sometimes I feel like my brain is melting and likely to ooze out my ears at any second but sometimes I feel like my brain is swelling and the pressure is too much for my fragile skull and my head will explode and it will be hell to clean up.

sometimes I feel like my skin is too tight and one wrong move will cause it to split open and reveal bones and blood and gore but sometimes I feel like my skin isn't really /my skin/ like I'm slapping €10 moisturizer on some strange mask that looks like skin and feels almost like skin but just doesn't feel quite right on my body.

sometimes I feel like drinking ***** like its water or swallowing xanax like they're tic tacs and washing everything down with cookies and maybe a bottle of €4 wine but sometimes I feel like drinking peppermint tea and eating sweet red apples and the only constant is that I never feel like nourishing myself properly whether because I don't deserve it or because I'm too exhausted all the time I'm not sure.

sometimes I feel like I haven't earned the love and trust and intimacy I crave and that's why I don't ******* have it and sometimes I feel like **** for thinking that because I know realistically I have family and friends and blah blah blah but the idea of speaking completely openly to anyone terrifies me to the point of xanax ***** rinse repeat and I think maybe that's what I want
that being someone who definitely will not leave or want to or be disappointed no matter what I do and maybe that's another reason why I can't talk to the people I have because I can't bear the guilt
my shoulders are so knotted and tired they can't carry the disappointed faces too.

sometimes I feel like the biggest hypocrite alive because I tell myself one thing and my brain fights me on it and I can never tell who's winning only that there's a mess now because I didn't listen to the facts and sometimes I feel like this mess is exactly what I need because I don't know who I am without it.

sometimes I feel so much my toes buzz and my eyes black over and I can't breathe or stop sobbing but sometimes I feel nothing at all and I think I know which one I prefer and I think I know it's the wrong one.

what is it like to feel steady.

I never thought of fragile as an insult until I saw the way you spat it through clenched teeth
"God you're so ******* fragile"
hissing barbed wire insults like they'd cut your tongue if you held them in any longer
before, I thought of fragile as the ultimate compliment
a sign that my concave stomach was home to fingerprint bruises
that you were afraid to hold me too tight lest I break
but then I heard it dripping slow dark molasses off your tongue
coating every syllable with thick syrupy tar

it didn't make sense to me that your voice,
petal soft and pitched for laughter
accustomed to slurring my name on dizzy nicotine breaths and over crackling long distance calls
could wrap its fingers around my lifeline and
crush it
until long after I chose to stop being your answering machine sounding board yes man lap dog

you never cared about my hollow birdlike bones or the blooming violet footsteps beneath my eyes
you said I was too ******* fragile
that my eyes were leaky taps and you had no plumbing experience
that my heart was a pincushion voodoo doll and you didn't know how to protect its satin softness from daily wear and tear
I got hurt too easily and playing tag with someone else's insecurities isn't fun

I never thought of fragile as an insult until you choked it out from behind your own iron voice box
and I realised it wasn't so much an insult as a burden
now there is leather binding forming around my cotton stuffed heart
and I'm doing my best to tighten the valves in my tear ducts
I'm still fragile
But it's not your job to hold me together anymore

Your tears are like champagne;
They cost more than you like to admit in polite company
And they're saved for the most special of occasions.
Every drop is to commemorate a monumentous event
(even if the event isn't immediately obvious to the rest of us).

When we were together I never got closer than hearing the bubbles fizz below the surface.

When we broke up you popped the cork and showered everything in sight with alcoholic nothingness.

My tears are like, well, water;
Not in that you need them to survive
But in that they are inescapable.
My fragility (or childishness) is evident in leaking taps
And dripping branches
And 80% of my biological make up.

When we were together you drank nothing but saltwater sadness.
shame, joy, surprise, every emotion warranted another glass of water.

When we broke up my tear ducts popped like two water balloons and nobody was surprised, they had already opened their umbrellas and taken a precautionary step back.

If they had stood a little closer, opened their mouths a little wider, they might have caught the fleeting taste of bitter wine and the closest I have ever come to crying champagne tears.

I see birds sitting on chimneys
And telephone wires
And rooftops.
I wonder what it feels like to be up so high
Without an ounce of fear.
To be so close to everything beautiful that gets caught in the air
The stars and the moon and the sun
And have complete freedom
Peace
I want to borrow the raven's wings
The scarlet feathers from the robin
To disguise myself
To escape to the sky for a weekend.

I have always been terrified of birds
But I'm beginning to wonder why exactly that is.
Envy is the only conclusion I can come to.
I will never be that close to the stars until I become one
I will never fly through the clouds without being encased in a metal casket.

I want to fly with the birds.
They will lend me their feathers so I don't get cold
They will sit in their nests
Watching me
Like proud parents.
They will hope I never return.

The loss of their feathers is temporary
They will grow back, and when they do
Maybe the birds will think of me
Maybe they will continue to donate their wings to the landlocked girls with wanderlust.

It is so easy to love someone drunk and in the dark
The trick is keeping that love around when you feel like the sunlight is slicing your head open, creeping through the crack in the curtains
Can you love them in the daylight?
Can you love them at 11am when you go for brunch, and you realise they drink coffee like it's water?
Can you love them at 4pm when you meet their family?
Can you love them when it's 5pm and they haven't gotten out of bad, or they feel like they can't?
Can you love them when you realise they're a person?
They're a person with a past and a future and a heart
They're not just warmth and company, something you can forget about the next morning
Can you deal with the realisation that they're going to see you in the light as well?
They're going to see your freckles and your scars, the way your nose crinkles when you laugh
They're going to see you cry and snort and spit out your toothpaste

It is so easy to love someone drunk and in the dark
But it is so much easier to be loved drunk and in the dark.

you carry stories in the knots between your shoulders
woven together like an intricate tapestry of stress and exhaustion and heartache
the threads wind together, wind you up
coiled tight like a spring
stretched taught like a rubber band
about to snap
about to break.
you can try to push them out, smooth them down
but no amount of massages can ease the tension.
you start to recognise the sensation in your temples
your wrists
your tongue.
constricted and heavy and tired.
close your eyes. take a deep breath.
stretch.

"The problem is; I feel like I'm falling for you"

Don't say it like that
Don't say it like I'm not going to catch you, like I'd leave you to fall flat on your face
Don't say it like I'm not falling right along with you.

Don't think of it as falling
Think of it as floating, flying, spinning through the air on summer breezes and winter chills
Think of it as exploring.

Pretend we're deep-sea diving and searching for foreign treasures in empty caverns
Embrace your inner Ariel and find wonder in the unknown
I'll join you on your quest.

It's scary and it's risky and we might get hurt
It might be worth it
Let's find out.

Tell me there aren't ghosts.
Tell me our business must remain unfinished, our messages undelivered.
Tell me every breath we've ever taken will amount to nothing once our hearts give out and our bodies decay.
Tell me the air is just the air and the shadows are just shadows, that I've never heard a whisper that meant anything more than the wind rustling the trees outside my window.
Explain sunsets and shooting stars, explain spring daisies and summer foxgloves.
Or stop.
Stop your cynicism and your pessimism, stop your rationality and your scientific explanations.
I know that acid raid is caused by CO2 in the atmosphere, and that rainbows are just an illusion, but what could it possibly hurt to see them as something more, something otherworldly, something magic.
We all need a bit of magic, and maybe you need it most of all.
So I know that my grandfather still wishes me well before tests and scoffs when we put flowers on his grave.
I know that when my dog barks at "nothing" she is barking at the spirits you're too blind too see, too stubborn to accept.

There is a ghost in my room and she takes care of me.
Maybe she doesn't even exist, but maybe I need to believe that she does.
Maybe you should let me.

There are constellations between your teeth and you have starlight wrapped around your tongue, there is moonlight in your eyes but sunlight in your smile
Every time you breath you inhale glitter and oxygen and powdered sugar, the scent of grass and strawberries and hope
Flowers bloom between your ribs and wind through the joints in your hips, your knees, your wrists
There is a whole menagerie in your stomach, butterflies and pelicans and Bengal tigers
Your skin is crushed velvet, silk and lace, encasing a skeleton of steel and iron, silver filigree
Your hands are soft as cotton, rose petals, strong as the will of all your ancestors.
When you die you will melt back into the earth, disintegrate and fall back to where you came from
You will be absorbed back into the atmosphere and the universe will swallow you up.
It will rearrange your atoms and produce something completely you but completely different.
You are one of a kind, you are the entire universe.
You will never be again, but you will never stop being.

They say we're the lucky ones and you scoff
But they're right;
We are the lucky ones.

The only hatred we face is from ourselves
Coating our frontal lobes and sticking
Dripping sickly sweet like honey down our throats
Encasing our vocal chords
Rotting us from the inside out.

The only hunger we face is self-inflicted
Fingers itching
Stomachs protesting
Disgust crawling over our skin and burrowing further into our flesh
Taking root
making itself comfortable.

We don't live in war-torn countries
Our scars should be from skinned knees and appendectomies.
Our bodies are littered with something far more sinister;
Shame takes the form of long sleeved shirts in summer.

We are the lucky ones.
We seem unwilling to accept that.

Syrup-coated smile
And a wildfire in your eyes;
Sugar rush kisses

When I close my eyes
I see dancing lights and stars
And you you you you

I am not in love
I probably never was
But maybe, almost

I am terrified
Of snakes and clowns and darkness
But mainly of you

I thought it was wrong
To love the way your skin felt
Brushing against mine

The days are shorter
And the nights are far too long;
I need you with me

When I was little
I wrote about flower pots
All smashed and shattered

There are certain things
I can't stop thinking about;
You are all of them

cups of tea
too-hot pizza
cigarettes
shots of whiskey
yours
birthday candles
"I don't love you"
your name
knuckles
disinfectant
goodbyes

"So? What do you go for in a girl? Brains or beauty? Intelligence or a pretty face? Independent opinions or clear skin, long legs, red lips? Because you have to pick one.
The two cannot coexist peacefully.
The world would implode, unaccustomed to such a perfect human being.
So? Which is it?
Do you want to look at her or listen to her?
'You can't **** an opinion, am I right?'
insert obnoxious high-five and snickering
Of course you're right! Seen and not heard is the way forward!
You can't buy lacy lingerie for her stance on abortion,
her story of how she grew up!
Brains or beauty?
Do you want to be greeted in the evenings with a bright white smile, or an anecdote about her day?
These are important things to consider, lad! If you choose incorrectly, you might be burdened with a strong woman!
Her words will slash your skin, leave you slack-jawed and drooling
Your own biased opinion in shreds on the floor between you.
Her wit will give you whiplash, cracking your skull back against the wall with the speed of it.
And she won't back down. God, those strong ones never know when to just let it go!
No, son, don't end up with one of those. Go for beauty.
But be careful.
Because often, rosy cheeks and long lashes are just masking ideas of their own.
Their bright blue eyes are sizing you up, watching, ready to rip off their costume and reveal the 'brains' within. Nowhere is safe."

Energy fizzing in her veins
The kind that doesn't come from caffeine
Or too much sugar
But too much of something else.
Twitching in her fingertips
Making her feet tap rhythms to unheard songs
Her mind whizzing
From string theory
To pasta sauce
And back again.
When she speaks
Her lips can't move fast enough to keep up with her racing thoughts
No coherent, linear sentences are spewed
But nonsensical ramblings that make your heart flutter.

Now she's dosed up
Turned down
A dimmer, more "stable" version of herself.
It's better for her.
Her feet don't tap, her thoughts don't scramble
Everything she says makes perfect sense
And it's nice
And you love her
But somedays you miss the way her mind would race
And your heart would flutter.

the words starts as whispers of thoughts, flimsy threads of ideas, inconsequential
they float through my body, start in my heart and push outwards
they expand, my heart expands, falling to my feet and propelling them onwards
wrapping around my muscles and bones
melting into me.
they fill my lungs, like they're going to explode under the pressure
my ribs crack
my throat closes tight around the bubble of thought-turned-vocal
they fill my teeth and coat my tongue and
the bubble bursts and
I love you

I love you and the dam has opened and I love you and I'm flooded with all the times I never said it and I love you
it's like a force of nature and I can't stop it and I don't want to and I love you I love you I love you
I love you.

I met a man with treetops for eyes
The sun shone out of his mouth when he smiled
Angels swooned when he laughed
Babbling brooks rushed when he spoke
His words crashing in my ears like waves
Like waterfalls.

I liked his vastness
The respect the winds had for him
Never blowing too strongly when he was near
Whispering cautiously by his ears
Tousling  his feathered hair softly, gently.

He sat still as the mountains
But thundered and roared when I trod on his toes.
He shook the foundations of home, heart, life.

He wanted me to sit still at his feet
Drown in his voice, his words
Be carried along by the current of his commands.
I forgot how to swim.

You hate your lips
But you've never been on the receiving end of shy smiles and bitten lips
Or soft kisses leaving trails of sparks across my shoulders
(I'm convinced that's where my freckles come from)
Of whispers against skin and cheek-splitting grins and pouts.

You hate your eyes
But you've never seen them light up when you see a puppy in the park
Or sparkle like stars at that old couple holding hands
You've never seen them fill with tears, brimming, overflowing, at corny movies and dying flowers and tacky gifts that keep you sane.

You hate your hands
Because you focus too much on the past
On the criss-crossing scars that cover the backs of them
On the things they've done that you wish they hadn't.
You haven't felt them the way I have,
Soft and warm in my own
A comfort, a prayer, an anchor.
You haven't felt them brushing hair away from your forehead when you're ill
Tracing absent-minded patterns on exposed skin.
Haven't seen them from my point of view on Sunday mornings;
Frostbitten and blue tipped, holding steaming cups of tea from the kiosk on the corner, despite the subzero temperatures and your lack of a coat.

Your cheeks grow rosy at the slightest provocation and you hate it because you feel it gives you away too easily.

You have a scar above your eyebrow from a teenage piercing mistake and you hate it, calling it physical evidence of your stupidity.
You say you have a lot of physical evidence of your stupidity.

You have a birthmark covering your left arm and you hate how it makes you look "disproportionate" "distorted" "lopsided".

(You never believe me when I tell you how beautiful you are and I hate it)

She used to look at the fresh cut grass in summer
Inhale
Drop to her knees
And sob.

Weeping
For the seemingly inconsequential maintenance
The neat border of the fields
The now headless dandelions and daisies.

She said the sharp tang didn't bring to mind freshness
But horror
Blood
Death.

You had killed the blades of grass
Their tops trimmed for no reason
Other than conformity
Indistinguishable from one another.

She was afraid
Of when grass would stop sufficing
They'll move on to us next, she said.
Chop off our heads to make us blend in.

They've started already
What is one ****** stump of a neck to another?
We're getting out of hand
They don't like it.

She never said who "they" were
I don't suppose she knew herself
But she fought them single-handedly
Fangs bared, eyes dry.

They never got her in the end
She was too quick for them,
Too clever.
She got herself first.

They kept her in the attic with the rest of the nonsense
An improvised pen and paper of fingernails and floorboards.
Cracked windows rusted shut from years of disuse
Chapped lips pinched shut from years of neglect.
Broken mirrors on the floor from outbursts no one heard
Shattered eyes blinking hollowly because no one was listening.
Patterns traced on dust covered windows letting bars of light shine through
Therapeutic
Sunlight outlining shadows that shouldn't be there, dust mites that should.
Daisy; the name she gave herself after forgetting her original.
Daisy; what she'd call herself should she ever get out.
Withered; what she became.

You make me feel like I'm collapsing in on myself
But in the really good way
I promise.
Your whispers weave their way down to my chest and wrap themselves around my lungs
Constrictive
Forcing all the air from them til I can't breath.
I don't want to.
You roll your eyes to heaven and laugh
While stars burst behind mine.
With every fond shake of your head my heart pulses 3 times quicker.
You've turned me into a hummingbird, a mouse,
I'm vibrating.
And I'm floating
The dead weight around my ankles evaporates when you sigh.
Soon enough I'll have to be tied down.
I'm a helium balloon filled with your giggles and off-key singing and 3am questions of "why are we here, monkey? what are we doing? do you think dogs understand us? what would happen if i put marshmallows in the microwave for 7 minutes?"
I'm expanding I'm inflating I'm going to burst.
I'd be happy to.

Your voice isn't like a song
Or a prayer.
It's more like a secret.
I am selfish and don't want to share it.
I wan't to catch it in a jar with fresh air and the scent of pine trees
A bottle to mix it with carbonated bubbles
An envelope filled with letters never written.
I want you shrunken down and curled up in the curved shell of my ear.
Whisper, scream, sing, laugh, mutter.
I have a seven-track mind and I'd like you to narrate them all for me.
Read me your homework, your favourite book, your shopping lists, the ingredients of your shampoo.
The breaths and lilts and stutters
Keep it raw and new and open
And I'm honoured.
Share the secret with me.

Inhale the steam.
It burns your lips, their puckered vulnerability the perfect victim. Their innocence is lost and it shows; from soft and pink to swollen and red - any chance you had of concealment immediately vanishes.
Inhale again.
It stings the back of your throat, floats down to your lungs to mingle with the poison lingering there.
Take a sip.
Just a sip. Nothing more. You can't handle more anyway. It scalds your tongue and you swallow quickly. Your mouth fills with the metallic tang of blood. You'll still feel the evidence of the drink as you walk home, smacking your lips in vain attempts to sooth them.
You settle for warming your hands on the outside of the mug, letting it's warmth seep into you, defrosting your blue fingertips.
Here the heat is comforting, welcome.
Any closer and it's menacing.

No matter how many scalding showers that sear my skin I take, nothing can thaw the cold that has seeped through to my bones.
Hot cups of tea do nothing to warm the hollow pit of my stomach, to melt the chip of ice in my chest.
Whiskey burns my throat, but nothing else.
Holding my fingertips over flickering candles blisters my skin while the rest of me succumbs to frostbite.
My tongue feels frozen solid, a leaden weight behind my teeth.
I'm freezing to death from the inside out.

(kiss my blue lips, breath some life back into me)

People write poetry about girls like you
Sickly sweet
With candy lips
And sugary giggles
Pastel coloured claws
And caramel highlights
Mile high heels
And cold white gold hearts
Dead eyes beneath full lashes
And an endless list of boys
Still clinging onto your little finger
Where they'd been wrapped so comfortably 
For far too long

I've always found the concept of seeing the future in the dregs of a drink, ridiculous.
How are the leaves supposed to know who exactly has consumed the drink,
Let alone what may or may not happen to them in the near or distant future?
Do the leaves absorb a modicum of your soul
And use that to project predictions unto you?
By that logic, is it so the more tea you drink,
The less of your soul stays with you?
I may be the only one, but I find that idea to be very discomfiting.
I drink rather a lot of tea, you see.
At least a cup a day.
And now I fear it may be the cause of my untimely cynicism.
Of course, that may just be my tea-addled brain looking for something to blame it on.
As it is, I will continue to blame all negativity on witches and psychics and herbs and tea,
Because there is no one around to prove me wrong,
Or provide an alternate answer.

When you find out Santa Claus doesn't exist
When you can't find that shirt in your size
When you find out your parents' marriage isn't as perfect as you thought
When it rains after you make plans to go to the beach
When nobody remembers your birthday
Or your favourite cake
Or that you're afraid of clowns
When you only score a B on that test
When you give up on yourself
When you realize you aren't as strong as you once thought

Everyone is made up of salt and water and pastel colours and stardust
And each of these things has a part to play
Correct?
Correct.
We couldn't survive without them.
Each of these elements is fundamental to our existence
They would not be
Without us as hosts.
So I wondered
If it's selfish
To want someone else to become a fundamental part of our existence
And to be of vital importance to theirs.
To have someone depend on you as they do the water and salt and stardust.
I've come to the conclusion that it may be selfish
But it's most definitely worth it.

It's obvious
It's so desperate to be near you that it has literally become part of you
It has found a way to sneak through and melt into you
And I'm jealous
Because I'm desperate to be near you
I worship your skin as the salt does
Your hair as the sunlight does
Your eyes as the laughter does
But I fear you may notice if I endeavor to be with you in every sense of the word
So I will continue to brood
In partial silence
Forever envious of the salt and sunlight and laughter