Sometimes a jolt can stop you.
Like a phantom step that calls for you drive your heels to the ground,
Or a sentence in a book that yanks your gaze back to the beginning,
Heaving and lurching over.
Sometimes I stop,
To take in that I have stopped.
That it has been as few months that I could count on fingers,
The same that have scratched at my insides,
Heaving and lurching over.
Sometimes that same jolt can push you,
Like a static shock from a touch.
And that is why I do not claw, crave, beat or binge,
As I think of you most days, not out of love but as a warning.
For if the shock from your static unmoving self
Had not left me stung and stumbling,
Heaving and lurching,
I would not have ran forward.
*I have been cold inside and out.
I have been clawed and have grown talons in return.
And I was paler than my anaemic self,
Lacking in haemoglobin to burden with rasps of air,
Because my heart was weak and could not push blood to the surface.
But now that the colour has drained from my face,
I can blend into snow.
White, all but for red lipstick,
And apple in hand.
So I know when people have found me
They must have had to stop to look.*
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
I avoid Marble Arch like I do the armed police men,
And happily walk an extra two streets
Just to reach a place I don't recognise.
Like the bar we went to,
Now changed as a lot of things do,
Or the underground station
Where we unknowingly said goodbye the last time,
Kissed,
And saw each other,
Not via pictures, writings, or pixels
But through rods and cones,
For the last time for a what will probably be long time.
But I will walk through Paddington,
Past the hostel you stayed in, the pub you took me to,
I still get my bus at that frosty corner,
And wear my floral dress, my hoodie, my fishtail hair braid.
And more importantly
My bold blue dress
That you zipped up,
Drunkenly spilled beer on, my uncle bought you ten,
And I told you that I felt the same.
Now I'm not that shade of blue,
But colour me naive,
After all the times I asked you to not say what you don't mean
I did just that -
I don't think it was the same
Because it should have cut deeper than it did.
And after seeing how sorry I feel
For the new her and you
Because one or both of you have to realise something soon,
I feel I should be there for you.
But I won't hold your hand at the bank
Get your favourite band to sign your birthday card,
I won't take your beer off you when you can't stop,
Get on another plane,
Or stop writing poetry because I know you will see it.
I won't walk through Marble Arch for you.
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 1:19 PM UTC
The sound of small plastic wheels
On the ridged metal lip of an escalator
Bookends each trip between home and birthplace.
The first two uptempo, eager
To race to the smell of marble and leather,
Perfectly cooked fish and pastries with blueberries
The next two, piano, as I cross back,
Result of exhaustion, arms full of clothes and sorting small bottles into bags.
But on exit
Not due to vents, air conditioning, or the sensory assault of shopping under halogens,
Home smells of rust.
Of dirt and smoke - burnt.
Home smells more damaged and ****** up than its neighbour
And it's apt position on the map
Behind our back
Peering over the shoulder of the small ursa, overbearing and controlling.
But it's not the smell of burning petrol and tissue in glass,
Nor riot shields and plastic armour,
And only slightly of over emphasis on Northern Irish poetry during exams.
It's the stench of friendships, bouquet of break-ups,
Awkwardness and overconfidence,
Fake tanning and too much tea.
And like bonfires and cigarette smoke,
Burnt wood and tobacco embers,
It's the one perfume I can't get out of my clothes.
Sep 15, 2011
Sep 15, 2011 at 9:25 PM UTC
When I avoid your eyes
And hold a gaze with the floor,
You can't see
Where my mother forgot to strap me into the bouncer,
And the jug my forehead ricocheted off.
When I walk quickly
And apologise for the clack of my shoes,
Reminding you that I'm still here,
You can't see
Where my lace wound itself
Around the greasy chain of my cousin's new scooter,
The primary coloured vice grip it had on my ankle
As the brightly painted metal cut.
When I awkwardly cross my legs,
In an effort to seem graceful and uncaring,
You can't see
Where I fell on the cherished artwork,
That was our hopscotch grid,
Just missing the empty tin of shoe polish I threw,
And the chalked piece of gravel
That still remains in my knee.
When I **** in my stomach
In an effort to impress you
You can't see
The lines on my skin
When, exhausted from false hormones,
Gave in and swelled,
Or the four large puncture marks
Matching four large needles,
That look like dots on di
Because I couldn't take the chance
That my meosis would fail me.
When I roll down the sleeves over my palms
To comfort myself in a blisteringly awkward silence,
You can't see
The yellow hazardous plastic bucket
Full of cannulas,
Most failed, missed targets.
If only they were the suspicious trademark of other chemicals,
As then I would have faithful veins and arteries
That wouldn't collapse
As the clear plastic parasite,
Looking to feed me poison
Burrowed itself into the crook of my arm.
When I fold my arms over my torso
Plait myself around my chest
To hold myself together,
You can't see;
The permanent pinprick
On my sternum
The black dot that had to be accurate
To align a red laser
And aim for my heart.
But on the days
I hold my head up high enough
You can see
What looks like dark shadow on my collar bone,
A bright signal flare sent out as a distress call
For a scalpel to answer.
And though I hope
And knead in creams
So marks may lighten,
If this scar fades
I will take another needle,
By choice this time,
And draw it back on.
Jul 14, 2011
Jul 14, 2011 at 8:22 PM UTC
Three.
One that warned me,
One that didn't,
And one that sat, plotting near my heart.
For which it earned it's title;
"Voldemort"
From the girls
Who sat,
An hour after I did on that wrinkled leather corner of the couch,
With tissues, chocolate and their arms
Ready to launch around my tear soaked bandage,
And thought of names
Closer to pets than unwanted clumps of cells was the second;
"Fluffy".
On the 16th and the 5th, I think of and thank
Sophie, who ran cold water over my veins backstage
When I couldn't stand the heat any longer
Because my own chemicals wanted to give up.
Rachel, who glanced over at me in English,
When I looked hopeless
And hugged me, without a word of explaination.
And the first, "Fredrick", who gave me this mark I wear,
Uncaring of it's appearance because it warned us
And prevented the formation of more scars.
And how when I say I love them I mean it.
Three.
One that made me laugh,
One that bravely smiled,
One that got sick
And made the other two cry.
Jul 4, 2011
Jul 4, 2011 at 5:54 PM UTC
After we used to call you piglet
And after you liked celery,
After the eighth of December at eight o'clock
And after you were eight pounds eight ounces,
They took a photo of when I first held you.
You were crying your eyes out,
Like your mum was in the living room
After she found out,
Before I scurried away.
But you've grown up
In your old *** Pistols t-shirts
And your scribblings screenprinted onto new ones.
Copper hair loyally trailing behind you,
You glide around the house en pointe,
In between embroidery at noon and fashion design after lunch.
Too cool to have sushi at ten years old,
And nearly too old
To hug your big cousin without reluctance.
Like an ordinary kid.
Minding your know-it-all brother
With his resounding echos of 'youknowwhatyouknowwhat'
Making sure he doesn't burn a hole through the floor
With his new chemistry set, that he won't admit
He doesn't quite know how to use,
But will continue on nevertheless.
And you will roll your eyes.
Like an ordinary kid.
But your adenosine triphosphate,
Can barely lift it's own molecular weight
Nevermind the energy you ask it to carry.
In comparison, the ordinary ATP
Of your ordinary classmates,
Is a strongman next to your weakling cluster of N, H, C and O.
So you take your small grey spheres.
And don't drink full fat milk
And your father's taught you how to cook
And value food.
And use your nebuliser
And clean and dust and sterilise
So your glass lungs
Which clatter when you cough
Don't shatter.
And after all that
You twist your hair up in a bun
And carry on.
Not falling down the rabbit hole,
But bounding gracefully.
Like the extraordinary kid that you are, Alice.
Jul 2, 2011
Jul 2, 2011 at 7:19 AM UTC
You rang me on New Years,
Crying,
Just as I had managed to forget,
And told me we'd get through this together.
And I wept more for your case
Than I ever did for mine
As they told me
"Common things are common"
Though you insisted
That your cysts were sinister.
Even if you really were
Under your 'mother's maiden name',
You never told me
That you were alright,
When I had more than enough
Pills, injections and appointments
To worry about
Than asking my father to look for you
When neither your name nor conscience,
Were anywhere to be seen.
I've always had my doubts about places of fire and brimstone
But never wished it on anyone, nevertheless,
And nor do I now.
But I do believe
In places of eternal sleeplessness, nausea and screaming children on long haul flights,
And that there is an seat reserved for you,
With no legroom.
When I broke down, as the bus did,
On our way to maths,
I was thankful for you.
As you should be of me,
That I haven't told anyone
You lied to an ill young girl
For attention.
And still I think,
You're sicker than I ever was.
Jun 30, 2011
Jun 30, 2011 at 6:21 PM UTC
Blank but not quite blanc,
Taunting me with possible ideas
Of what to etch and curve and carve
Into plaster and paint.
Torn scraps curled up into *****
Of perfect things
That are flawed
When put together.
I want to look right
To view it when I wake,
Like it the first time
I saw Munch.
I want to look right
Without a need to change and alter and edit
The leaf out of place
Or the cigarette in Oscar's hand.
I want it to look right,
Stand with hands on hips,
And proudly leave marks on my clothes
From palms blackened with acrylic.
Jun 30, 2011
Jun 30, 2011 at 5:41 PM UTC
Unmoving from the same spot
I've been in for months,
The thoughts in my head
Deliver insomnia
More active than any caffeine
Derived from berries.
Thoughts of you, thoughts of her.
Thoughts of him, thoughts of them.
Thoughts of what, thoughts of who.
Thoughts of where, thoughts of when.
Tangle around me
And prevent exhalation.
Everything but thoughts of me
And what I need, as it's not important or relevant.
I'm stumbling on,
Worry the only part of me that thrives
On being deprived.
And my solution to them
Gets more irrational and frantic
With each hour lost.
Jun 29, 2011
Jun 29, 2011 at 5:48 AM UTC
We stand on wooden floors, once were new and glossy
Now scuffed and varnished with spirits
After you danced when I pretended not to see you first
Beneath the sculpture which in my head is ours.
I've never seen someone smile so much
At a ball of stuffing and chain
That now hangs faithfully from your jeans.
Like a polyester medal.
Outside to nicotine fog
Where you describe your dream
And I can't quite find words.
So I interrupt you instead,
I launch my arms out over the Irish sea
And around you.
You stopped talking instantly.
Jun 28, 2011
Jun 28, 2011 at 2:43 PM UTC