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tc Sep 2020
i melt my skin into bath bombs
fill the tub like water with all the parts i want to wash away
i am trying to cleanse my pores
become sweet like cinnamon air in a quaint bakery, all flowers
and as the rain smeared, the lights bled like an oil painting in the reflection and i stopped to stare at myself in the window
i am not a work of picasso
i am a product of a loveless marriage
i am a representation of how passion can become possession
i retain memories within me that make my brain swell and i feel my heart beat in my glands
i am trying to master sensitivity so i can be more thoughtful when i explain to you why i am the way that i am, so that i don’t upset you
i don’t think there’s blood within me
my organs are mechanic
i am made of pure electricity and too much frequency rests in my palms, scattered like shattered glass and convulsing through me
i am trying to cleanse my pores
smell doughnuts at the seaside instead of rotting flesh
nothing about this is luxurious
i try to be elegant
as held together as woven ivy
i am more graveyard
more derelict detachment
i stare at a reflection in a quaint bakery window
i hope one day i merge with the lights on the pathway and become all oil painting      all flowers     all sweet like cinnamon.
tc Sep 2020
we light our bones on fire
using the wood of words
we cling to on foggy nights,
beneath the echo of flickering stars
we wish the sea wasn’t so heavy
that it didn’t carry too many
uncertainties so that we could sink
without the prospect of drowning
so that we could breathe underwater
for a long while and embrace a world
we aren’t accustomed to
i didn’t choose to be an animal
of the land especially when the sea
looks more like a promise than the trees
i hate the premise of being rooted
when all i want to do is float
to wash away with the scent
of the beach after we realise
what a curse it is to be human
the only thing that could
put out this fire is salt
but we are too busy burning ourselves
and lighting our planet
and we do so beneath the echo
of flickering stars as they watch
how sad it must be for them
to witness from afar
knowing there’s nothing
they can do to stop it
i know how that feels, too.

we light our bones on fire
using the wood of words we cling to
words we didn’t say;
should have said;
could have said differently;
on foggy nights when the sky is clouded
and it’s too late
we shouldn’t get to enjoy nice things
until we can look after the one
gifted to us when we were birthed
and ****** and screaming but alive
alive as the eyes of the earth tear up
at yet another miracle placed before it
a life
raised in the water of the womb
mother nature always has big plans
but i don’t think we are ready
i don’t think we are breathing
heavy enough to feel the weight
of the damage caused
when was the last time you smelt fresh air?
how i’d love to bury my body under the ocean
watch the star flicker at me
one last time as i did
i was going back to where i came from.
the planet is a mess
tc Oct 2018
i watch the clock tick to 2 milliseconds past 1900 hours and i remember how, at 2 milliseconds past 1400 hours, just 5 hours earlier, i was cradling you in bed
it was warm and we were interlocked and you looked heavenly
the glow of the sunshine a halo around a face full of sleep and too beautiful even for poetry.
i try to verbalise you, try to write you down to make your existence more fathomable –
i cannot.
there are no words for a heart that beats honey through soft-skinned veins,  that swirls around your mouth like saliva and you taste so **** sweet.
i told my doctor i have a sweet tooth, what i meant was i am addicted to you; what i meant was i can’t stop waking up in the middle of the night to fix the cravings i have when you aren’t there.
what i meant was, sometimes i sleep walk, find myself at
platform number 5 of the same station i left you at hours before hoping that some sweet fragrance of you still lingers.
i watched the clock tick to 2 milliseconds past 1900 hours and i watched the train move away in slow motion.
i watched your face until i couldn’t see it anymore and i have never felt longing like it. suddenly i felt like a lost kid at the supermarket trying to find their parent and i wanted to scream for you to come back because although this train moved in slow motion i swear 2 milliseconds passed and you were gone.
i tried not to blink because i didn’t want to miss a single moment.
i sent you “i love you” through a screen that is too familiar to me now and felt the itch of my craving against my spine –
i will wait for you.
i replay the last kiss in my head; it was probably our seventieth goodbye kiss because each one didn’t encompass all the love we needed to express before the train departed and i taste honey.
i cannot make your existence more fathomable because that would mean to understand you and in all your complexity, i never want to stop learning –
so please,
allow me to explore your mind in every neurotransmitter, in every dopamine dosage, in every fight or flight reaction; allow me to explore what it is to be you and let me write you into every poem i ever produce, let me hallucinate you into every city street, cast your reflection in every shop window, replace every tin of beans with jars of honey and settle like dust on my lips –
i will wait for you.
every day, i wait for you.
tc Sep 2018
i wake up,
drenched in lucid dreaming
trying to hallucinate you in my room
holding buttercups under my chin
to resemble the gold in your eyes
and i’m reminiscent
of a time when peach meant
holding hands in your living room
and the specks of dust would
encircle us as though everything
was trying to show us happiness
and its various forms and so i
held your hand and we danced and
the peach curtains lit up the room.
it was your favourite in the whole
house and i remember how happy
you would get when the sunlight
poured in like flash floods.
i am drenched in lucid dreaming
reminiscent of a time when you took
my hand to hold it;
not to say goodbye.
tc Sep 2018
i feel the wind whistle
through my hollow bones
as they crack gently beneath
the weight of a single shudder -
i am a bird
manifesting free-flight
to find a one-way ticket out
of this brick-box.
i should be grateful
i wake up in sleepy sheets
every morning but all i
can smell is the scent of
another bad night’s sleep -
i tell my soul “i’m sorry”
because it inhabits a body
unsure how to appreciate it
to its fullest, a body content on
harvesting thoughts dark enough
to make life’s flowers wilt.
there’s no sunlight here.
this hollow flesh breeds
hollow veins, keeps a heartbeat
rattling back and forth in
this hollow chest.
tell me how to make a song out of
something that sounds like death -
teach me how to see free-flight as
more than something you do off
the top of a building, or a bridge,
or on to railway tracks when
gravity insists on keeping you down.

i tell myself “i’m sorry,” kiss the
bruises behind my eyes goodnight
hoping i’ll wake up and one day,
they won’t be so heavy.
i am still fighting everyday.
tc Jul 2018
i tell myself
i do not need
to live in the
as a butterfly
or a wasp
or as a bird.
i tell myself
i do not need
to cascade the
skies, because
to fly around
your ribcage
feels like the
only freedom i
ever need.
i thought that
maybe i would
come back as a
sparrow one day
to show the world
i was joyful and i
was not afraid.
i tell myself
that my sandpaper
heart finally
met something
soft around the
edges, to teach me
that love heals,
helps tend to the
wounds i tried
to lick clean when
my tongue was
laced in acid and
i tell myself,
i must have done
something worthy
along my timeline
to be blessed with
arms coated in baby
powder and blankets
to shield me from
the rain, i tell myself
i do not need to
live in the wild to
be free, for your
ribcage is the freest
a bluebird can be.
tc Jun 2018
TW: suicide / cancer / brutal imagery

july isn't a good month for me
it is a collection of all the things
i have had taken away. it is a
bitter winter chill through a
summer i do not get to enjoy.
july is lonely.
it breaks apart all the other months
like a pack of werewolves; it is
their alpha and i have six months
before everyday is a full moon
and my legs are tired of running
from it. i have six months to
enjoy the fresh scent of crisp air,
to feel the iciness of snow without
shivering through my skin. i try
to break out of this body, try to
knit myself a new one out of
preloved sweaters hoping their
stories will become my own so that
i may have a july worth talking about.
suicide happens all year round but
your suicide happened in july and
has happened every month in my
mind since. i have lost count of the
way i try to contact you to say
i'm sorry.
maybe my spiritual journey wasn't
my own; i convince myself the
universe will show me your face again
one day and i hope it is not in july.
people suffer from cancer throughout
everyday of the year but you suffered
in july. i watched the sunset through
hospital windows, smelt more chemicals
than fresh flowers, held back more
tears than my throat knew how to
swallow. has anyone ever drowned
without being submerged in water?
i have.
i imagined cracking my skull off the
glass confining you to this ward, to
this smell of microwave meals and
this buzzing of machines echoing
like an emergency and my heart is
on standby, i imagined it would give
the ward some colour because i am
so sick of seeing white.
and this july
this july,
i hold your hand as your treatment
continues. i do not feel the sun on
my face because you cannot feel it
on yours. i watch the sunset through
windows. carry the bodybag of my
soul around in "i'm fine" and "i'm okay."
i don't think my voice could drip
with any more sadness as i envision the
words cascading down glass panels
hoping if i spell it out for the world
to see, someone will stop and ask me
why i hate july, or at least,
if i'm okay.
the most honest, personal and deep poem i've ever written. i'm sorry for the brutality and the imagery.
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