Goodbye.
That's all.

He dreamed
in hues of
bruises.

you will make it,
even if it's by the skin of
your teeth --
which will pearl
into a smile
that reaches your
endless eyes

sleep if you're exhausted
but you will rise;
energy cannot end, so
your soul
will be fine

arise, darling,
we're going to be fine

i'm not sure that i want to live anymore
i'm not sure that i'd call it suicidal
i'm not sure that i wouldn't call it suicidal
i'm not sure if it's fair to say i'm a risk to myself
i'm not sure i'd ever go through with it
i'm not sure it's fair to ignore it
i'm not sure that i want it acknowledged
i'm not sure about showing weakness
i'm not sure about showing vulnerability
i'm not sure i want to let anybody close
i'm not sure i don't want to let anybody close
i'm not sure i can handle somebody knowing my soft side
i'm not sure i can handle somebody accepting me
i'm not sure about anything
i'm not even sure what this is

it's not a poem, really
it's not a statement
i'm not sure it's anything at all

it just is

i wish you'd cut it out, causing me all this misery
you found cutting my heart out pretty easy
it's like bending over backwards with a paralysed spine
i'm in agony every second we talk and you're doing fine

you were nothing to me for so long but now it's like i need you
and i hate you for making me feel so dependent on somebody but god i love you
and it's killing me, it's killing me to think about how easily you could leave me
interspersed between moments of numbness, i'm overwhelmingly angry

while you're curling your tongue around double ended swords sheathed in honey
my chest is throbbing with all the wounds i'm hiding under fake smiles and hoodies;
you make your silver tongue's stab wounds seem sweet
it's only after you've inflicted them upon me that i realise i'm no longer standing on two feet

down on my knees and you're bringing out the worst parts of me,
parts i never knew existed, parts i hate, parts that are so unbearably ugly
it's no wonder i can't sleep at night when i'm standing in the mirror, looking at what you've done to me
if internal suffering had visuals i'm sure my torso would be littered with scars, bloodied

but i'm still here, drinking in all your affection and willing myself to believe there's no such thing as alcohol poisoning
and for every laceration, there's a flutter in my heartbeat as your lips chase away the churning feeling
you're so seductive, i'm starting to understand my father's love affair with red wine
i never realised how intoxicating love could be until i wanted you to be mine

dusk settles over the hilltops
and you find me
back resting against a tree trunk
wondering
"whose spine is sturdier?"
raising a cancer stick to my lips,
refusing to inhale after ******* in the smoke,
and i think
"coward"
and i know that i will never
be rooted;
i will never
stay loyal to one patch of earth
unlike this oak that supports me

holding the smog
between my lips
is a little more dangerous
than Augustus' metaphor
but it's sure as hell
less dangerous
than letting it clog my lungs―unless
storing it for a moment before exhaling
is likely to give me mouth cancer
instead of lung cancer

well, i've never been one for commitment
i think i'd rather spit
and pretend
that the tumour
is being expelled
than know there's something
deep inside
that grows every time i so much as breathe

oh, love,
what an illness you are
both of you:
the feeling, and the holder of that pet-name
no chemotherapy
is going to save me,
not now

i think i'll hand myself over
to ignorance
and wait for the problem
to go away

my immune system has always been impressive

my happiness looks like this:

three staffordshire bull terriers that keep stealing all the blankets on the bed,
and a fourth back at my mother’s home who cannot contain his excitement when i visit

grey winter morning light leaking in from behind the blinds—
i hate winter and i should be asleep,
but still my happiness includes this:

the hours i lie awake,
still insomnia ridden as i was when i used to write the nights away in sorrow,
but now

i watch videos of people who like the same pretty colours and the same pretty furniture as i do,
decorating their houses and building
useful things

i put a little more spare cash into my savings each week
and squirm impatiently for our first home together

ours. mine and his.

the main picture in my montage of happiness
is the man lying next to me, sound asleep
an arm cuddled around our oldest girl,
both of them snoring and snuffling in their slumber

sounds i loathed from other people
are sounds i cherish from him.
i kiss the tip of his nose,
each cheek,
the curve of his forehead,
the point of his chin
and settle one more on soft, lax lips

my words don’t feel so beautiful
because all life’s beauty, i find in him.
i don’t have poeticism to spare for writing
when all my love letters are spoken to him
and he embodies everything beautiful
from eyes to smile to skin
down to the soul within

i haven't missed you at all
and it's been kinda peaceful,
being able to breathe.
must be what asthmatics feel
when they get that first puff of an inhaler
after a brutal attack—
that's what i imagine, at least

overwhelming relief, like
they just lifted 160lbs of weight off their chest
and expelled it like a breath on the breeze.
oh, it's still there: the problem
but the jitters are gone for now;
inhaling doesn't feel like being a whisper away from a panic attack

you've induced plenty of those.
you're no medical condition,
nobody's going to find your name on my hospital records;
but i bet if they cut me open
they'd see the scars on my lungs
from where my ribs couldn't expand enough
to fit the anxiety you exhaled into them

you're a disease in your own right
but like a lot of mental illnesses,
you've been easy to become familiar with
to the point where the absence of the discomfort you cause
makes me feel uncomfortable,
and it's been a welcome break
but now i'm wishing you'd come back to me

i'm not sure how i'm supposed to breathe without choking anymore
i don't know how to sit without shaking
you did this to me
now come back and fix it

i’m not afraid to say it,
i need it out there so the world knows
how much i love you and how much i treasure you,
and how i’m not ready for you to go
but you deserve to be free of pain
even if life won’t be the same

i’m so thankful you kept your daddy happy
long enough for me to meet him
and that you two shared so many memories
so many journeys, so many stories
and i’m so thankful you became my baby girl too,
that the memories you two had together
are memories you let me see,
and so thankful i have my own memories of him and you and me

i’ve loved you dearly, even when you were naughty
and i’ve loved you as you were happy, playing with the hose
i’ve loved you as you sun bathed
and as you’ve cuddled with me in the cold,
and i’ve loved you as you ate treats
and got excited for fresh meat,
i’ve loved you jealous of the new puppy
and i’ve loved you bright and smart and sneaky

and i love you now as you tell me you’re ready to go
and i’ll always, always love you, more than you’ll ever know.

i'm sick and tired of these mind games.
you push me away and pull me back
like a yo-yo, or an emotional punching bag
(what's the difference anymore anyway?)
always in equal measures
but i've never felt more imbalanced

i hate you for assuming things
i hate you for making me feel things
you think you're the only victim in this?
you're wrong
and every ounce of my self loathing could never make you seem right

i'm tired of your every word hitting home
i'm tired of the way your anger breaks my bones
i'm tired of feeling like every move i make is a mistake
i'm tired of you making me ill

for ****'s sake
just leave me alone
(don't)

you break your own heart every day,
like drills shattering concrete, hoping
one day the moss and weeds
that grow in between
will somehow blossom into flowers

bless nighttime's slinking shadows
i look to you when i feel alone
you scare me and you keep me up
but at least you make me feel at home

you plagued me when i was thirteen
a schizophrenic possibility
puncture wounds and pale incisions
once a week at therapy

don't leave me now, can't you see
the way i wear you like eyeshadow
i've donned the bruises you leave on me
with pride and trembling fingers

five am in july brings yellow cloud
pale blue morning skies
i lie here on my dented ribs
with nightime's shadows under my eyes

the silence is never silent;
there's always that ringing
in your ears
that forces you to just
pause
and listen
to nothing.

but i think i needed this
not-silence, anyway.
i've been listening to music so constantly,
i think i might have
melted my mind
into further chaos,
i cannot

think
about anything other than
how nice the static solitude is,
to lie down
on this well-worn mattress
and just
stop

hush, child
it's alright now.
i wish somebody would've told me that
when i were a little boy.
hush, child, shh
you'll be okay.
maybe it wouldn't have
turned into a lie
if it had just been said
in the first place

it's funny how
the silence and
the loneliness
used to **** me slowly, painfully
but now it's all i'm used to
and i need doses of it
every
single
day

the scent of you still clings to my sheets
and feelings confuse me
my skype history is a long list of confessions but my biggest secrets are still buried within me
i feel sick
i wish i could purge on self-hatred
i'll dig out these secrets for the sake of this poem, or ramble, or whatever it is
core myself on sharp shards of broken hearts - i have plenty to choose from
more fuel to the fire, my ever-burning hatred for myself
when will it consume me?
i feel sick

confession no.1
i just ate all of the chocolate in the fridge so it wouldn't have to stare me in the face any longer
swallowed it down like its sweetness didn't make me feel bitter
and followed it with a bowl of cereal as a last hoorah for my oncoming diet

confession no.2
i'm **** at this poetry thing
or at least that's how i feel

i can't even be good at something i love
how could anyone expect me to be good at loving?

confession no.3
right now, i feel nothing but resentment and hatred for my mother
her snide comment about my commitment to my therapy made me want to break her neck

confession no.4
i'm incredibly blunt, which is probably why i **** at poetry
i also haven't gotten my anger issues in check
today, on the bus, i imagined shooting this racist woman's head repeatedly and i was angry that i couldn't make her bleed

confession no.5
it's raining outside and i don't feel any calmer
perhaps it's just too mild for me when i feel this stormy
biting back torrential tears like not crying will somehow make me a stronger hurricane
but
i'm still not good enough to blow anybody away

confession no.6
i feel sick in every sense of the word
i kind of want to die

i am having the same old conversations
with the stars up in the sky;
supine, i ask them how much
of their beauty lingers within me
not much, i think.
silently, they stare back, blinking dazedly

i think i might just sleep now,
and let them blanket my dreams:
cold and dead and burning out, alas, like me
but still shining just enough
to soften the blow of nightmares

i thought of you as my perfect half
who knows?
perhaps you still are

but there have been angry storms
and bitter seas, and tears
as salty as the ocean, and

twice as ferocious, impassioned,
they crash against the sand
amidst desperate, roaring winds:

a cold and battering rush
of all those unspoken words finally
ripping their way out as a hurricane,

and the dark clouds block out the sun,
ruining happy days to aid us as we forget
what that bright, bright warmth felt like between us.

we run to opposite ends of the beach,
duck into shelter, home alone
and aching.

i know your tourists leave bad reviews
with every fleeting visit;
i know you pin me to the wall, a poster, reading:

"would not recommend;
the main course gave me
heartburn that lasted months"

but they forgot, as did you,
of all my weather-warnings,
and the times i told you:

"it's an acquired taste;
you can say no.
i really wish you'd say no."

maybe you still are my
perfect other half
but for this period i'm torn in two.

your whirlpools have cracked my ships,
****** my loving sailors
into sure and certain suffering;

summer is over.
the leaves will fall far more gracefully than us,
and we'll see,

if by winter
we can cocoon ourselves in blankets
and grow into something beautiful as we heal.

prove yourself to me
and i swear i'll treat you better

i've proved myself to you
now it's time for you to return the favour

prove yourself to me
and i swear i'll learn to love

i've proved myself to you
i need you to show me that love is enough

prove yourself to me
remember everything i said

i've proved myself to you
and i remember everything you did

prove yourself to him
she comes first in my life

i've proved myself to you
i won't put anybody else above him

prove yourself to her
i've given love a second chance but he's my soulmate

i've proved myself to you
sometimes i believe i do deserve more

prove yourself to him
show her you're worthy of trust

i need to prove myself to her
because i feel like i failed him in being myself

i need to prove myself to him
i know she's tired and he's only looking out for me

i need to prove myself to her
i don't blame him if she's angry at me

prove yourself to him
i don't blame her for being angry at you

prove yourself to me
i'm angry at you, too

may you never be satisfied with having the world;
i hope you find happiness
and continue to search for more.
this world, though beautiful, could never be reward enough
for you.
seek the stars.

i had a kind face, and the kind of smile
only a brother could love
and read beyond the teeth,
biting back bitter amusements
of a broken, brooding boy

you were mine; not in blood but in love,
and we were too small and too young
with too much and not enough
of everything.

brother.
“brother”
bromance.
the lie of the year,
and we had many.

i had chronic denial and you had chronic rejection.
if we said we saw ourselves as siblings,
it would all go away.
my brother from another mother
not a brother at all, but a lie
the hidden gay.

i had a kind face, but you were kind
and i wanted to be that
for you, a light against the shadowy history
the trajectory from ruin to wholeheartedness

you were already wholehearted,
and wholeheartedly in.
brother, i ruined you by calling you brother
with my fear of our friendship: the trajectory from friends to more

now everything between us is gone
and it still feels rather sore
even though i don’t love you anymore

no matter
how hard
i try
i can't make my pain beautiful;
i can't make myself beautiful;
i can't make myself feel beautiful.

no matter
how hard
i try
i cannot convince myself that beauty
is a taste i enjoy on my tongue,
is a feeling i crave, that burning sensation
at the back of my throat,
on the back of my tongue

i cannot make an illness beautiful, for simply
it is not.
illnesses aren't beautiful, and they were never meant to be-
that's why people try to cure them.
in a world where beauty is the standard,
ugliness will not survive.
ironic, then, that illnesses are ugly
yet illnesses are becoming strategies
to achieving beauty

what an ugly concept.

concept: the more i *****, the skinnier i become
the more beautiful i am, right?
concept: the less i eat, the more i gain
concept: the thinspiration tag on tumblr has all of the
answers. so answer me this:
why am i so fragile? i feel my soul must be weaker
than the stick-thin bodies photographed for toxic aspirations;
surely they must snap like twigs whenever they fall...
i know the ease with which i break apart whenever i fall down

concept: i have friends and family that love me,
people who are attracted to me,
my friends' friends admire me, aspire to be like me
i should not be so insecure, so desperate to make myself skinnier,
more beautiful, more perfect.
bones are not the default of beauty.

bones are what survive beneath the ground when all else rots away;
these illnesses will have me rotting
before my bones can even finish growing.
there will be weeds and vines growing around my ribs, weaving
like a macabre masterpiece mounting the soil on which i've laid myself to rest
and my skeleton's skinless fingers, slender and spiraled into the ground,
will be the only thing about me that have ever had a grip.

lately i've been made up of broken sanity, loosely grasping
at the frayed edges of myself
as i come apart each night, again and again - my skeletal fingers
will grip this earth with a strength to rival my passion for nature
for while i will be dead, at least i will finally be
committed to something
i love.

what a shame that i'll never love who i am enough
to be committed to myself.

i want to love you
the way
i believe
that you should be loved.

but i can't.

beliefs and abilities:
often polar opposites,
rarely do they come hand in hand;
even the most devout Catholic
will sometimes miss
Sunday mass

but i do remember that Sunday,
so long ago now,
that you made me question
the possibility of soulmates

and i remember thinking
about how you bring me
closer
to religion than i've ever been,
your name
falling
(i'm not falling. i'm not
falling. please don't make me.
i hate that)
from my lips, like a heartfelt
prayer amidst our sin.

but that's the point, i suppose:
i don't believe in God.
i believe He is a possibility, but
i can't commit to Him.
won't.
can't commit to anybody—not even
myself.

so maybe i love you;
maybe that's true.

it doesn't change the fact
that i'll never be steady enough
for you.

it doesn't change the fact
that religion can't save me,
that the closest to the Bible i'll ever be
is a representation of
the Devil.

it doesn't change the fact
that i'll never be good enough
for you.

i want to love you
the way
i believe
you should be loved.

i just can't.

I dreamt—oh,
how I dreamt

that you were carrying
my child.

I do not remember who you were,
nor do I remember who I was
in this particular dream.
Perhaps a favourite character of mine
from a TV show I love.

But my body was not my body,
nor was your body yours.

In spirit, I knew you
and I knew myself,
and that's all that really mattered.

I still don't remember who you were, though,
my dream lover...

my subconscious desire?

We fell under peril and
ran
from some villain. Things
went wrong,
as things in my life are wont to do.

This villain, threatening
our child, our happiness,
was—of course—still less of a
monster
than me.

I do not recall how it ended.
But
I kissed you.
Soft, and sweet, and loving;
your lips were so warm
and your body, your hands—
they felt like
home.

That kiss...
it was perhaps
the gentlest thing I've ever done,

and so that is how I came to wake up:
because I knew it wasn't real.

I am not gentle. I do not love.

i am not yours to pursue,
nobody's to claim, to obsess over
you do not have the right to ignore my declination
nor to see my rejection as a challenge;
i am not a game or a puzzle
if you think my "no" is a jigsaw piece fitted in the wrong place
there for you to move and arrange
again and again
until you finally hear "yes"
then you are too much a child for my liking
too much about the conquest and not enough about the person.
my "no" will not be manipulated into a "yes",
you cannot play me into your hands

i am not a gamer, i am an artist
i will sketch thicker lines, make my "no" bolder
NO
i will add more tone, make it sterner
add more shade, allow my anger to cast shadows over your reputation
and it will not be hard to outline your true colours:
you've already revealed so many.
i don't need to paint you as a villain; you have done that much yourself
you too are an artist, in your own right...
you've smudged your lines so much, you've crossed boundaries.
your so-called love is not delicate pink―it is blood red and sticky.
your so-called affections leech the grey from my palette
and leave me seeing you in black and white.
oh, there's not much white, not much innocence
you are an all-consuming black; your desire to swallow me whole is abyssal

i will not be the reference of your portraits,
you cannot draw me in
your kind of passion disgusts me; you are not a true artist.
there'll be no soft brushes between us,
only sharp edges of craft knives
as i carve into your determination and soften that hardened clay
into something i can mould and shape,
something i can twist away from me.
six years is a long time for something to be set in stone
but i have a sledgehammer will and i refuse to feel backed into the corners
of your lustful foundations.
i do not wish to be a masterpiece in your eyes any longer.
i never asked you to admire me.
i will not be hung on your wall.

vacancy, let me in
i'm drowning in the holes you filled
vacancy, let me in
the sunset doesn't warm my skin

ocean sky, motel room five
my car's banged up, parked in the drive
she's a little rusty but she's still a sweet ride
come jump in the passenger side
one for just tonight, for old time's sake
i miss you so much it's impossible to take
a poem once taught me what it's like to be heartbroken
ne'er reall' believed it 'til those little words were spoken

are you smiling at the sunrise
the way you did with me?
does he drown in your eyes
instead of looking at the sea?

vacancy, let me in
i'm drowning in the holes you filled
vanacy, let me in
the sunset doesn't warm my skin
my hands are cold without yours to hold
suddenly i'm colourblind without you in my world
there's so little beauty without you here to smile
please just let me stay for a little while
vacancy, let me in
vacancy, let me in

autumn leaves fall, but i don't jump in the piles
doesn't cross my mind;  i'm thinkin' 'bout the miles
the miles between you and me
i'm the blade of grass at the bottom of your tree
your roots are buried deep, deep in my heart
as you reach into the clouds like a work of art
maybe i'd be jealous if you didn't look so good
but i'm just staring at the leaves thinking, "would've, should've, could"

is he smiling at the sunrise
the way i did with you?
are you looking at the sea
feeling his eyes on you?

vacancy, let me in
i'm drowning in the holes you filled
vanacy, let me in
the sunset doesn't warm my skin
my hands are cold without yours to hold
suddenly i'm colourblind without you in my world
i promise if you'd let me, by your side i'd grow old
just a look from you and i'm weak, i fold
vacancy, let me in
vacancy, let me in

vacancy, let me in
i'm drowning in the holes you filled
vacancy, let me in
the sunset doesn't warm my skin

paper boy.
write the words you want to read on my surface
turn me into the novel you want to lose yourself in
write your prayers in cursive and have me wearing my praise for you,
wearing my faith in you,
my heart on my envelope sleeve.
my absolute trust
that you will not rip me into pieces and scatter me on a parting wind;
if you burn me, please remember to ******* out.

paper boy, paper boy.
i'm not strong enough to last for very long
you can see all of my creases, my ripped edges, my stains;
but i can keep your secrets folded into myself
and i promise you, your words will remain
just try to keep my dry
my inky blackness tends to spill when my eyes are leaking

paper boy.
if you want to upgrade to something with a metal spine
more hard drive, durability
i'll understand
you only have to write your breakup songs upon my chest
and i'll take those lyrics to the grave with me
when you lay my tattered shreds to rest

it doesn't matter how friendly
or how affectionate
i may be with others

whether they're friends,
past crushes
or even past lovers

because my fingers
write sweet nothings
and my mouth might sing love songs

but for the past...
ever since that dream
it's been you all along

running through my mind
so much
i'm tempted to ask if your legs are tired.

did i just use a pickup line
in poetry,
one that's long since expired?

possibly, though i won't apologise.
i'm one of those old souls
always just a little behind;

but i don't mind being behind
if you're in front of me,
i'll enjoy the view

and no, that wasn't ******
i promise
i just enjoy looking at you

bathing in the light of the sun,
surrounded by the beauty of the world
by night i'm gazing at the stars
awash in the glow of the moon
and i love my little galaxy
this universe, created from fantasies,
existing solely for me
what god exists that made you all my reality
my sun, my world, my moon and stars
and the planets between, unique and
alive, so alive despite no signs
of yet loving life
if i were a god i'd make it so
that you all fell in love
with life and love and happiness
and they fell for you, too

If I shoot you down,
Please, don't take it personally.
I am a walking trigger warning;

It doesn't take much to set me off.
I explode at the slightest provocation
And make sure the cause

Is stained as red as my vision.
Your shirt might never be clean again.
Neither will I.

These days, I feel I've lost my spark
That flicker of creativity.
Well yes, I lit the candle;
I knew it was time for it to burn,
That eventually it'd burn out:
The dulling light emanating faint warmth.

But I think there's something poetic, too
About blunt truths
And being so honest it feels bland—
Bland enough to make you feel.

the razor edge
of living sharp and free
is when the roses lose their petals,
the thorns are all i can see

truth is,
i love you

and i ******* hate it

clear water glass windows
bordered pure white
framing a distant horizon
softest shades of honey, fire, daffodil
and a sprinkling of translucent sky

one tree roots itself atop that small mound of
rolling green hill, its grass dying out
but it's still beautiful
i think they told me a person's image of paradise
is a place they feel most at peace

your ghostly voice whispers close and near
but i can't feel your breath against my ear

white noise, bad reception, it's all gone
outside, the sky is ash
but there's no fire or warmth to be found
as rain hails down and fights to break its way in through my window
i can see people running

they're all under hoods and umbrellas
scuttling around like the faster they move, the drier they'll be
but they're already soaked through
and i think of you, so different
how you'd throw your head back and laugh
open your mouth
catch the drops on your tongue, eyes squeezed shut
clenched in delight

you'd have stripped all your garments if you could
so full of life, so full of energy

the static bleeds into my awareness again
white noise, bad reception, it's all gone
you're a ghost of early winter past
and here it's mid-October

your anniversary is upcoming
i wish i could say it was you instead

i wish i could say that you aren't dead

real love is boring
in the best way.

real love is excitement
to do all the boring,
adulthood stuff with you.

real love is frustration
that will not outweigh our happiness.

real love is coffee
coffee mate, 1 sugar, ready
as soon as the sun meets our eyes.

real love is family
with four fuzz butts at our sides.

real love is happiness
in all the small, day to day things
we do together day by day.

real love is lust
just from stroking your side.

real love is morning breath kisses;
i scrunch my nose
then come back for more.

real love is choosing you
every single time, no matter who asks.

real love is fighting
and just wanting to stop,
cuddle regardless of who was right.

real love is working together,
balancing duty and quality time.

real love is security
and feeling safe with you
no matter where we are.

real love is us.
in any time or universe, i want us to be us.

i was happier a few months ago.
sadder, too, more depressed; but happier
with myself,
with my face,

with my body
(even if i didn't realise it;
"you never know what you have
until it's gone"
is true.
scrawny, underweight body,
sharp cut cheekbones,
jaw practically pushing out of my skin—i miss you guys)

my mornings were dedicated
to porridge
and being on time for college,
and coffee so dark, my friends asked:
"what's the point of using milk?"

the point, my friends, is that
even though i am dark
and bitter,
with a temper so hot
i have to spit it out
(in insults, in graphic descriptions of premeditated ******)
lest it scald my tongue—

there is still some good within me.
not much,
but there it is:
just enough to taste it
if you close off other senses and
focus. really focus.

i think it is about time
i sought out my self-destructive
methods of
happiness
once again.

i am tired
of feeling like my own enemy
when
i am already certain

that the world is out to get me.

used to sing along
sleepless, sad boy
flatsound’s sullen symphonies
“i’ll go to sleep at a decent time
when i find something
worth waking up for”

these days i like to close my eyes
just gone ten at night;
wake up with the sunlight
caressing my cheeks
just the way you used to

because even though
us became you and i
you’re still my something
worth waking up for

my ex wants me back.
i don't want her.
there she is, once again,
waiting, whispering
working her way into my cracks
winding me up and worsening my wounds,
whittling me into weaker wood

she makes me feel like i can't live without her
and the irony isn't lost on me.
she cradles me at stupid, sleepless hours
and serenades me with sweet, sweet symphonies
of everlasting silence,
songs of sempiternal slumber

i know my insomnia gets the better of me but
i don't want to sleep that badly
or maybe i do sometimes
but i think my mother would want me to wake up
maybe my friends, too
and no, she would never let me
she'd want to keep me, you see

my ex likes me in her bed,
it's her favourite place to have me
some call that vanilla but they don't know the things she does to me
when her lips brush my wrists
and that one time they teased my neck
******* it, she drives me crazy
has me ******* the sheets and sobbing into the pillows
my screams so loud, i choke
and lose my voice

sometimes my veins start pulsing with need
and she makes it so tempting,
slender fingers slipping over my skin,
sliding over my spine
"do it", she says
i want to submit to her, show her how much of a hold she has on me- no
i don't, i don't, i can't, i won't

my ex wants me back
but i don't want her.
i let her have her way with me
under the covers,
my sweet, sadistic lover
and then i turn my back on her
and sleep until the sun comes up to remind me
lightness still remains even if the darkness lasts longer.

how is anyone supposed to live like this?
some comfort a bed is when i'm alone and crying in it
when i'm alone and nauseated and i wouldn't mind dying in it
when i'm lying on a full bladder and i'd rather **** myself than move
when moving feels like too much commitment and i have commitment issues

was that gross? blunt? disgusting? does the idea of a grown man ******* the bed
make you sick to your well-fed stomach?
are you outraged that i gave a gory detail?
that i didn't romanticise the illnesses that drain the life out of me and leave me pale?
colourless, frail,
if i were a metaphor, i'd be the pallor of a dead man's skin
rotten and cold and withering from within

halsey's grey man has nothing on me
and my pills aren't blue, they're yellow and green
and it's been a little under two months but i swear they're not working
i've been sleepless and anxious and overthinking when i'm not dissociating
i guess this is an honesty "poem"—i put air quotes around that because i don't feel poetic
i could give you other "ic" words that would describe me much better
pathetic, apologetic, agnostic, pessimistic and ******* chronic

does it make you uncomfortable, reading this side of me?
brash and defeated and overwhelmingly ugly
get in line, darling, i'm uncomfortable every day
standing in front of the mirror and pulling at body parts and skin i wish i could throw away
swallowing down my dinner and consciously reminding myself
"the toilet bowl is not for food, that's no good for your health"
but god i wish i could halve myself, cut away everything that makes me wanna harm myself
and **** it, i won't lie — i didn't recover, just found a couple highs
i'm crashing hard now and you're **** right i wanna die

my mother might have cancer, didn't you know?
it's ******* awesome—note sarcasm—how even that can't get me geared up to go
i know i need to get paid; i beat myself up over being unemployed every ******* day
clearly you don't understand that i already have a job
my job title is depression and i'm slaving 'round the clock
my employer is generous, don't get me wrong
he wraps me up in duvet and keeps me warm all day long

i know it sounds isolated but don't worry, i'm an introvert! don't you know i thrive this way?
my mother all alone with her thoughts in the living room as my intrusive thoughts tear me apart
askjng, "what would you do if she died today?"
my friends getting on with their lives and probably not giving me a second thought
because how could they remember to when i've been locking myself indoors?
if seeing is believing then *******, i don't exist to them
doubting thomas doubts my existence and no amount of faith could ever make me real to him
the only person seeing me is myself and i'm not entirely sane
hey, who knows? maybe my entire life only exists inside my brain
maybe i could **** myself and nobody would feel any pain

you created this
can’t you see? it’s you
the way you want to be.
a bright flare
of pure white light, stark
against the bloodied canvas
of your reality;
your hands
reaching out
emptily
towards salvation

stop it.
they aren’t going to save you.

who’s going to save you?

me

you’re going to save you

is it that you desire
to stuff your tongue
down my throat, playing
“loves me, loves me not”
to the melody
of my choking, guttural
pleas of “no more”
no more lies, no more
deceit spun off the tip of your
***** tongue.

take your tastebuds back;
i’ll ******* own truths.
i don’t like this
tonsillitis, i can’t
soothe it
like kids do.
lactose intolerant, and
struggling to tolerate
the way your eyes shimmer
like you’re enjoying this

battle call, don't you hear them scream?
i pledge allegiance to the left wing
devout my life so much so that i started training my left hand years ago

and i think there's something to be said
for the right wing bible belt battering freedom out of men
and that is
the religion you preach with your right hand of the father
is neither love nor hope nor reverence

right wing, right hands, alt-right
preach omnipotence in the name of benevolence
and show no compassion to anyone

so you'll excuse me if i tune out your preaching
in favour of that sacrilegious singing
how dare those lyrics write free love into the veins of children
am i right, or am i right?

no, i'm left

did you lose even a single night of sleep, the days i was tucked safely back at home with my mother?
was i anything more than an after-thought once you stopped seeing me?
a problem to be dealt with only once you were faced with it once again
did you ever miss me? or if not me, then the freedom to lay hands without repercussions?

did you think yourself an artist, with hands designed to create?
did you think because you made me that i was yours to hate?

when you streaked my canvas black and blue, did your reflection hurt or couldn't you look?
i bet you could, i bet you never had a second thought, i know you never had the capacity to feel or say sorry

your water colours hurt less than your acrylics, let me tell you this
i could wash away your water-blues with time and little white capsules
your acrylics took so much longer to dry, their consistency so much greater
their texture so much thicker, and stickier, and prone to staining
if they touched their fingers to the palettes you tucked away inside my brain, they'd come away covered
with hurt and guilt and shame, all these doubts and questions
purple, red and black and grey

did you dip your brush into that innocent creature's blood? the one you had me chuck
straight into the wheelie bin like you could so easily discard the lives you took?
if i'm shaking as i write this down, it's only because i remember that day with a clarity that scorns
my Achilles' heel is shovels, pellet guns and alcohol
i hope one day your bullets ricochet and when you treat your wounds you drown instead

red wine's no good for healing, anyway
but then i've never tried it, so what would i know? i'm different from you in every blessed way

i feel better
when my bones threaten my skin,
stretching it,
pushing against it
like they're about to burst through

i love myself better
and like myself more
when i stop taking care of myself,
just like i did before

and you can call this a relapse
but i'm tired,
tired and tired of being tired,
tired of hating myself

so when i skip a meal,
don't coax food into my mouth:
all i'll want to do
is spit it back out

i won't drop as far this time,
just enough that
my shirts hang
away from my chest again,
away from my stomach

i'll be high
on self-love
when i treat my body
with the resentment i feel towards it

oh i'll be healthier
when i'm unhealthy

i'll be happier
when i'm skin and bones

He says he's getting feelings,
and I'm oblivious to what he means
even as my skin prickles and itches,
like there are flies crawling over it
and leaving their grubby, microscopic footprints behind.

He gets nasty about it,
and then I get it. Funny, that:
I only ever understand things
once demonstrated with aggression,
violence.
Or maybe not so funny at all.

And it's funny, because I just
don't believe him, and yet I do
at the same time.
He's a player and a cheat, but
he has a heart as he tells his side of the stories,
and I kiss his frown away.

Funnier still: they all have words to say about
him―the player, the cheat, the *******, the guys that
leads their friends on-
they talk about him
as if he dangles bait from the end of a string
in front of starving mice
so he can snap them up in his jaws and
swallow them whole,
only to spit them out later,
mangled and broken.

Perhaps a little like him.

I think they forget he has feelings too.

Even funnier still that
I feel like I'll be the one that breaks his heart
because I'm all well and good for liking him,
but my heart belongs to another,
and my friends, they like me, think me better
than the way I advertise myself;

I know they're wrong, because I know myself.
Always without intention, though often
without remorse, too,
I break the people closest to me,
snap them like twigs,
chew them up like defenseless mice
between my gnashing teeth,
and spew them up later
with the bile-burn of self-loathing,
mangled and broken.

Perhaps a little like me.

I think I forget I have feelings too.

i love you
          i'm sorry
                    i don't know what i did

it feels easier when i'm around you;
talking to you soothes the worry,
eases the anxiety

every time i'm away, counting
3, 2, 1, and you'll forget about me
just another filler chapter in a heart-wrenching story

i'm sorry; i'm just so needy
convinced that everyone who loves me
is never gonna love me

for children, they call it separation anxiety—
i call it abandonment issues,
and i've got a lot of traumatic memories

i just want you to stay, to-- to be here with me
if i were a mattress, i'd be stained and rickety
but i'd still keep you warm and comfy

i can hold you and kiss your soul,
lie with you, protect you as you sleep: gentle, easy.
just stay with me.

i hunch my shoulders even though i'm trying to straighten my spine
i'm standing alone at this bus stop; the morning is darker and colder
than me, somehow. i clench my teeth against a bitter wind and
try not to think about the way i barely notice the chill cutting through me.
there's a death grip around my ribs - i struggle to inhale properly
but sometimes i find myself breathing just enough to make a small dent on the air

the combined weight of my phone in the left pocket of my skinny jeans
and my hand gripping my wallet in the right pocket
has my waistband slipping below my hips, jeans just-barely holding on,
and the precariousness of their position - half falling, half hanging -
has me thinking that they fit me better than they seem to.
i relate to them more than i've related to anybody in a long time.

the sun is only just rising at the edge of the eastern sky,
casting an eerie winter glow over this ice-bitten village.
i like these early mornings, my fellow villagers,
the few that are out and about as early as i am,
ambling sleepily to their sunrise starts
and even though i drank my morning coffee, i'm drunk on my lust for sleep.

i blink my bleary eyes and blatantly stare at the old couple
cautiously hobbling over slippery cobblestone,
walking sticks in their outer hands and inner palms clasped
together. the way they grip each other tightly tells me
they trust each other not to let the other fall;
the rings on their fingers tell me they fell for each other a long time ago
and i wonder how many times they pulled each other down over the years

as i catch sight of my bus approaching, slow behind a nervous driver
i'm left thinking about people, and college, and life
how everything seems simultaneously meaningful and meaningless,
all for something - yet, really, kind of all for nothing.
i could walk away and go home, settle into my bed and let sleep pull me under
away from my thoughts, naked and no longer bound by a binder,
comfortable in my skin the way i can never be in public

i don't. i step on the bus, and flash my bus pass at the driver
climb the stairs to sit in the front chairs by the windows
watch life pass by as the engine rumbles into motion.
i'm painfully aware of the way my ribs protest when i slouch in my seat
and my bed tempts me once more as i yawn into my weather-chapped hand.
i don't. college calls, friends await. perhaps it's all pointless
sometimes that's what my philosophy class teaches me
but i'd much rather live it out and see

please don't shake me
'cause i'm bottling all of this up and i don't want to explode
i'm begging you to keep my cap sealed shut
tight, so nothing spills
i'm not capable of cleaning up after myself so let's just do everyone a favour
and avoid making a mess

apollo kissed his wings
and forgot to mention
how everything he touches turns to dust

how prettily he cries when he falls,
how beautiful he looks
being ****** up by the sea
maybe this was always his destiny,
to fall twice over and drown

i wish i would've caught you
such a useless sentiment
if wishes were horses, beggars would ride

apollo b u r n s, burns so brightly
burns like the hot sun
but his eyes are blue, cold like dying stars;
he fries his retinas, anyway

never cared too much for his own safety
when he could gaze upon
love upon
worship upon the sun

sunburned and scarred,
would you envelope him in warmth
those last few seconds
before he succumbed to the freezing ocean?

one last night with the fallen,
apollo's fingers graze the gentle curve of his spine
dip into the nooks of his hipbones
and he sings even as he singes

one last night with a beautiful, falling boy
destined to plummet
yet always aiming high

never once did he let fate provide limitations
regret? not a thing
that boy knew how to *f l y

for the sun shining through your hair
and stubborn, indignant passion

for smiles with dimpled cheeks
and the twinkle in your eyes

because the ocean calls you
and the tides pull me in

you saved me from feeling like i'm drowning,
my head's above the water now

and so, now i'm breathing
honey, i'm all in

i promise you
the pills you swallowed
couldn’t possibly have tasted
as bitter as the resentment
she must’ve felt
knowing you put your life in her hands

you could not ruin yourself
as much as you’ve ruined her