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PS Feb 12
And it’s only in those silent moments I feel sad.
I spend my days keeping busy,
I tell them all I am actually doing surprisingly well.
Because I actually feel like I am, it’s not just something I’m saying to say.

I grieved.
You were gone for, like, three days before you appeared to tell me it’s over.
So it felt as if you’d already done it.
Like a missing person’s body finally being found,
Like a crash towards the inevitable, that wave of just knowing.

He is never coming back.

But in the daylight I’m okay.
No one has to know my feelings on the subject,
You don’t even exist to them.  
It’s only when I’m in bed and the music stops that I realise the gaping hole in my world.

The faces of men I turned down for you,
The things I would’ve said, the plans I could’ve made,
How close I was to finally feeling safe.

But like every man before you,
And probably many more to come,
Safety is never an option.
Security is someone you call to get people out.
Home is a place where I build the walls, I decide who gets the password to come inside.

But I don’t want an audience anymore.

No one gets to see me.
Why should I let anyone see behind the mask of the Great and Powerful Oz?
What do I get in return?
No home, no heart, no courage for finally speaking up, no.
Just a slap in the face that feels like ice water.

So I sit here in silence, avoiding what has to be done and I cry and I cry until nothing comes out but a squeak.
This weak creature finally speaks:
‘You used to make me melt but now I’m melting.’

Oh, what a world,
What a world.
I have no idea why the Wizard of Oz became something of a prism to speak through, but it happened.
PS Feb 12
Yours is the face in the crowd
I want to see.
Yours is the name that I hear
And I always speak.
Yours is the sound on the wind
The missing breath in between
Mine is the serious thing
I know you’re missing me.

Yours is the song of the south
Of east, north and west too.
Yours is the message I see
But forgo replying to.
Yours is the chart that I read
Yours is the name I wail out with dread
When I’m alone sobbing in my bed
Full of the missing in between instead.

Yours is the face in the crowd
I’d rather meet.
Yours is the name that brings pain
The bittersweet.
Yours is the watery depth
Mine is the fire that leaves you bereft
And I know that I’m still a Queen
But there’s too much in between.
This came to me and I forgot I wrote it until now.
PS Nov 2018
I still can’t find the words
Because, perhaps, a part of me feels
That you’ll look at me like I have ten heads
If I say how I cannot heal.

Perhaps I don’t want to heal at all,
Now I am a vulnerable, scorned thing.
The looks of realisation passing over their faces
As I tell my sorry story, my frightening fabula.

The tale of poppies and lilies and
The coldest winter I have ever known.
I was skin and bone with a ******* coat
And I didn’t like who it was that I was.

The tale of glassy eyes and cold ones
And throwing yourself at me
The tale of black and white pudding
Of Brett Ashley and Daisy Buchanan
Of ostentatiousness unrivalled.

I still can’t find the words
I’m angry, sad, tearful in public alone
Confused and bewildered.
Is that how you love someone?
Or claim that you do?

Is that the ‘nice thing’ you’re holding back?
Is that the swivelling chair or the casting couch?
Is that why I cannot seem to get over it?
Not over you, it.

And you say you weren’t well at the time.
I supposed we were both stuck clinging to each other
To broken to move away, to scared to be alone.
But no, this isn’t an excuse.

I still can’t put it into words
How profoundly odd I feel these days
You didn’t hurt me but you hurt me
And all I can see if your smirking face.
‘Calm down, you’re gorgeous.’

Oh, I could hate a hurt like that.
My sorry story, fantastic fabulam
Is it too posh if I speak outside English?
Why do you care? You knew who I was.
You know who I am.
You know.

And I’ll bet you also can’t find the words
So you hide behind cheap drinks and albums
And everything scummy because you despise who it is that you are.
Hoi polloi, the common man.
Whatever ‘common people do.’

I still can’t put it into words
And I don’t want to.
It’s too complex and I don’t have the energy to tell a story
To tell the world of the war I won
The hollow victory, the end of our empire.
Red lips, red boots, silver shoes.
Go to sleep, it’s over now.
Pretty sure I can’t speak Latin but who cares?
PS Nov 2018
I sit in the cold air on New Year’s Day
Oíche Shamhna or so they say.
I wait and wait for a strange delay
Witch’s brew or so they say.

I wish that I could sleep so tight
So soundly like you seem to do
When you say the soft ‘night night’
As if your conscience is clear and true.

I shiver in the air this day
It’s New Years now, or so they say.
My resolution was to change
And bury all the old timed hate.

To forget, forgive and start anew
To resolute with witch’s brew.
To toast the past and future too
To somehow live on without you.

I wait inside the freezing cell
All for the ringing of the bell
You made my life akin to ****
And from that low I found myself.

I sit in the cold on New Year’s Day
Allerheiligen as they say.
I live for getting through today
For I know you have **** to pay.

With you and everything I’ve seen
I can’t trust the moon on Halloween.
With you and everything I know
You’ll have what you want and then you’ll go.
With you and everything we’ve learned
All the minus points you’ve earned
All the witches that have burned
I have a right to be concerned.

I sit in the cold air on New Year’s Day
Oíche Shamhna or so they say.
I wait and wait for a strange delay
I wonder what form I will take.
Spooky
PS Sep 2018
Coffee in hand, she sits on a train
She smells a little like cinnamon and sage.
She hears a voice, her heart in her mouth
It isn’t him, as she fears. Absolutely no doubt.
Amongst the loud hum, she can spy at herself
So sad, so defeated, she’s like no one else.
Tears spring to her eyes as she looks at her screen
She’d been too busy living a Hemingway dream.
She won’t call him again, as he doesn’t care
She won’t let him in when he’s not really there.
She won’t be his last and she wasn’t the first
She isn’t the only girl to get hurt.
So coffee in hand, she’s no longer forlorn
For **** hath no fury like a good woman scorned.
Does it need an explanation?
PS Sep 2018
Honey, honey, oh
How I wish we’d change
I just won’t let a person in
And that I’m deranged.

Don’t you, don’t you know
That the tides are not the same
You know every little thing
Except my middle name.

Honey, honey, oh
While I’m walking on the floor
The little light is dancing
And it’s in at every pore.

I don’t, I don’t know
What your god has in store
The angel told me one time
That my heart was meant for more.

And honey, honey, oh
I wish I wasn’t less
I wish I wasn’t talking in
My little black dress.

And honey, honey, oh
I swear I’d change it if I could
From faraway it’s easy
For a good girl to seem good.

And honey, honey, I
Am sorry and I want to say
I miss you more than anything
But it’ll never be the same.

It’s all unraveling again
It’s all so, so unreal
It’s all falling to pieces
‘Feel, honey. It’s alright to feel.’
It’s a weird one.
PS Aug 2018
I sit here.
I fall prey to your charms, harms and weaknesses.
I see you in my mind with glasses, Onassis.
Your brother flying across the Atlantic
And you are Atlas holding the world up.
I feel the old pang.
I fall prey- that’s me, Persephone.
I’ve had my time in Tartarus
And you were my Spring. My Astonishing Adonis,
Sunglasses, Onassis. All second chances.
The night I met a Greek hero disguised as a man
Who turned out to be a man disguised as a Greek hero.
And I miss you, as you go off.
I’m not Persephone, I’m Penelope.
I was unsure I’d wait for you
And now I don’t want to.
But still, part of me does.
Everyone is like a Greek god in some ways.
I’ve had my fun with Apollo and Hades and Zeus-
Who I’m still holding out for. But aren’t we all?
And you, born on the same day as my Pallas.
My palace in the future, my ramshackled past.
You know a surface, you weren’t meant to stay in my world.
And I prayed and prayed to let you stay.
But as always it was up in the air.
So I sit there.
I fall prey to your harms, charms and weaknesses.
Mine is weak ankles, yours is your weak spine.
And I wonder,
Did love ever make you blind?
This goes in about five different directions.
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