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i smell it on my hands, a smell,
like clothes maybe.
or a house i once belonged in.
long gone and fixed up.
i know i know it. maybe i’m insane.
maybe i just haven’t used the downstairs bathroom in a while.
it makes me nostalgic. i don’t know why.
i don’t know how i know it and it’s driving me up the blue painted walls.
i will tear down the coats and smash the mirror to know how i know this smell.
it smells like old love that i ache to forget.
people i once knew.
people i once loved before they shed their skins,
and i wore them as a scarf all winter.
i flick the lock,
the metal lock,
and it washes away the smell.
it is polluted with that copper penny tinge.
so i hold the lock with my sleeve now.
Rose Brown Dec 2019
‘recovery’
tastes like olive oil
and vinegar.
in your kitchen, at 1am
after 2 bags of crisps and vegetables.
tastes like cheap chicken breast
with spicy marinade
from the ****** canteen in college
and m&ms you gave away.
recovery tastes like failure,
like pieces of pizza you weakly stole
from your friends
because you spent your money on hair dye and nail
polish instead.
Rose Brown Sep 2019
if i went back,
stood in the park i called a home,
i would hear your worn-down
skateboard wheels barreling towards me. knocking me down,
your mass pinning me to the gravel car park
as your ghost passes through me,
eager.

i feel you grab my hand, like peter pan, to drag me
to your own neverland.
sun-splattered walls pull time to an unwilling halt.
i misremember the shape of our tomb, i enlarge its shrinking walls and see every blue-and-red inch coated in a thick golden facade
of safety.

i wish to stay in that death sentence.
in the twelve hours before the guilt kicked in, before you
punched my gut with truth.

the streets stained grey, i walk.
precariously placing one bandaged foot in front of the other.
the green looks yellow.
the gold turned to harsh white
that burns my skin to ash.
your memory lies, basking in its reign
over my blue-and-red brain, ringing with your influence.

i sit on dead grass, outside a house i wanted to call home.
i watch a light flicker off from inside a broken window.
your broken window on your broken room.
silver moonlight casts shadows of the days i held your hand.
i wonder if you see me smiling, just for a moment,
but you don't live here anymore.
Rose Brown Aug 2019
sometimes i make a wish for you,
i wish that your girlfriend was a good person.
sometimes, i wish that she was me.
so she could see you through my eyes
and how perfect you are to me.

i have no business letting myself feel blue.
while you glow golden yellow, she burns with a deeply purple hue.
close your eyes, let your dreams consume your thoughts,
and see who you really, actually want.

i’ll leave you alone if you can swear that you don’t love me.
i’ll let you be happy if you can’t hold my hand.
but your love ignites my mind,
it burns through my memories and leaves them
in a gentle fuschia glow.
Rose Brown May 2019
there's an empty space
in the gap between our legs.
if air could speak,
it would scream for us.
Rose Brown May 2019
you bring me to my knees.
i hold your coat, you grip my hand.
i would beg at the gates of hell to feel your kiss again.
someone tells me i should stay quiet.
ruining what you have would ruin who you are too.
but it's so tempting,
thoughts of my power creeping up behind me,
smothering their hands over my shoulders,
biting the soft skin of my neck.
your secret, our secret, tosses and turns at the back of my mind.
hers is on the tip of my fingertips
and i long to tell you that she is not good enough for you.
no one deserves you, not even me,
but i would steal every star from the sky
just to see them in your eyes.
Rose Brown Mar 2019
teenage girls
taste of bitterness and malice.
of a desire to be liked by those
they punish in private words.
they believe
everyone lives to please
or ruin them.
the golden sun may shine in their eyes
but their hearts are shrunk and black as coal.
if looks could speak,
two piercingly beautiful eyes,
the colour of the sunset over a stormy sea,
would say your self-preservation is bad for their self-service.  
they cast their judgements like waves on a windy day.
cascading over serene shores and making you
never
want to wear those shorts again.

i have no good words for teenage girls.
i wish for all i am worth
that i was not cursed to be one of them.
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