You are not the martyr here
waited to get well,
what is your situation now?
I hope it’s not as bad as it seems.
Anything for happiness
don’t forget what you’re worth.
It is all dependant on
how you see yourself
and if it’s in the way I see you.

I’m pulling away
like a ripple in the sea
slowly disperses.
I’m missing so much,
there’s not much of a future here
except for with her.
The deadlines are heavy
but so is my heart
and I need to sail away.

Sometimes I feel like Esma.
How she hugs the air,
It’s caftan arms somehow
hugging her back.
There’s a safe sentiment to it.
You rely on the sun
the way that she relies on Novalie,
she isn’t there yet Esma
isn’t as alone as they all think.
And sometimes she leaks
into my window with the streaks
of light that remind me
I’m still alive.

How am I how I am
when she is so angry?
I wake up, hear the tension.
Can you feel the tension?
I am speaking it,
she can’t help but to
weave it through my own
mouth, it’s invasive.

I am not her.
I am the cry when she shouts
though little by little
I stand up taller and walk out.
If you are like me,
if your mum is like mine,
you are not her.
I am not her and you are not her.

I need something to believe
that aren’t my own odes
and ideas that are like snails
not reaching the end.
The alignment of your thoughts
make me feel wiser,
pick me your clementines
and primrose, pink stargazers.
You call it lunacy,
there’s a luminosity to you;
I want you to give it to me
and I think you do
when I’m talking with you.

To lower myself to their watch
with their black eyes,
knowing eyes,
would be bad on their part.
There's no love poems,
just eyes and lifeless bodies,
non feeling, not levitating
like you would think.
I moulded myself out of nothing,
they might use me
but I am their muse.
Their Medusa.

She took a dive
on a particularly lonely night.
It’s when women play.
Pristine girls who pick brains
dream of ******* in the rain,
wives in the same predicament,
sixty years with a man
go ferociously with the familiar.
The man was now like cadaver,
traces of him in her footsteps
though she had a woman’s tongue
on hers now and liked it.
Perhaps nights would never be
so lonely again.