The realisation
that nobody
but you
is going
to save your life
is as
liberating
as it is
terrifying.

Sometimes,
bravery
can be
as simple
as deciding
to love
again.

You didn't know
that I hold
galaxies
in my head
and
oceans
in my chest.
You didn't know
that I would've
died
a thousand times
just to see you smile
for a second.
You didn't know
I would've cut the throats
of tigers
just to keep you safe.
You didn't know
I kept the darkness
hidden
so you only saw the
light.
You didn't know
I would've loved you
as much as
my wasteland of a heart
would allow.
If you had,
you never
would've let me go.

The
inconstancy
of
others
is
not
your
failing.

And I let you spread.
And I let you sink.
And I let you cleanse
and clear
my storm cloud soul.
Lungs fill with a breath
long held.
I am nothing to you.
You are nothing to me.
And yet.

And so it goes
that you fade
as quickly
as your
colour
shows.

And the
secret
hairpin curve
of
my smile
is
testament
to
what
last night
meant.

I
will
never
abandon
the
hope
that
tomorrow
will
be
better.

There are many
words of advice
I could give you:
Trust those who deserve it.
Be honest,
but never cruel.
Do not allow yourself
to be pushed around.
Do not be afraid
to stand for something.
Take time to understand
before rushing to judge.

But above all else,
I would say this;
forgive yourself.
It is not your fault
that the world is harsh,
that lovers leave,
that cold hearts
so often prevail
over the pure.
*Forgive yourself.

Sometimes
the bloodiest battles
with the greatest number
of
casualties
are the ones
fought within
the confines
of our own
warring
souls.

I hope
the miles
of paper
I filled
and
the oceans
of words
I wrote
tell you more
than my
hopelessly
tongue-tied
self
ever could.

Well darling
I hope you like
the
sad
bad
girls,
with a tale
she'll never tell
and a heartbreak
she'll never show.

You and I
are
scar tissue
that
I worry
and pick
and pull
endlessly,
and yet
I still
cry out
in shock
and pain
when
I cause us
to bleed
again.

And so
I let
the constant
icy fear
of his
leaving me
colour my heart
so blue,
he eventually
had little choice
but to do
just that.

Some people
are like
burning buildings;
you will run
into them
time
after
time,
against all
advice,
to salvage
what you
can,
and then
wonder why
you are
always left with
nothing but
ashes.

I am
malleable,
changeable,
I shift my shape
with almost
every breath.
So tell me
what you want, love,
and I will be her,
as best I can.
Draw her lines
and I will fill them.
Select her colours
and I will wear them.
Write her words
and I will speak them.
As best I can.

Dear one,
do not
wander
too deeply
into the
dark lands
of my heart;
there are
monsters
there.

When they tell you,
in cheap whispers
and poison tongues,
that
I am broken,
that
I am cold
that
I cannot love,
that
I have done things
that would make you weep
should you ever know them,
I hope you tell them
that
you know better.
Because
darling, you know me.

We are not pretty,
I’m sure you’ll agree.
Paintings will not be hung of us.
Ballads will not be sung of us.
They will not speak of us
with hushed reverence
and dreamy smiles.
We will not be
the benchmark
by which
all other lovers
are measured.
They will not like us.
But by God
they will remember us.

I don’t know when
an inch became a canyon
my fingertips cannot cross,
a no mans land
I cannot claim.

You may as well be worlds away.

In reality
I could not
keep him,
so instead
I wrote him
into every line
and weaved him
into every story
so that
he and I
could live
forever.

Put simply,
you are
an
adrenaline shot
to
a heart
that
I thought
could never
beat again.

But
truly,
how
could I
ever have
dared
to dream
that
an angel
like you
could ever
love
a monster
like me?

All we
ever did,
he and I,
was
**** up.
Our bodies,
our relationships,
our lives,
each other.
But
in a
strange way,
I guess
thats why
we went
so neatly
together.

The sunburst
of your
smile,
so casually
dazzling,
holds
a universe
of hopeful
promises.

You tell me
baby,
I will only
break your
heart.
I tell you
honey,
it's adorable
that you think
I still
have one
left
to break.

I touch
his skin
with the
reverence
of a
rosary,
as solid
and sure
as
the faith
of a
blessed
saint.

Under this same
leaden sky,
there are millions
like me.
Each caught
in the cyclone
of their own
lonely hour.
Whose blue hearts
shiver violently
and yet burn
for something,
for someone,
for anything.
As long
as we have each other,
we are not alone.
I am not alone.
This is I tell myself,
always.

A happy ending
is an ending
all the same.
Give me drunk fights
and slurred sharp words.
Give me kisses
that draw blood.
Give me hands
held so tightly
half moons
adorn the galaxy
of your palm.
Give me an imperfect always
any day.

You turn
your face
skyward,
like
a flower
seeking
the warmth
of the
fading
September sun.
Truly, love,
you are
the most
exquisite
thing
the earth
has ever
grown.

The air grows thick
as the last eye closes.
Amongst steady
slow breaths,
I hold mine.
You.
Me.
Finally.
****.
Here goes nothing.
Here goes every last ******* thing.
Because if there’s one thing in this life
that I know to be true,
it’s that friends make lovers
in darkened rooms.

I believe
it was Neruda
who once said
‘Tonight
I can write the saddest lines’.
Well I guess
tonight,
I can write
books,
encyclopaedias,
libraries
and still never say enough.
You are the words in my sentence
and the poem in my pen,
even now.

We could run through
deserted streets
in the watery sun
of a Wednesday morning,
my face full
of last night's
make up
and
your mouth full
of last night's
kisses,
and I would
swear
to all who would listen
that
we had never looked
so ******* cool.

You ask
why
the wanderlust,
why
the love of leaving?
I say
maybe
I am just
trying to find
somewhere
your ghost
cannot
haunt me.

My words
to you
are like knots;
an impenetrable,
nonsensical
tangle,
unless you
pick
pick
pick
at them.
I know now
why they call it
‘tongue-tied’.

Four
punches
and
I am
down:
I.
Don’t.
Love.
You.

For some,
life
is simply
an experiment
to see
how many
knives
and
arrows
to the back
one person
can take
and remain
standing.

The most
fragile
of truces,
held together
on a
silver hair's
breadth.
Sail
your fingers
across
the ocean
between
our shipwrecked bodies
and say
it will
all be
ok.

*It has to be ok.

Maybe
someday
we'll
be
intoxicated
enough
to talk
about it.

The lines
around
your eyes
and mouth
that
appear
and
disappear
with every
sunburst smile
are the
little maps
of where you have been
and
where I hope
to travel.

Sit for a while
in the midnight garden,
flicking matches
onto wet grass.
The poetry
of idle conversation
trips off my tongue
with the ease
you always
inspired.
The low hum
of young blood
and
your thumb
gripped tight
in my palm.
It is a good life
I think.

I left hairs on your pillow
‘accidentally’,
in the hope that just once,
you might dream about me.

I
loved
him.
Sometimes
he
loved
me.

The
three
words
we long to hear
above
all others -
You.
Belong.
Here.

And so
I took my
broken heart,
bloodied
and
abused,
in my own hands
and
I promised it:
'Never again'.

Even those
with
the iciest blood
and
the bluest hearts
still have
moments
where they wish
there was someone
they could wake
in the middle of the night
and whisper
"This has happened to me
and it is not ok
and I am scared."

Once you were an atlas
that my hands ached to trace.
Miles spread before me,
a planet in concentrate.

To roll like a child
down the valleys of your ribs,
to race the sunset
across the horizon of your throat.

To swim for hours
in the halcyon of your eyes,
to lie amongst the flowers
in the crook of your elbow.

Of all the lands
I have travelled in my time,
I can say in truth,
you are my favourite.

And when I die,
tell them to bury me here,
my epitaph written
in the freckles on your wrist.

Perhaps
floating
down river
with flowers
in my hair
is better
than sitting
on the bank
and
watching them
die.

His body,
I recall,
was a
smoking gun;
warm
to the touch,
but never knowing
where
or
when
the bullet
would bite.

I sometimes think
I could drain my blood
and use it
to write my name
on your walls,
just to hear you say it.
I need you to know me
so badly it scares me.