// she falls in love the same way that she falls apart; quickly and all at once.

tumbling into his outstretched palms with a startling intensity, his fists clench and she cries.

she wants him to hurt her, leave smouldering bruises around her neck. Force your fingers down her throat and make her beg. maybe this love; choking sounds and blood.

it’s almost funny, the fact that she still hasn’t learned yet; make him your everything and you will be left with nothing.

and it feels like hell, almost romantic.

her lips part in the dimly lit room, gasping for air.

that’s the thing, there is nothing he could do to her that she wouldn’t do to herself. hold a knife to her neck and watch her soul drip from her mouth

one rib at a time you snapped them all like twigs and complained that she made too much noise. too much,

too loud.

lungs swimming in fluid yet she breathes out flowers, because that’s what pretty girls do; that’s what you wanted isn’t it babe? beauty. perfection.

don’t let him inside your head, keep him between your thighs or else everything around you will become white noise; fading into the background.

go on, romanticise it. i dare you.

force its unwilling bones into a metaphor or a simile.

pretend that we fall apart into beautiful, tragic spectacles and simply glue the broken fragments back together

she sat in the dark with a cup of tea between her shaking hands, resisting the urge to split her veins over the white walls and string her organs from the ceiling like fairy lights.

wanting to die in the most violent of ways is a lot less convenient than it seems; an unholy addiction of the rawest degree.

darling, i’m sorry he made you feel like you are hard to love,

because loving you is the easiest thing in the world //

He topped coffee with melanin
as if there wasn’t even blackness
set in rigid processes and routines
days in and out of smoking
numbed his brain to senseless cells
and he dreamt of dreams I never hold
poetry was just pretentious to him
a narration of my soul and heart
every word I wrote to him was a spell
the curse of his native Englishness
every adjective was a clocked tense
and he never understood my words
nor heard my melodies and rhythms
and as he rode, sure it was like a dog
lost in sense, an escapism of reality
the puffs turned to paranoid tales
those sudden withdrawal and panics
drove me away to the deepest forest  
and my very bones felt his distaste
collapsed in manipulation and new age
his push always became my push
and the pulls up became my polar
Such a little boy with no ultimate direction
Locked in the abyss of the faded memories

For you, I'll make a nest
on top of the church spire
and fashion it
from plastic straw
and dangling colored wires
I'll cushion it with cold receipts
and pocket lint
and party flyers
and leave each morning
an early bird
to pluck stale crumbs
and rancid meat
from drifter's blackened feet
before even the buses
took to the street

You will feel at home

I will feel concrete

I always find myself in moments
balanced poetically between control and chaos
With just one sip tipping me over
until I’m more than tipsy
Falling, but the string is snapping
I cant bounce back
(Stumbling out the door
I need to get away
He can’t see me like this)
And as I hit the floor
A bone-crushing silence
And then my own laughter
Uncontrollable
as I’m writhing there
with my broken stilettos
and black mascara running down
my flushed face, pressed into the pavement.
Yet I still can’t stop laughing,
suddenly finding the trivialities of my own existence so ******* funny.
My sanity is outweighed by the bottles
like rocks on the scale
Rising up in patient stillness
Until I fall, and fail.
He wouldn’t want to catch me
So I catch my breath and stand,
My ripped clothes now revealing dried, caked-on blood
(It matches the lipstick stain, still on my glass)
wounds of doubt and delirious self-indulgence.
Now everyone sees it,
knows my self-inflicted secret,
that I wanted myself to fall-
I’ve grown bored of this balancing act.
I pull my coat a little tighter
So he won’t notice that I ripped myself open
With the drinks he bought me,
and walk back into the bar,
because if I went to sleep now
the loneliness would crush me.
and worst of all,
I might miss the way his voice sparkles
At 4 am.

“What is it like to fall in love?”
Asked the little girl of the young lady
The lady stooped, to look in her eyes
“It is like falling into a box of poisoned chocolates,
Sweet at first, but it will leave you bitter.”

“Whats it like to fall in love?”
Asked the little girl of the quiet gentleman
He cocked his head, to ponder a moment
“It is like listening to a symphony on the other side of a door,
Beautiful for sure, but the melody just out of reach.”

“What is it like to fall in love?”
Asked the little girl of the honest woman
She stopped her work, to find her courage
“It’s a bit like hearing a wolf howl in the dark of the wood,
Frightening just then, but it may mean you no harm.”

“What is it like to fall in love?”
Asked the little girl of the poor man’s son
The ragged man thought, to speak the truth
“It is not for from finding a mountain of fairy’s gold,
An exciting thrill, but gone in a snap of fingers.”

“What is it like to fall in love?”
Asked the little girl of the queen
She paused, to pray before she spoke
“It shouldn’t come to me I suppose,
As it’s awful hard, with a heart full of stones.”

“What’s it like to fall in love?”
Asked the little girl of the prince
He bowed, to show her his grace
“It seems to me like drinking fine ale
Tender and light the first taste, but heavy and strong by the dregs.”

“What is it like to fall in love?”
Asked the little girl of the elderly pair
He scratched his chin, to consider his choices
She smoothed her hair, to conceal with great care
“It appears to me,” said he, “like a bird with broken wings,
Gentle and small, but with care it should grow and soar.”
“It comes to me,” said she, “as an infant,
Perfect and pure, with a little luck it stays that way.”