There’s a boy who I used to want to love me, who carved little scars all over my body and my brain and I kept skipping school and taking a train only to find attachment and emptiness, glaringly empty melancholy with him by my side. While he slept and I wished he could give me that elusive thing my hurting and lost self must have been searching for. And in the morning I would leave and I would be hollow and then three agonising years passed by. Now this boy calls me up and he tells me he wants to do it for real.
There’s a boy who I thought it could be different with, an ordinary boy who didn’t stand out to me like a star in the cloudless, polluted city sky. But we drank ten gallons of beer and made out in the back of a taxi. He took me dancing and walking and made me believe that maybe one day it could be love, maybe, I don’t know. So I trusted and I tripped a little bit and all the while I felt safe, I was falling down a black hole. Now I don’t feel anything, but we still never talk. We watch from afar, but we never talk.
There’s a boy who wanted to give me the world and the sun and the waves and sweet, sweet sugar, and then he wondered why I couldn’t stomach it. He wanted to laugh with me and love me in ten seconds and cut a little slice of technicolour. But I would flinch sometimes when he touched me, and we would lie in the sand, sandy bodies, next to and on top of each other, sunstroked as the sky turned orange and peach. Now I’m back in London and he still wishes me goodnight, but it’s not him that I could love, it’s the touch that I know won’t hurt me.
There’s a boy that I love now and to state that so plainly, as a fact and not a question scares me deeply and endlessly. There’s a boy who I love so much, and I’m so terrified that he can’t give me what I want or need. There’s a boy that knows me and understands me, who makes me laugh and lets me into his building when I’m drunk to consume his kitchen. There’s a boy whose sweatpants I steal and nag for not taking care of our imaginary children. There is a boy who is comfort and warm heating and tequila shots and Christmas morning. And I love him plain as day in whatever way I can’t even tell you, but he never picks up the ******* phone.
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 8:14 AM UTC
The problem is that I am searching for spontaneous combustion, the kind of instant burning up and irrevocable passion...emotions forged so deeply that it hurts as much as it feels good, simultaneously.
The problem is that despite the exterior walls and unconfirmed emotional detachment issues, I think that deep down I want romance and to be swept off my feet.
The problem is that either the above does not exist or that I am not good enough to be a recipient of it.
The problem is perhaps that I am the problem - I am not too naive nor ignorant to have not assumed this. So I suppose I will just have to fall in love with literature
And fall in love with the beautiful
And fall in love with the ******
Did you notice how that was a Scott Fitzgerald reference
Probably not
And that defines the elusiveness of what I am looking for
And it illuminates the fact
That perhaps it does not exist at all
Or even more heartbreakingly
That it was not destined for me
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 6:18 AM UTC
Stained red lips
And cloudy bath tubs
As dreams pour down the drains
And steam writes your fate on the mirror.
Hot water'd pink skin
And raisin shrivelled hands
Reach out grasping
For a reflection
Only to realise
That they cannot recognise what they see.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 4:29 PM UTC
The car engine is whirring and
I can see you outside
And that Eagles song is playing
in the background
But it shouldn't be so loud, should it?
You glance over and smile that smile
you do
Can you see it's hurting me?
And even if you could, would you say a
word.
Now you're in the seat beside me
Staring across the highway and
I'm not here despite being present.
I can feel that wholesome heavy ache
Even though you're next to me
And I'm scared
That one day I'll miss you more than
I do now
Even though you are here.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
Scatter seeds over my brain and pray
that they bloom
and grow into flowers
Hope that they see the sun and feel the
breeze
Wish that they knew they were beautiful
But
I've got acid rain in my brain and it's
killing the flowers in my heart.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 10:55 AM UTC
She's got that air of innocence about her
Untouched, untainted
Draws all the bad boys in.
The bad boys? You know the ones,
Motorcycles and leather jackets,
Cigarettes and black ink tattoos.
And even worse than that
A fickle charm they possess
A good girl they desire, in a pure oh so white dress.
She swears she's not naive -
I know better than that, she says.
The motorcycle stops outside her house.
The leather jacket rings the doorbell
The black ink reaches for her face
And nothing happens.
But he held her gaze for the longest time.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 3:16 AM UTC
They say that truth is found amongst the caverns in your heart
But I? I am more akin to the eye.
The crevice that gapes lets the light filter through
When I look into your piercing pupil
There is nowhere to hide
And thus I can decipher whether the words you whisper,
Are the truth, or lies.
It is not just the iris itself which stands so bare
Defenceless
To the *********** of a man who searches for answers.
The eyelashes, too, give away inklings
And indications of what is to come.
You blink and I sense hesitation,
Refusing to let your eyes meet mine,
A feeling seeps over me,
I'm sensing a lie.
But amongst all the uncertainty
That the eyes do bring
When you shoot down that one foolhardy look...
Well,
A man would go to hell and back just to get his fix.
And suddenly there are no more doubts,
just eyes.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 2:57 AM UTC
Call it cynical, call it whatever you like
But don't you dare revel in those 'self-help' lies
You can plaster that smile
On your young tired face
Project the illusion of confidence, happiness even.
But the darkness is in your lashes
And that acid, in the soil of your mind
So let yourself ******* feel it
Because the flowers are being killed anyway
Even if you smile.
There's broken glass on the floor
Each slither; it's you
Extend your hand, pick some up
Curl your hand into a fist
And crush.
Your skin is punctured with glass slashes
Ripe blood trickles through
You feel alive and as though you've died
All in one crimson drop
But those glass slashes, they're true
Unlike that self-help smile you think has people fooled.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
I am not sure what this numbness is
I can feel longing aching in my bones
My desires are whimsical and paradisiacal
I crave touch
And the tickle of breath on the small of my neck
I want to feel warmth against me
I yearn for hands in tangled hair
And lips caressing cheeks.
What it would be to feel alive.
What it would be to stay up all night.
What it would be to stand in the chilling winter air
inhaling your fumes of smoke, tainting my innocence.
What it would be to feel whole
But I am not in love (with you) and there is a void where my heart used to be.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 8:23 AM UTC
Just because you're under the ground
It doesn't mean you died
I mean, obviously you did
But not in my mind.
Your presence still lingers
In my thoughts flitting by
And due to that tainting
I declare you still alive.
I feel you in the breeze
Haunting my slow steps
Heading back to the sea
I'd like to believe.
But the truth is to me
That you live on in words
Because if I behold that
It doesn't so much hurt.
I could write a thousand things
And as long as they aren't burned
You live on, you live more
Forever and ever
On a page of A4.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 8:07 AM UTC