I refuse to be just another statistic,
Just another exotic wonder,
Your excuse to say " oh I love mixed-race babies! "
I will scrub this dirt from my skin,
For if God had made me in his image,
Why am I not pure like him?
" What's your name then? "
Disappointment hits when my name rolls off of their tongues just as easily as their own,
I am mixed, not exotic,
Not your fetish,
You wear our hair,
Hips,
And lips like they belong to you,
Like when people on Instagram call you " cute ",
For taking something that doesn't belong to you.
You treat our culture as something you can just slip in and out of,
Like you are playing dress-up.
" So where are you really from? "
Don't you just mean " why don't you look like me? "
Go on,
Pick me apart like a case study in some desperate attempt to work out why I'm so different,
Not black enough,
Not white enough,
An alien in my own country.

5 am,
Can't sleep,
Every time he tosses and turns,
He goes to the bathroom,
Wash hands,
Wash face,
Cold tap only,
Hot's broken again,

He makes a mental note to call the plumber tomorrow,
He counts down the hours on the clock,
Wishing, waiting for it to stop,
He stares into the bathroom mirror,
Trying to find pieces of himself,
That aren’t already burnt to ash,

He was so artistic,
He painted smiles onto everybody's faces,
Except his own,
He was a phantom,
A whisper,
Only a ghost,
Everyone who met him,
They were just hopelessly search for a pulse,
That they knew they wouldn't find,
He was only a waste.

Bathroom sink,
Runs cold, wet fingers through itching scalp,
Drags them right down,
The nape of his neck,
Ice water trickles to the back of his spine,

3, 2, 1,
Tap's leaky,
He feels like life isn't an adventure anymore,
More of a deadly maze with poisonous leaves and jagged rocks sort of thing,
The kitchen,


1, 2, 3,
Sticky, cracked, peeling linoleum floor,
Chipped countertops,
Stained with droplets of spilt tea,

He never feels holy,
He only feels ungodly,
His heart is filled with memories,
From good times that never actually happened,

He isn't a smoker, a binge-drinker... nor an addict,
He is just hooked on the feeling of being real,

He sleeps irregularly,
He cries and breathes at the same time,
Yet he still manages to not make a sound,
His face falls apart every night,
And he pieces back together every morning,

He rolls his fingers into his palms,
Closes his eyes,
Holds his breath,
And counts to ten,
Hoping the air inside of him will slowly expand so much that he'll diminish,
So he'll have to rebuild himself all over again,
He still holds his words in tightly clenched fists,
He still holds his mind in weakened wrists,
He sits on the cold, tiled bathroom floor,

He is blue,
His smile is charcoal black,
His eyes are the colour of cognac,
He is now the darkest colour on the spectrum,

Curled up securely in the corner,
He starts his morning,
Pulls himself out of his duvet cocoon,
And drags himself to the shower,
Scorching hot bullets of water,
Scar his back,
He doesn't mind the heat though,
It's 5.30am,
At least that's what the wall clock says, he puts the kettle on,

1, 2, 3,
Spills coffee on the floor,
Drops cafetiere,
Milk's off as well,
How could this day possibly get any worse?
He could make you feel like gravity didn't exist,
Trying to steal his heart would be like trying to pick up all the shards of a shattered glass bottle,
He's not a man, he's a storm with skin,
And he is now the eye of the hurricane,
That he was once within,

The bus journey to work,
Last time he checked,
It was 5.45am,
The fogged windows play out scenes of rain-soaked cities,
Sun-bleached asphalt,
Glistens in the frosty, unwelcome downpour,
Curbs shift in surges,
Down canals of rainwater,

Even if the world was crashing down around him,
If he was on the edge of heaven,
Trying not to fall into hell,
As long as he can still be here,
He'll be fine,
This city is a playground for the rich,
And a battleground for the poor,

This ungodly place is filled with smokers,
Quietly inhaling their toxic fumes,
Breathing smoke clouds so big,
They'd have you believe they were skies,

This disgusting place is filled with drinkers,
Turning their bodies into oceans of regret,
Lakes of debt,
Of all the student loans that they could never pay off,


This city is filled with Angels and Monsters,
Saints and Sinners,
Walking down the high street,
Where buzzing neon signs,
And glowing streetlights,
Cast shadows onto the paving slabs,
Making it look like a watercolour canvas,

There's nothing like a city before sunrise,
With its brisk winds and at least a hundred different shades of grey,

Nervously,
He checks the clock again,
11.25am,
It's his insomniac's lullaby,
11, merges murkily with his sleepless nights,
Ticking of the clock,
Rings loud in his ears,
Almost like church bells,

Is he the writer who sits abandoned?
Talking to the moon,
He never imagined a city to be so isolated at dawn,
A place so bustling for so long,
Could become so empty...
His bus stopped outside the subway station,
He feels like life is gradually becoming,
Just another lucid hallucination,

3, 2, 1,
He's on his way,
Up the hill to work,

1, 2, 3,
He takes a second to himself,
To breathe in the snowflakes,
He always liked those little flower blossoms that erupt in bursts of vibrant colour,
Through the grey sidewalks,
Now it's back to reality,

3,2,1
He steps back into the cold winter air,
And returns to his daily journey,
1,2,3
He's wandering through the city centre,
He checks his phone again,
It says 11.45am,
Work starts at 12,
Frostbites violently at his lips,
Swirling smokes twist around his fingertips,

These are the days he dreads most,
Early mornings,
Late nights,
Diets of,
Salty fries,
Cold coffee,
Microwaved chicken pieces,
He gorges himself on the only food his pay check grants him the pleasure of eating,

This is what happens when it's dark out,
Monsters are coming...
Well.... his are already on the prowl for him,
But he's already learned to hide,
That's all he's done,
His entire life,
He can be safe that way,
But trust me,
He's cutting steel with a blunt knife,
10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, and finally 1.

The night takes the sun,
The cloud is now black.

She will wear the cotton in his voice,
Like a satin waistcoat,

Hearing her call through splintered walls,
And the wind blows as easily as the rain falls,
Slowly,
He feels as though he were a drop,
Hurtling through the sky,
Towards the moss-covered earth at a shattering pace,
Yet barely making a dent,
On the silver side of the place where she was,

On the other side of the door,
Just a track away,
And although she could not see him; she heard his sway,

She will not love him.
For she hardly loves herself.
She will only convince him that she is happy being this mess, this disaster,
And he will have no choice but to believe her,
Because their love is short-lived,
And only exists when she feels worthless and lonely enough to want his company,
He knows this,
She knows this,
Neither of them will say it.
The truth is an ancient myth neither of them has ever heard of.


2 am,
She can't sleep,
Sitting on the bathroom floor,
In the foetal position,
Cradling her own limp frame,
Love, to her,
Was that bottle of bittersweet wine,
Which she held in her hands,
As if it were a crucifix,
Her holy saviour,
Like it would really save her,
And every mouthful of that cheap rosé,
Burning her mouth,
But that was love,

Her Friday nights were filled with excuses and cheap wine,
She'd curl up on her bedroom floor,
She knew she missed him,
But she didn't want to admit it,
She'd dance in the cold, comforting hue of the refrigerator light,
Her face, red and swollen from the tears,

She thought about all the things that they adored,
They both loved summertime and flowers,
Her favourites were peonies,
His were daylilies,

She watched the rain pouring down the window,
And thought about him,
How his smile threatened to shatter his cheekbones,
How she'd rest her head on his chest and dance her fingers like Spider's legs up it,
How she'd count his eyelashes because she felt like every blink might send them flying,
He'd draw lines with his fingers across her freckles,
Imagining they were constellations,



Halfway across the city,
He stumbles in,
Late night,
Working overtime to pay the bills,
Pours himself a cup of tea and sits on the living room floor,

Thinking about her,
Thinking about whether biology could ever explain this ache in his chest,
When she is gone,

He thinks about how hard he works to make sure she gets the happy life she deserves,
He has her measured just right
When she grinds her teeth in her sleep, just rub her jaw gently,
She'll stop without
Waking up.

When he’d read to her in bed,
She'd watch him wide-eyed from his shoulder; Quietly studying his features
As he spoke.
She'd stop him if he lost her between two words she didn't quite understand.
She'd thank you him for explaining.
He was happy to,
She's worth it.

She's allergic to sugar, dairy, gluten
And eggs. He'd made her a hundred recipes, just right,
He had all the tricks
So he knew she'd eat.
He got used to the hassle.
She's worth it.

She was crazy about cartoons.
He'd let her watch them; seeing her laugh beats the game,
Hundredfold.
She'd love him for letting her read for hours and sit quietly drinking her tea,
Because their love was worth it,
He knew it. She knew it,
But they were both too shy to say.
The truth was an ancient myth they'd only ever read about in storybooks.

Nicotine-stained fingertips,
Curl around a pen,
A mouthful of hazy breath,
Calling it " her friend "

She inhales and holds her breath until she sees black-
blank spots in her vision.
She exhales and releases,
beautiful, long-limbed clouds of smoke.
Shrouding her face, covering her eyes
blinding her to everything,
but these pale tendrils,
fluid and simple,
Are all she wants right now,

To hover not quite at this moment,
Somewhere between the present and the future,
Blades of smoke,
Cut softly through her hair,

Her hand brushes against his,
His mind screams,
louder than even the most horrific of bombs to hold it back,
to close that last ******* space between their hands,
But all he feels,
All that shakes his entire body and soul is this crippling shyness,
That he can't shake,
And he refuses to go it,
It digs its toxic roots down to the depths of  his stomach and refuses to let go and he can't and he won't and he doesn't hold her hand,
  
He wondered if she loved him back,
He always hides from love,
Batting it away like it doesn't belong to him,
He was always scared,
That his hair is too brown for her to like it,
His eyes too dark for her green,

Little does he know,
She worries too,
That her legs are elegant but they are marked with her disappointment,
The purple and the blue will never go away,
Yes, the bruises will slowly heal,  
But by the time one problem is resolved, another sapling and will slowly take root and show its colours,

She said his heart is made to heal
But he can't find it,
It's buried so deep he can't hear it keeping time to his life song,
It's crushed under all his self-doubts and worries,
In that hollow, it grows,
Like a new bud,


And one day it will turn into a flower,

She mutters " what are you doing? "
His response to her comment is lost on his tongue,
It is somewhere tucked inside his conscience,
Playing hide and seek with the directions on how to talk to boys and how to talk to strangers without turning red,
And he's the seeker,

She tells him that he's beautiful,
But he can't hear her,
The voices taunting him inside his head are too loud for her soft voice,
Arguing about which way right
When he finds his answer it seems as if the time has already left,

It was already heading off in the other direction,
Leaving him tumbling over his daydreams and expectations,
Trying to get a grasp on what was happing,

She always forgot to say thank you
It was sort of a bad habit,
But she's already too focused on work,
She's always too worried about what will happen if she says something wrong,
If he'll turn you away,

He wants her to know that he wants her to stay,
Stay close and hug him whenever he needs it,
So he can help her through her hardships,
And they can help each other's hopes and dreams,
And carry them upon their shoulders.
Because they can speak now,
Truth isn't just a story,
It's their prophecy,

She likes stuffing unhealthy food down her throat and defeating
the urge to throw it all out and pushing it all down into her skeleton so that the food remains into her body, making bumps in her stomach and sticking
out of her ribs like unwanted monsters. she likes being ugly,
She likes that no one ever notices her and when they do, they don't say a word she likes that, she punishes her eyes every morning,
By waking up and realising,
She’s still here,
But he has her,
And she has him.

Thinking back to when we were younger,
We’d buy fizzy sweets and **** on them until our tongues burnt,
Thinking back to when we were younger,
When we knew exactly who we were, and where we belonged.
When we were younger,
We would turn dining room tables into submarines and palaces,
When cardboard boxes could carry us to the moon and back,

Childhood is a warm, sweet syrup and its stickiness never truly washes away,

I see it in your face whenever our eyes meet and you just whisper “ run “,
I see it when we were up to our knees in some muddy riverbank,
Howling like wolves,
Laughing like hyenas.
I see it when we both see a log swing and share a knowing look,

Childhood is not some docile dandelion that in one swift breath is gone forever,
So let’s be wild,
Like in balmy summer afternoons when you’d turn on the cold sprinkler and we would dare each other to dance through it,

The world doesn’t need to exist for us,
We exist in our own worlds.

You’d ask me what I was thinking,
And every time my answer would be you,
I was thinking about all the ways I could make you smile,
Or I was thinking about how every time you smiled, you got these deep dimples in your cheeks,
Or how even though you hated them,
I could have painted Van Gogh’s Starry Night with your freckles,
I was thinking about how you were such a rebel,
Yet deep down you longed for the domestic…

How you were the jigsaw piece that helped me to solve my eternal puzzle,

You were my very favourite paradox,
So insecure that you could crumble,
Yet you weren’t afraid of anything,

I always thought of you as a mirror of my thoughts,
But maybe you were just two years worth of bad luck...

I was thinking about how kissing you never seemed to get old,
How loving you never seemed to get tiresome,

And now you aren’t mine,
And you’re smiling at some other lover’s texts,

I’m beginning to think that maybe I wasn’t looking for someone to love me,
So much as I was after somebody, some warm human body to lie beside me,
Some heartbeat to synchronize with mine,
So, I could start feeling less alone,
And more alive…

To me, in those moments,
Your warm body,
Your heart beating against mine,
Thudding like a metronome,
That was love,
But it was in fact,
Trying desperately to keep time with the ups and downs of “us “,
The upside-down of us,

I now know why they call it “falling “ in love,
Because it is always up to the other person,
To choose whether to catch you,
Or to just let you keep falling…

I was always there whenever you felt hollow enough to need another body,
To make you whole again,

And I think we both know what happened with us,
How far we both fell…

And now I’m sitting here writing about you,
And I know that you would love this,
You always seemed to love being my “ muse “

This may be about you,
But it is not for you,

This is my version of screaming into the ocean,
This is my escape,
This is my way of letting you go,
Of forgiving you…
And forgiving myself for holding onto you when I knew that I shouldn’t,
And I so hate the fact that I miss you,
But day by day,
I am beginning to forget you,
Your smell,
Your touch,
Your laughter,
It is all but a distant memory,

A faded, jaded polaroid of us kissing in Kimberley Park,
Some faded black and white film of us waltzing to Edith Piaf in your room,

But now you are gone,
And… I am no longer hurting…