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Birdie Sep 2023
If I ever die at the side of the eastern road,
Where the broken bumpers and crisp packets collect,
Where the snow is shovelled into grey slush streams,
Please don’t buy the garish posie from the petrol station,
Don’t buy my memory a card factory teddy bear,
Leave the cards’ platitudes and poems on the shelves at Clinton’s,
Leave the lamp posts and road signs alone,
Pack up your sympathy, take it all home to your mums house.
Remember me as the girl that made you laugh,
Unpack your tears if you have them and give them to your pillow,
Give them to Facebook if you must, or give them to your friends.
I promise I’d do the same for you,
Unless you’d rather be remembered by straggling tinsel clinging to a lamp post by one piece of damp, desperate sellotape.
By wilting white roses dropping sad brown petals onto chewing gum tainted tarmac.
Unless you’d like to be known as the man whose name is scrawled in biro inside of a cheap card blutacked onto the sign for the Havant bypass.
In which case I’ll drag my sympathy to Clinton’s, to card factory and my closest petrol station.
I’ll say goodbye to the tune of sirens and rattling sainsburys lorries.
Then cry alone each time I drive past your withering memorial and try to remember to clean it up next week.
Birdie Sep 2023
I must have a backwards heart,
Or at least a broken brain.
You told me you can’t love me,
But you’ll have to tell again.
You assure me with your words,
And then with careless actions too,
That falling for me is just something you will never do.
But still I can’t and won’t believe,
That you don’t feel like me.
You can’t tell me any other girl,
Visits you in your dreams.
If we are not in love then explain to me my dear,
Why our bodies fit together and your absence I can’t bear.
Convince me I’m the only one that feels so safe and whole.
Manipulate my mind as you’ve done to my heart and soul.
Insist that your hand wasn’t made to rest upon my thigh,
That it doesn’t mean a thing when your eyes knowingly meet mine.
You’ll have to put the work in to persuade me it’s not true.
Or I’m sorry but I have no choice,
I’ll just keep loving you.
It’s not unrequited exactly, but it’s certainly not reciprocated either.
Birdie Sep 2023
Just twenty minutes
Laying on your sofa
My head on your chest
Your hand on my rib cage
Feeling your breath
Moving in my hair
Feels like a lifetime of love
And that’s why I can’t
Give you up
Just another silly poem about that idiot I’m in love with
Birdie Sep 2023
What is there to pump my blood?
 I am devoid of heart and love.
Why do I care about my face,
And slaving for a brief embrace?
The only touch I crave is death.
The coldest skin, a rattled breath.
I’ve felt all that there is to feel.
The deepest pain, their pinching steel.
I’ve smiled and I have sliced my skin,
Religiously let demons in.
Invited them into my soul,
To take me with them when they go.
Regret for every choice I make,
I never cared what was at stake.
So what is there to get up for?
I won’t be what I was before.
Birdie Sep 2023
I hide my limp as well as I can,
Whilst my Lacoste trainers bite at my heels.
I try to look like I know what I’m doing,
Striding along central London streets,
A hidden google map at my side.
The sun is too hot to wear makeup…
Or socks as it happens which is why I have blisters.
Dodging past women in laboutins and men in suits,
I think to myself,
It’s lunchtime for the rich.
All of the restaurants are too expensive for me,
And they’d all want to eat me alive.
So I find some shade on the grass at Finsbury circus gardens.
I release my stinging feet from their white leather prisons,
And ground myself.
Whilst eating an egg sandwich out of a tinfoil wrapper,
I breathe a sigh of relief.
Exhaling my earlier fear,
I lived another day.
Birdie Sep 2023
You spin dreamscapes across my mind
You weave a skyline made of satin clouds
You burn me with flames made of stars
And keep me in your pocket
Safe and sound
In my imaginary world you created
Birdie Sep 2023
What a beautiful morning to be
In Jacobstow cemetery
Just sixteen degrees
Dew on the grass and trees
A damp wooden bench beneath me
And quiet souls around me
Taking in the scripture
Carved in moss covered stone
Nodding good morning to
The families long gone
Dandelions flick their mottled homes
As insects comfort resting bones
I could sit here every morning
And never feel alone
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