy.

Yet you cry in tandem

over how life

has always

failed

you, .

how it has never been

fair.

 

And so I say with heartless

disgust:

yes, we all do our best,

but some of you

need to do better

to earn my

respect,

to earn

your own

place,

to be worth still

less trouble

than

you cause.

Learn to clean up your own mess.

Maybe next time,

don’t call.

 

Oh, I remember.

Remember

dishes in the kitchen,

and hiding scared

on the stairs?

 

Remember parties – too loud –

on tiny,

wide eyes and
ears?

 

Remember pressure

never ceasing

over heartbeat
and chest,

To be someone

more

just because she is

so much
less?

 

I remember

being tired –
endlessly so –

but I always produced
bounding energy

only for you.

 

I remember
when you asked me
with swimmingnightsky eyes

why, when they asked me,

would I daredream to lie?

And I remember

that it killed me

to hurt you so deep

Out of selfless preservation

for good sense to angels keep.

 

I remember when you demanded

I sacrifice my light

for your

thrilling darkness
that pervades even morning’s holy night.

I remember
when I heard

the bitterness

in that

accusation,

that I got more than I deserved

from that

carcass woman.

 

And I remember

when I knew

you’d hurt me one too many times

to let you in,

wielding your rope words

and his knife.

 

So tomorrow I will remember

not being sorry when I say

I will not sacrifice

another

single

day;

I am losing time already.

I no longer care

what you have

left

to

say.

 

 

 

 

Toying.

I toy with this idea

of you loving me.

It makes me smile

with its far-too-easy

glint.

I press these here eyelids closed

and whisper sweet wishes

that you know

I yearn to feel

your hand

clutch my waist

and your words

steal

this fragile heart,

buried,

hidden,

behind fractured but reinforced

glass.

Sometimes it would be so easy to just let go

and have faith

that you’ll know

to hold me close.

What a beautiful fallacy we are in my dreams.