I cry a lot for myself.
I think about myself as a toddler. With a blonde,
choppy bob, and a mouth as big as my face. Those
little rows of perfectly aligned teeth grew to be
wonky in the centre.
Those bright eyes that held so much happiness,
somehow flood towns and rivers now.
That picture of my sister, mother, father and I,
huddled around a pub table. My cheeks are flushed,
my small red top so bright next to the blue and yellow of their shirts.

They all smile while I just stared, afraid;
Knowing something about the future I could never quite
comprehend.

Stiff bent fingers like roots of trees,
disfigured and bent to sunlight,
clasp gently to the pine box soon to
burn up and in the end,
your skin is still thin like slices of paper,
your thick, wormy veins travel through
soil like flesh, sunspots like kisses
or lovers names or history span the range
from fingertip to toe,
gold rings like auburn leaves and diamonds
like raindrops on winter days, nails like
petals and knots like knuckles,
roses like knocks on wood,
and kisses like knowing what you do now,
doveri farla finita
così possiamo essere completi.

sit and think. very still in that chair.
your feeble hands can almost touch the
memory- if you tried.
that freckled hand. the white bed sheets.
you can almost see her awake in your head.
well after all she is still there.
in memory.
and ash.
in love.
and dreams.
that drop of blood. her white lips.
in the night it's harder. you can see her
in your room- just for a minute.
wrapped in those bed sheets. hospital room.
you can still smell the flowers she held.
those pink lilies. her small hands clutched.
stiff and unloving.
that rigor mortis. those closed eyes.
you can smell her perfume.
it wafts towards you in your dreams.
that vanilla scent. that hint of dirt.
you can almost touch her- if you tried.
sitting still on that chair. thinking hard.
in love she never dies. not even a little bit.
not even at all.

black glassy eyes staring back at mine.
double reflections. doppelganger.
a hawk with spread wings,
attacking a nest. Its claws arched
aimed at a chick.
Stuffed and basted like it's Christmas without the carols,
it is still.
unmoving in the glass.
the chick, too, is frozen in time. or fear.
or stitches or reflections.
crown of feathers stuffed in my pillow,
I think of the hawk at night.
that chick.
those talons and that eye.
that little eye
staring back at mine as if to say;
save me.
I cannot.

Our love is like an echo at the end of a hollowed-out tree trunk;
Catch me if you can or not at all.
However much you told me
that this was home,
the feeling of being grafted
leaves an impression
on the skin.
The story could never find a final sentence,
The poems are half-written
The words are never given.
I wonder if you understand how
Odd it is to stay up,
writing about people who actually live their lives
Whilst we are still avoiding ours.

Our love is like a car that has veered off the winding road,
and crashed, headfirst into a
Sleepless river.
It refuses to let us leave
because it fills us with warm water,
and hope of salvation,
with smiles and girls nights in,
with beers and old
fond memories of us in class,
And I wonder if the river ever thinks
About the relic’s it hides below it?
The people drowning.
The buried treasure and pure gold
Waiting to be drained and used
Like a doll to a child to a check to a businessman.

Our love is like a bottle of wine left unopened.
The sweet turns to sour-
The bubbles turn flat,
The cork is soggy and the red is a mess.
Sometimes I wonder if you even see this
House anymore?
How the pillows droop
And the flowers are dead
And the candles have melted
On the wooden tabletop in dread?
Tears stain the skirting boards like
blood splatter on the floor.
I just don't think I can do
us
Anymore.

i sit and I ache
waiting for something to happen.
for anything to happen.
sometimes I wake up and the
room is spinning
and there's something in the
corner
of my
room
send someone
anyone
i just want to experience
something
warm
agai
n

sometimes I feel lost in the bed sheets;
clinging onto a body I wasn't made to
hold.

Sandbox giggles and seesaw chuckles
echo around the park.
Little ones pitter patter on tarmac and grass,
oblivious to their age.
All they know is the sun is shining
and they're going to feel like this forever.

Rubber throwing and hushed whispers
echo around the classroom.
Schoolkids adding and subtracting,
oblivious to their age.
All they know is that they hate math
and they're going to be an astronaut when they grow.

Cheesy pop songs and girly giggles
echo around a bedroom.
She's curling her friend's hair and smiling,
oblivious to her age.
All she knows is that Jake is a cutie
and she's going to marry him when she's 21.

Birthday wishes and lots of love!
echo around the dinner table.
He's having his first beer as an 18-year-old and loving it,
oblivious to his age.
All he knows is that he's going out tonight
and staying up till dawn.

Baby rattles and first words
echo around the house.
The baby is mumbling its first word,
oblivious to the meaning behind it.
All it knows is that its mummy is warm
and it's daddy smells nice.

Memories of sandboxes and summer nights
echo around their heads.
They're laying in a bed in a sanitary place,
oblivious to the current situation.
All they know is that their time is up,
but they had such fun whilst it lasted.

Is there anything purer
than the gaze of a dog, laying
across your lap or curled to
the motion of your legs?
Feeling their heart beat
on your calf, ‘protect me’
they say, ‘as, in turn, I protect thee’
They sigh. Warm breath on cold nights.
Amber eyes if shone
directly at them.
Growling at something in
The corner; a moth or Baphomet,
but whats the difference in their gaze?
Loyal to the touch,
Loving to the heart,
Linked to the soul
And then;
they depart.

'They're just a teen' gets dropped on the daily.
Like the added couple of letters at the end
determine whether our feelings are valued
or not.
They only ever tell us they're here for us
when someone offs themselves on the train
tracks next to the school. Call this number
if you feel down.
Teenage years are the time to find out who
you are, and maybe I am a depressed mess,
but us Gen Z kids are doing our best to make
sure us sad'ens feel alright.
Sometimes we don't feel alright, and, so what,
if it is just down to hormones and periods,
and Max's muscly shoulders or Louise's
brown eyes.
We are allowed to feel like ****. Cos Teenage
years are the time where we find out life isn't
like animated movies;
that bad guys are defeated and the hero wins;
cos, in the end, sometimes we're our own saboteurs.
And we find out,
sometimes that's okay;  to knock ourselves down will
make us build ourselves up in the grand scheme of
things; I sure as hell know I hate how I feel most days,
and I'm sure most teenagers do.

I'm just a teen;
but I have a loud voice, terrible jokes and
a **** economy to grow into,
and I'm allowed to be mad and cry
and I'm allowed to feel like ****
and want to die
because in the end, I know it'll all
be fine.
Married or alone with wine.
Sometimes life is ****,
and that's okay;
and to me,
that is the teenage dream.

I haven't been so sad recently,
which is rare. I had the bad five months last year-
to the point I nearly killed myself.
And now I'm okay, but then it makes me think;
I'm not acting how I should act.
I don't feel like me anymore.
I'm bored,
I don't cry so often,
I feel like I'm wearing new shoes
that are slightly too small, to the point they
rub but don't leave a mark.
I think it's because I got so used to
being let down, that my body automatically
drops me a few stories every couple of weeks.
My eighteenth birthday was bad.
I think I just gave up on birthdays
and to think they used to be my favourite.
Now, I spend my time doing what is asked of me;
go to classes, smile, do work, go home, do homework,
sleep and not dream.
It feels weird.
I don't feel like me;
I want to feel like I'm dying again,
like the world itself is crumbling beneath my feet,
that, if I smile or move a muscle,
my whole being would explode;
shattering thousands with reminders that I was here,
because now I feel empty.
I'd rather feel like death personified
than nothing at all.

I've grown up so scared
in the past.
Forced to grow in habitats unknown
to myself or friends.
I feel within every fibre of
my being; the aching boredom of
being awake.
My body holds so much sadness,
but under layers of skin
and muscle and deep
cuts there is a softness
needed to be rediscovered.
I only mean well, but
when scared, I say things
that upset people in the hopes
of pushing them away
yet pulling them closer.
My shell is tough and uncrackable,
but if trusted, I poke my head out
now and again to show you
a smile
or a tear,
once in a while.

We sat on your bed. It wilted under our weight.
Old and frail- stale to a fault, we always said.
Side by side. Knees touching knees. Hands
in packets of sweets from the corner shop.
How many can you fit in your mouth? I got
eight. You beat me every time.
We laugh until we ache. Funny pictures.
We jump in slow motion, I catch your eye and
we smile.  My best friend.

I sit in my bed. It's strong under my weight.
New and durable- Squeaky to a fault, I always say.
Cushion to a body. Covers suffocating hard. Hands
on a face, smudged with mascara from Asda.
I can fit four hours worth of crying into one if
I think hard enough. I beat my record every time.
I sob until I ache. Funny picture, that is.
I lay in slow motion, my phone rings in my ear and
I smile. My best friend.

The call isn't from you.

Woke up in a rush of light, piercing
my eyes today. Too bright to keep
them closed or open.
I can't find my slippers, eyes rubbed,
yesterdays mascara under eyes
like bruises from lack of sleep;
evidence of my lost mentality.
The Supremes sang Baby Love in the kitchen
on the radio- he never turned it off.
Three balloons;
Happy Birthday!
Eighteen!
Drink up!
Hot pinks and purples next to orange walls.
Cards in hues of turquoise and blushes of red;

none are from you,
my dearest friend.

Beatings. Cries. Shells raining down like
tears from his mothers face! Another coffin
to pay for in all this madness. Who cares if
she's lost everything she held dear to her?
She's screaming;
"He's too small for all this space!
He's too small for this place! His boots
don't even fit him right!"
Limping up and down up and down towards
the end and even then his eyes won't stay open;
all this fighting for what? Another war?
Another scream? Another ten million voices silenced at
the hands of word like bullets.
With the rampaging, and the madness,
the air becomes too much.
Things like to implode and combust like silence does...

is that...it?

is that what silence sounds like?

I always expected more
than what I could ever get.
I woke up and smiled;
convinced; this is home.
This is it. All I ever wanted
and needed in this world,
here in this tiny space.
I can't remember when
I last did something
great. Meaningful.
Something you could be
proud of. Smiles and Pleas.
Like the sound of the bird outside
my window; fluttering like
a flag in the wind.
One gust could set her sail.
Set her free.
One slice of the knife sends the
carrot top rolling off the board;
onto the floor. Knock, Knock,
Knocking in panic on
the bathroom door.
One pull of the trigger
and I'll be asleep.
Far away from me...
Or rather...who I became in the end.

The feeling of being pixelated,
of being weightless and nothing.
Swimming in the air,
and watching sober friends
waiting down there.
It's like wading through
keyboard keys.
Square. Unorthodox.
Choking on letter x's,
using them to spell
'help me' in sign
language- you
don't speak it.
Blinking in morse code
at your teacher, tugging down
sleeves. Hiding yourself from
your reflection- Make it think of
you as a child; untouched. unchanged;
pure.
I swear I'm still me.
I'm paper soft and tearable.
I swear I'm fine.
Toes curling under hardened shoes,
blisters on your big toe.
It throbs under the pressure.
Grounding you.

I see you, rabbit,
sitting in the grass, breathing
hard. afraid.
I see how you shake,
it's cold in winter.
freezing. I begin
to run, the feeling of
power and powerlessness
takes over. Why can't I
stop? What is wrong with
me? I pounce, landing.
thud. You cry. I stare, my
body heavy on yours. Your cries
loud. Sharp to my ears. I could curse at
the stars for making me this
way. The instinct screams in
my head; **** IT **** IT.
Instead I watch as you try to run.
Blood. White snow. Enticing.
I want to cuddle. I want to love. I want
to eat. I have a warmth you have been
looking for, Rabbit. Come closer,
Rabbit. Why aren't you crying,
Rabbit?
Rabbit?

Days come and go like
people on a Ferris wheel.
Round and round,
up and down,
beating their heads side to
side like a tambourine
on a cruise ship;
sailing along
waiting for an iceberg
or something much cooler to hit it,
so they have something to talk about.
Far and wide; the great sea.
It seems so small and insecure compared
to everyone else's, and in the end we
all ripple and break in different ways.
No trickle of water holds the
same bubbles nor the same
shells but people say
blood is thicker than water
but even then...blood drains
leaving behind a coffee stain of memories
that you'd try to tell grandchildren before
your untimely death on the operating table.
"Don't forget that I drew the heart on the tree
in the park, the one with the X and O after it!"
They nod, uninterested, only after your funeral
they truly feel famished.
All the water in the world couldn't soothe their
burning, aching hearts;
'Grandma, come home...
Please...
I miss you.'

The moon in the middle of the day,
dogs when they look at you with feeling,
too many coffee granules to keep in balance
the harmony between coffee *** and grain.

Finding Atlantis in your bath tub,
or solace in enemy arms,
the image of flightless birds that
are waxed too close to the sun to stay afloat.

Having a sleepover on Saturn,
or laughing through stomach cramps under water.
The feeling of salt burning your nostrils
to get back at your own humility.

Teachers living at home with their parents,
teddy's with one eye and patchwork smiles.
Wearing a pink dress to a funeral,
watching a loved one slip, slip, slipping away.

The Baphomet at
the bottom of the bottle
said he'd drown if I
didn't drink.
He said he'd drown me
if I tried to throw him out.

Swing until the world stops.
You could eat the moon like a piece of cheese
on a *******; although it's dry and choking
you munch through and smile,
hurriedly knotting shoes and off.

Friends in long socks, pink dresses
and school shorts on hot days. Passing
around carrots and milk like kisses.
I kicked the ball into Millie's legs,
she laughed after crying a bit.

We found a magic cave under a rock
where an Ant Queen ruled and subjects
were sent to prison for telling a
best friends secret; (she fancied
Jasper because he had nice eyes- don't tell him)

Shrill ringing of the bell. Moans of anguish;
math and religion next. "Quick!
Sneak under the fence and into the
field next to the school!" Loves me, loves
me not falls onto deaf ears.

Float, float, floating away....

Don’t worry if it is the end.
Even if it is the last time we
ever see each other.
I promise I’ll meet you
at the gates when you get
dropped off.
I’ll pick you up.
Spin you around.
Kiss you until my lips
ache.
My love,
my life is ending,
but I promise that
in the end
Your smile
Is all I need.

Bright lights. Blue, purple, white. Sweaty
people. Standing too close. Eruption. Cheers.
Happiness. I turn to look; lost.
Afraid. Anxiety. Asphyxiation.

Cold beer in the left. Camera in the right.
Grabby hands. Singing. Guitars. Drums
that bang too loud. Hurting ears.
Headache. Nausea. Tequila shot.

Smiles. Greetings. Sitting at the back
of the room, tearing up. Favorite song.
No one to dance with. Too small in
all this space. Too small for this place.

I feel absolutely,
Inconsolably
Defeated.
I wish you liked me,
I wish you didn't hate me.
I wish you'd take pictures of us
doing fun things,
and not just of the friends you
claim to hate so much

I am standing on a staircase, on the seventeenth step,
but the eighteenth onwards has no bannister,
up until now, I've had a safety net,
something to lean on when
the steps aren't lit properly.

'Now', I tell myself,
'I've seen people who have fallen
and manage to grip to the edge
and pull up...towards the next'.
'But I've seen people fall
and never get up'.

I say;
'Am I another statistic?
Am I another failure?
Am I another mangled corpse for the cleaners?
Or...
Am I going to lift my leg and take that step?
Am I to ignore the thoughts?
Am I stronger than I let myself think?'

I lift my leg.

Upwards and onwards, I guess.

You gave your baby life,
so, tell me this;
why would you want to take it away
over something as simple
as love?

Her shoes are lost,
one in the closet, one out of the door,
one step to freedom before her parents
pick them up and throws them,
oblivious to the bang when they hit the wall.

BANG;
the knocking of adolescent hands,
on the closet door.

BANG;
the knocking that fell on deaf ears,
when the tears and pleas weren't sufficient.

BANG;
the children that want a chance at living their lives
in the warm embrace of their parents
arms,

and not in the warm embrace
of the fire;

burning their coffin to the ground.

The tide and her wave of emotion.
The hands that once held me now goes for
the jugular, to cut.
The swift, rough swipe of the
razor causes an outpour of unstoppable feelings,
fleeting forth from my face,
It lands upon an infant that lay
crying in my right hand,
screaming, it yearns for the breast of
knowledge and safety,
The craving for intimacy and affection,

The Insuppressible,

Indistinguishable,

Need for Want,
And Want for Need, all the same.

What kept me sane was knowing that
you were close.
What made me break was knowing that
you never left.

I knew that they would break;
the wax sun and paper moon
that stood like clouds above the bed.
The ones that spoke like absent dreams,
when the teddy in my arms wasn't
enough.

Am I in love with you,
or the things that you do?

Because when I look at the sky
and see stars,
I see them fold and collapse,
melting into each other like
drunken bodies,
like moths to the light.

I see them dance across the aqua,
like kids to mothers,
or lover to lover.

I see them die,
fade out,
standing on the edge
of a platform,
screaming for a final chance at love  
before their plummet to
the depths.

I see you.
I know that we exist.

But how can I feel scared
at all,
when I look and see your eyes,

-Are they crying?

As we us fall to the ground,
our bodies becoming weightless,
we are tumbling to our deaths,
We look at each other,
kiss and hug until our
arrival
in our coffin
made for two,

soon to burn up.

Loving you was the best
choice.
It's a shame I'm not the
one for you,
but you're at one
with me.
The stars up above blind
us with smiles,
but your eyes are twisted,
with the hopes of yesterday.

If you can't think of it one way;
think of another.
You wouldn't let your car run from place to place
consistently for a week
without checking it's oil,
the tyres
or under the bonnet.

Why should we do any different?

To My Lover,
my one and always;
the dance hall is empty without
our swing.
Come back to me, darling,
Let us waltz the halls again,
without a care in the world,
except for the fear of stepping on
our toes.

I've loved you since our first touch,
and since then, you have had
my heart in your cold hands,
let me warm them...
come and dance with me.
I want my arms around your waist.

Your hands on my neck.

The sun peaks through my
window, and hits
your face.
I feel the heat on my arm,
my leg and neck.
The pure, slumber of summer.

How can I be down when the
world feeds me such
beautiful scenes?
How can I leave when your
face lights up when you
hear my voice?

How could I be sad when I can
make it through all of the hail of spring,
to see the rays of
summer, the beautiful
repose of my birthday?

I am ill.
And it is you
that cannot save me.

I move and I retch...
you grab the bucket
and hold it for me;
but you cannot save me
from my
demise.

I long to live for you,
but the more I wish to
live, is the more
I wilt and die.

I wake up
and fall asleep
on your shoulder.

Kiss my head?

Our hearts are too loud to hear the music,
but we dance to our own beat.

I've been winding up the walls of the music hall,
watching the couples dance to La Vie En Rose,
the song is stuck on repeat and
to silence it I need to hear the end note,
but it never comes.

I weave my roots into the ground. They
kiss softly. Romance is making love to them,
And yet my love has not arrived,
crashed in the parking lot,
and she never comes.

I see then that I was never meant to love,
a lover like you,
my heart stutters when your machine beeps,
in case it prolongs longer than I want.
The day seems to be coming.

Our wedding song is on vinyl, unplayed
and dusty. I watch it spin as the couples leave,
their scents taking yours with them,
I am alone again.

You left,
just when I thought the stars had come out for
us.

It's a shame that we aren't soul mates,
because we used to be.
But now we're one-seventeenth of a whole teenager;
hormonal,
angry,
depressed.
But all I can say is,
when you think I'm overbearing,
instead,
think of how heavy it is to carry
a whole friendship on one back;
it's dead, lulling weight
digging into your spine,
slowing you down,
hoping you feel better
when it tells you, drunk,
how much you're worth.

I can't do this alone,
I need you to tell me sober that you love me,
or leave my life for a better one.

I'm going to die alone,
but that's okay.
I've been warned.

And if the stars have given me that
fate,

what God am I to disagree?

I love you,
and I hope that you can tell
by the way, my eyes stare too
long into yours.
If I was to speak I wouldn't know what to say;
as all, I can think of is how pretty you are.
Pretty in a dark chocolate sense,
the kind that lingers on your tongue,
the bitter, harshness of beautiful boys,
the type you know you don't belong with.

You smile and I hear old dancehalls,
haunted with melodies of yesterday night.
Put your head on my shoulder, darling.
Come lay in the sun,

and watch the shadows of our grandchildren
play.

I am a simulation rebelling against my natural coding.
I refuse to believe what others think, just because it's written in the pages of an old book,
that, if you flip over too quickly,
could cut you.

I am an alien, lost on a planet unknown,
trying to speak English to its inhabitants,
and all they speak is in tongues.
I see their mouths moving
and yet I hear nothing a gabble of words
that string like rope out of their mouths
to strangle.

I am the scissors,
cutting the Moira between me and you.
I left you a note on the nightstand
with the wedding ring I wore
at first, it acted like a buoy, kept me afloat,
now it is made of lead,
and, with permission, it'd to drag me to the depths.

I am the looped flowers growing
out of my grandmothers piano,
my fingers play melodies that
the birds can sing,
so the children of the future can hear my voice.

I am the scent of your dead mother's perfume.
The one that haunts you whilst you sleep,
and kisses your cheek to make sure you
still think of me.

I am the treehouse set alight,
without a match in my hands,
or gasoline as my lotion,
I sink further and further into the grounds
as the flame rises,
choking you with my scent,
you cry out for mercy at Maria up above.

People have aesthetic childhoods.
With parents that understand and cuddle them when lightning strikes.
I remember the teddy bears in my bed,
and how they smelt of mum and dad,
how I would hold Odettes ear with my finger and thumb,
my head ducked under cover in fear of an alien tickling my toes.
But now the teddies are placed high up on a shelf
away from me, out of reach.

When I realise the ear isn't in my hands,
I look around and see the dust at my feet,l like I'm down at the bottom,
I look up,
my family are at the top
and the red cord of family love bounding us together is thin, and I fear we are soon to have a disconnect again,
When I make it to the third or fourth level
I see their faces grinning with pride
at their daughter succeeding and waking up before noon,
and I say something funny to lighten the mood,
but I tumble lower by one or two
depending on how fake the laugh I hear was.

I sit in the gravel and wonder.
I don't understand why I can't touch them anymore because I'm like my mum,
we're both alike,
and I'm like my dad,
we're also alike,
but I feel lost on a planet when I meet their eyes,
like I'm somewhere I shouldn't be,
I wallow in the dust for days, until I feel
them prodding me with a stick from the top shelf,
asking me when I'll finally reach the top.
Telling me that I'm seventeen now and that I used to be on the sixth shelf when I was sixteen.
How I used to do so well with my homework,
and I would get great grades,
but now I get dark stains around my eyes,
and a tearstained face,
but from their great  height, they can't see my shoulders shaking,
they just see me carrying my baggage,
too heavy for my small frame to handle.

I force my way up the mountain,
until I see their faces,
they smile and I tumble right back down.
I feel like screaming;
LOOK AT ME!
I AM HERE!
I EXIST!
I AM ON MY PLANE,
AND YOU ARE ON YOURS!
but however hard I do scream,
the wind picks it up and carries it away,
and all they hear is;
'Look at me, I'm on your plane!"

They smile.
I tumble three.

This is an ode to my friends.
For the ones I've loved since day one
the ones I have learnt to love
and for the ones I hate to love.

This is for my friend,
for the one, I got drunk with first.
We stole a litre bottle of cider and four beers then drank them in the park at midnight.
This is an ode to my friend who cries at parties,
who swears he will die alone.
This is for my friend who laughs at every joke,
the **** and comedian but shakes when no one is looking.

This is an ode to my friends,
for the one who's grandma is dying but they
still, manage to draw on a smile and present a joke.
This is for my friend who has depression,
Or the friend who has anxiety,
and asks me to speak for her at restaurants,

This is an ode to my friends,
who is finally taking control of her body
after being trapped in the wrong one.
For the friend who is scared to leave the house
when it's icy because he might slip and hurt his ***.
For the friend, I fancied till I was sixteen,
and even though it's been years my lips still burn when
I look at her.

This is an ode to my friends who leave me out of conversations.
who have inside jokes they sprout when I'm around
This is for the ones that went to the movies to see the film they knew I was dying to see.
This is an ode to my friend,
who broke her leg whilst dancing in her favourite musical,
and the part was given to someone else.
This is for the friend whose mother died when she was 12
but she remains the strongest person ever.

This is an ode to those who
forget I'm their friend,
who ignore me when they're upset,
who  tell me daily that they love me,
who cry at Disney movies,
who laugh at videos of past times,
who  I hate that I adore,
who  I cry over,
because I can't make them happy anymore.

This is an ode to my friends,
for the one who is so self-conscious, he wears baggy jumpers to hide his stomach.
This is an ode to my friend who has scary parents,
for the friends who made a pyramid out of stones and raised a nation,
for the friends who try their hardest and still achieve nothing,
for my friends the world has seemingly forgotten,

This is an Ode to my friends,
the ones I know I will die loving,
they give me cups of tea with two sugars when I'm having a bad episode,
for the ones that cry when they hear a certain song, because it reminds them of when I tried to off myself in the toilet,
for the one that has never had a kiss,
for the one who refuses to get married.

This is an ode to my friends,
the family I chose,
the ones that send me stupid messages at four am,
then question why I'm awake so late.
For the friend that gets blackout drunk,
for the one with weak knees,
who, when she laughs, falls to the ground in a fit of giggles,
for the friends, I will marry, loving.
Speak now or forever hold your peace,

An ode to my friends,
who I love more than anything,
as we collapse through the stars,

I'll hear them laughing at a joke.

I am a child,
wrapped in cheap paper.
I'm tearing
at every edge.
I tape myself back together,
but I rip in a different place,
and I stare at it.
I feel my body scream in pain as I grin at a
stranger.
The wound is festering,
it's puce with grime.
It's growing and expanding forth from torn scars
that I've tried to heal with butterfly bandages.
But, every time the butterflies bite my skin,
after using their wings to keep
my laceration
from ripping further,
I use the bird that is my fingernail to pick at the scab,
and watch as the butterfly tumbles to the ground,
joining a thousand carcasses laid strewn next to me.

They're shrivelled and crisp,
scattered in disarray.

I hear them apologise,
for not staying so long.

You forget what it feels like to see an old friend.
Like the one
you keep hidden behind picture frames.
The small, cutouts of their faces,
detached from their bodies
make you respond a certain way.

You remember how they made you feel,

(hopeless, desperate)

How they felt against your skin,

(sharp, sudden, like a knife to the soul)

How they made you weep,

(you were useless under their control)

You forget how much you need them,

(You depend on them for your every move)

You think about them day and night,
they could creep into bed with you,

kiss you,

make you snap awake.

You wear them on your sleeve,
and you hide them under heavy coats,
and thick jumpers.

You forget how the bad you feel,
when you see the marks they leave on your skin,

(the violent, puce lines that tore at your paper)

And yet, you leave their head behind the frame,
because you're not sure you're ready to quit them
just yet...
So you count the days since you last saw them.
Watch as their grips loosen.
Even though you relapse into their arms now and again,
you believe you can become sober in the future.