'i can breathe, i can breathe!'
i scream it into the air because there's space to scream it.
grass and trees and water as far as the eye can see,
even turbines spinning slowly,
i'm telling you now i have never felt like there was so much air before this moment.
i move upstream through the running water just to remind myself that this is real life and there are still difficulties
i laugh to myself though - it's never been this easy to bring myself back down to earth, because there's so ******* much of it
my vision is blurred from wet glasses. i'm delighted. the stress lines are melting from my face with the rain. i'm unashamed. i don't think i've ever been this free of pain. aaand hodor's howling from the top of the hill like a tiny wolf again.
side by side i walk through heather with my mother and i remember lantern-lit martinmas walks when i was four feet tall or thereabouts, and with the peppered scent of brambles and moulting leaves, i'm a child again and the leaves are mine to crunch and kick.
we pick wildflowers for the kitchen and blackberries for jam. we find ourselves going to extraordinary lengths to get the best ones, which of course, are always just out of reach. it becomes a quest for the unobtainables. but we come home with stained hands, faces aglow and two kilos.
bernie learns to fetch the ball and drop it and i almost cry because i love him so much. bernie investigates the deeper water of the river because daisy is swimming and i almost cry because i love him so much. bernie lays his damp head on my legs after a walk and falls straight to sleep and i almost cry because i love him so much.
the mist lies on top of the mountain like a protective blanket and i feel myself become one with the mud. i am the mud. the mud is me. i am a mud lady now. ever had muddy water flow over the top of your wellies and not feel remotely bothered? better than yoga.
never thought i'd ever be wishing for a wetsuit but here we are.
oh and, cold sunshine. gorgeous, crisp cold sunshine.
Nov 25, 2019
Nov 25, 2019 at 9:01 PM UTC
i'm always
in between places
encouraged to embrace new phases
been told that my tension is baseless
and if i'm so restless then maybe
i should rest more
forget the urge to explore and
try harder to be relaxed, or
acceptable, adorable,
but i swore that this turbulence would mean something
whether on dancefloors or in bookstores
i'd be there, carving out a slice of the world
to swallow whole and put gleaming eyes to work
healing old wounds covered over in moss and stones
sinew and muscle and skin so new that nobody who's hurt me
has ever touched it
i figure there's water in some places that can seep through tired bones and reach even
the smallest, longest-burning embers in my lungs that catch my breath sometimes
when i see an old photograph, or the at the smell of petrol
and sitting here means nothing more than coughing up ashes
so i'd like to know what sort of rest they think that is
i want to believe that the one place in this town untainted by trauma is somewhere i leave bluebells behind me with every footstep
then if i revisit i might be able to spot where my healing started
somewhere between there and starlight in june
or maybe it was underneath july's orange moon
or maybe it was after soaking my face in lightning storms on an august night
either way, whenever i've daydreamed about my life
this place wasn't what i had in mind
or dragged out for this amount of time
so perhaps all it means
is that my dreams remain untouched by clumsy hands
and i can still be charmed by fresh lands and familiar plans
and even if the restlessness never wanes
i still have the moonlight in my veins
until then all i have are grey skies and citalopram
and this place looks the same all year round
and nobody even notices ashes in the atmosphere
because everything turns to dust here
Aug 20, 2019
Aug 20, 2019 at 2:53 PM UTC
she told me i should put my heart in a box and so i did
lined with alstroemerias and ever-closing eyelids
breeze rushing through hair thick with bleach and memories
blowing the dust of his handprints from the backs of my arms into the wind
first driving lesson dreaming of san diego sunshine
catch me outside in a year's time
lana del rey record playing in the 4x4
hand out the window california dreamin' eyes
ocean roaring far from my little 20 zone
i always did fantasise about being an optimist
never quite managed it
but she told me i should put my heart in a box and so i did
lined with alstroemerias and polaroid candids
and i still dream of sunshine and straight roads on a daily basis
even if i don't get to have all that i want and still get to be his
i've wasted too much of my life being bitter for me to feel the world's sweetness
but driving home under dusk could perhaps fix the rust while i'm sleeping
'cause on highways nothing's sad and nothing matters
even if the earth shatters, you just keep one eye on the dash and one in the sky
you can keep the speed, i'll keep the romance
rosy perfume surrounding me like a fortress
because she told me i should put my heart in a box and so i did
filled with old dreams filed under no longer relevant
and as much pain as i have felt i am lighter for it
can't help smiling as i reach for the coffee and start to pour it
Mar 19, 2019
Mar 19, 2019 at 9:09 AM UTC
she overlooks me,
her hand like a pale sailor's greeting
shadows her eyes as
dappled light flutters along the rooftop spire above her head -
her forefinger curves to her browbone,
a buffer for the kind of morning
that greets those from high rise
windows
in places like this
for faces like hers
to stay just a little while
and leave smiling over one shoulder
in a stolen shot of a car window;
secrets swallowed and adventures washed down with beaujolais in the backs of black coupés
whisky, cherries and dual carriageways
thick cigars, rubber on tar
all the way to those dark places and bars
that leave most half-hearted,
but she is more sparkling and effervescent than champagne stars,
and more well received than a cacophany of applause.
she overlooks me,
craning up from under the morning mist
leans, eyes closed, on the iron railing and breathes
a familiar rise and fall
expanding of lungs that she and i share, but different air
mine fit to burst with coffee and car exhaust
hers with that crisp stratosphere coolness:
the penthouse breeze.
her arm like a swan's neck curls from elbow to chin,
shadowed straps and sunbeams
take turns dancing on her skin
as though they could flirt forever.
and she overlooks me:
a face in the crowd
searching hard for access
moving through a chaos of flickering flashes,
just a droplet of light in the bright white clouds
of camera strobes
and crushing against body after body
my crumpled black t-shirt dreams of her atmosphere
it is no fault of hers though
she remains as generous as she is radiant,
waving and beaming over the awning
so that others may enjoy a little warmth this morning.
still,
she overlooks me,
my eyes still set on the perfect curl of her hazel hair
as it drops and slips over her bare shoulder
and her forefinger
as it rests in the space between jaw and cherry painted lips
parted in laughter
where sit teeth like the first row of an audience enraptured.
finally, as the performance ends
and the sounds around me swell
with mona lisa eyes
she throws me her last, lasting look
before turning and disappearing beyond invisible thresholds
and the mass held spellbound
recedes and melts
but in that moment,
i feel seen like everybody else.
under blankets of shooting stars,
red velvet and chandeliers
she moves ceaselessly
through hazes of gaultier and hallways
humming nightingale songs at midnight
and falling back into bed linen
sore feet and tipsy eyes
fingers still dancing across pillows
mind still racing
chest still whirling,
but making a home here
for now.
and only then
does she roll to the side
and rummage to the back of her bags
past silk and sapphire
past black tie attire
sleeping, that night,
with its familiar longing
in her old black t-shirt
because nothing fits so well.
except in moments, she will always overlook me
and although i'll never meet her
she will set me free,
and in this one moment, true as salt in the sea
i know one day i will know her
and she'll remember me.
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 4:32 PM UTC
my whole life i've been breaking my heart on memories too jagged for it
moments like an intake of air
too short and sharp for my chest
that wants to rise slow and easy, graceful with every breath
a shock to the system to say the best,
the intimacy's fading with every detail of disrespect
heart skipping a beat before falling awake
back in step with recognition after being
stuck for a second, on the eerie formality of
small talk with such a familiar blank face
overwhelmed by that sickness in the back of my throat, urging me to get some space
choking on places that never wanted me
never asked for me,
never knew me,
never wanted to know me,
but my heart just wants to remember everyone fondly.
so my whole life i've been breaking my heart on memories too perfect for it
coffee and candles and inky hands in the evening
whisky lips and late night screenings
even the fighting the endless tears and the screaming
and the people that always ended up leaving -
like a beautiful little fool,
i fell in love with my pedestals
lived up to them one by one and had them leaving me breathless like duvet covers pulled off in the night
like green eyes under dim lights
and his lips on mine made me feel like i'm soulless
like the air i was breathing was nothing but stardust
pretty and cosmic but finally fruitless
and i can't lie, i didn't mind
'cause his hand round my throat made me feel like i'm worth this
like he gave me a promise
and said here, now keep it,
i promise he didn't.
sometimes i'm laying on carpets more worn than i am
staring at ceilings that have seen my hopeful eyes a few too many times
wondering if i really have nothing left to give
if i've had my fair share of people who want to stretch out moments with me
enough people to bathe in memories like warm oceans for the rest of my life
and maybe i should get going,
make like the moon and cling to horizons only for an evening
but my heart proves time and time over that i am overflowing
because here i am laughing at the sun like it isn't shining enough
to blaze through a summer that shines brighter than us
like i light up the dark.
and then peace finds me,
somewhere between forest pines and no trespassing signs
somewhere between my sheets and body heat
somewhere between one moment and the next
between car seats and ***
i am everywhere and i am nowhere
i'm his girlfriend, i'm his best friend
he's swearing under his breath in the lounge chair
like he knows i'm more than just the hot air on his skin
more than he ever knew he was involved in
i'm a universe of my very own and stardust is my cornerstone
breathe it in like magic, it's time for me to begin,
i am not just spare
i'm the whole engine
and i'm starting now, at the ending
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 5:52 PM UTC
He's a skyline
Endless highs wash and glide over my eyelids sparkling wide like the sea
Hook line and sinker, those blue green irises sure do allure a girl like me
Caught in the West-side stormy horizons around his pupils
Falling deep into his sunny day Harbourside gaze
And he wonders aloud why I'm so dazed
so I say yeah, honey, yeah no, I'm great
He's a skyline
Running along avenues of my skin like a city that he's glad as **** to be locked in
Climbing streetlights and smoking trees like it's easy
Feels me in like a summer breeze 'cause it thrills me
Writhing like a motorway, scaling ribcages like a multi-storey
I think he might want to stay, I know cities have a certain glory
I curl up in the curve of his spine like a half pipe
I know he'll keep me safe, he's positive like his blood type
Early morning grey he stands on top of the world with me,
and his heart shaped face breaks me out of boxes I didn't know I had in me.
He's a skyline
I know all the words to his sunset car songs
He likes the windows down and we both like to sing along
And when we go in circles, slipping past the road to the M5
We just turn the volume up and let the whole world just pass us by
It's true what they say that time flies
I can't hold onto these eternities in every easy moment, but I,
I know I'm shotgun eternally, double barrel shots of red wine
and he's gonna think this is funny now 'cause I can't find a clever rhyme
Still,
We're a skyline; an only-way-is-up vertical horizon of opportunity
and he knows exactly where to drive to get into my
brain, and
It's only us in the whole place and our bodies breathe adventure 'cause all I see is his face
Close to mine, eyes shining like the universe awaits
With fingers intertwined like atoms in space
The catalyst for my daydreams is the rave where time stopped on the bass notes
So I could build a wall right up to his skyline for all my high hopes
But he breaks it down every time I fall asleep in his arms
Hearts replace guards, never felt so good to be disarmed.
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 9:03 AM UTC
If everything that’s going to happen has already happened,
could you change my life with a word?
Does the change in my purse keep that man in the street
in the street instead of a hearse?
I heard he was always going to live
from a scientist,
that no lack of change
could change the fact that I gave him the change,
because the change was always there,
and I was always going to do it,
and I changed nothing.
But I felt changed, still reeling from the possibility
that my small offer could save someone from death,
And short-changed by the short answer
that such is time
and such is breath.
Nothing more magic than tea in the morning, he told me,
as I had flashbacks of steaming tea and someone holding me,
when I needed it,
that could have saved my life, I think,
but time had already seen to it.
So, could you change my life with a word?
There are things, I think, that if I hadn’t heard,
I’d be an actress, not a poet,
I’d never even know it,
I could Marilyn Monroe it –
beautiful, famous and dead
instead of the opposite,
mutable, aimless, but well-read.
Not understanding the gravity of the situation
maybe I could warp time to suit me
But that’s a mass effect, a contradiction,
being so small yet so multitudinous, simultaneously
Two things at once, or more,
well that’s the heart of every human core.
Because it changes you,
knowing nothing could have changed,
you see your whole life in a very strange way.
You’re no longer writing your story, yet to be ended
but reading through early chapters, knowledge suspended.
So maybe it’s not your life that changes,
but you.
If time correlates with our need to be free,
then that right there,
that’s some really super symmetry.
So, could you change me with a word?
Because I can’t time travel back to when I didn’t know how it felt
to be told that I was beautiful,
or to be told that I was ugly,
I can’t fuse the blank slate state with the confusion that tugs me
into the haze of self-perception,
I can’t find solid footing now,
I guess that’s sublimation.
Could you change me with a word?
Because I can’t see any other reason why when we’ve come this far in scientific understanding,
it’s still possible for you to make me feel so two-dimensional,
and no matter is unintentional, see
The words I’ve heard defy time and space in my memory,
providing a long list of reasons why I am me,
language has made up almost every degree of my identity,
all things tie together, that’s my string theory.
You could change me with a word, maybe that’s science fiction,
but I like to think that’s what life’s about,
Transforming each other – the slow burn and the friction,
and that scientist changed me,
no matter his doubts.
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 9:02 AM UTC
My mistakes go retro, I’ve made them before
sometimes I think being forced to talk through lightbulbs would maybe stop it all
all the awkward hello-I-exist moments all the overreactions all the irritated snaps when I can’t snap out of it all the times I didn’t mean to cry out **** YOU,
no, with that limitation I’d only say what I needed to
It’s not like I’m living upside down but it sure does feel like it
hidden away in my head so much that the outside world feels eerie
daylight is bright white and reality is my Demogorgon
I’m too tired to fight it, and standing in supermarkets, bleary-eyed
feels unreal, like a fake body in a quarry
I just wish love was enough to overcome worry
My dungeons are four cream walls closing in on me, infecting me with black slime that weighs me down too much to move
My dragons are adrenaline and exhaustion, they take turns attacking me,
these demons keep trapping me, and I keep getting told it’s too soon
It’s too soon for this, I’m just a kid
lost in the forest, upside down and off-grid
I’m off-kilter, with a faulty brain-filter and my squirming blue fingers
are gripping bike handles and trying to rebuild her
The girl on the wire, the girl with inner fire whose eyes shined like the lights I wish I had to communicate with
that girl would have slain the Demogorgon with idealism and defiance,
now I wish it away in the pretense that it’s a myth
She could whisk objects away into a magical space, a deep forest of brave faces,
seeing beauty in all things through summer dazed rays of romance
skipping along rivers, hair fair and careless, daring to dream of daisies gleaming, just on the lookout for the next rhyme,
unaware that this was the strongest she’d ever be, the least cowardly, unaware that she’d one day be me.
Locked up in the four walls with no fairy lights or lyrics,
Joyce Byers without a reason,
crazy with no spirit.
Months on end immersed in dungeons, fighting dragons,
only to escape and be faced with this deadly Demogorgon:
life without eleven lenses of hope. A life cynical and devoid of magic,
less nightmarish than the upside down but just as bleak,
this is the monster that makes me weak
it’s not the upside down, but my own reality.
I’m still waiting for my sling-shot, sleeping until my powers are restored,
there’s nothing worse than seeing the world and being bored,
in eleven days I’ll try again,
I have at least eleven days of hope left,
I’ll get out of this swimming pool, hop over the barbed wire,
eleven days to find that girl again and turn my gasoline fire inwards,
to escape the wasteland once and for all,
for the world to be big enough that I don’t hear the Demogorgon through the walls,
Eleven days to fix my sanctuary in the forest,
so I can light up both my outward-looking eyes like the aurora borealis.
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 9:01 AM UTC
You look
down
at me from a skyscraper rooftop,
throwing stones casually
from your glass tower
smiling,
you sip coffee
as they shower over me.
Falling over myself
to please you,
I climb every flight of stairs,
dodge every stone,
smiling,
just to find that you
have built ten more floors
‘Come on,
it’s just a stone’s throw for you’, you say
as I dawn another doorway
clutching my gut,
only to find it cemented shut.
You always love to remind me
no matter how much I grow,
I am still ten floors
below
and it will never be as awe-inspiring as your growth,
the doors I could open; you close.
Thank you,
for showing me that there
is no limit
to the floors I can climb
and stones I can take on the chin
I am so far from the dirt
you would put me in
But I think it’s time I built my own skyscraper
with no stones
no stairs
just elevators
for those within.
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 8:59 AM UTC
Mama told you when you were young
that people would treat you like a library,
come and go as they please,
sometimes leaving you a little more
empty,
sometimes curling up in a corner, immersed in you
an ark, strong and safe, for some
as they talk over you and
leave two by two,
fidgeting hands leaving gaps in your armoured rows of memories
as they drag fingers along book spines
unsettling old and stubborn dust
in neat little lines.
Sometimes they will come only to put you back on the shelf
in order to move on to some brighter place.
You see, your dim warm lights will comfort some and depress others,
and that's alright, she said,
some will risk it all to stay all night.
Still, knowing this,
you sit lamplit on the patio
buttoned up with regret
wine red lips pursed
burden on both sleeves
tired of the world already at twenty three.
She never told you that torn pages and unfinished stories
would bleed and hurt like real wounds
that some visitors would leave you
collapsing behind them,
crumbling, folding,
the threat of closure looming
like an unsatisfactory ending--
she didn't tell you that libraries are also oceans
stretching fields
and cities
burning crashing and fading into bittersweetness
and balled fists
she didn't warn you of plot twists like this
or what to do when they arise
your big moon eyes clouding over
like a stormy night
in front of living room lights
that have turned their back on you
or that sometimes peter pan at the window
would have more luck than you at getting
through people's frosted glass
You have to learn your own fresh start
you have your own paintbrush, you have your own heart,
So, paint your insides, watch them dry
under the new moon.
That sinking feeling is just
a new room,
no bookshelves in it yet.
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 7:06 AM UTC