There are far too many things which need to be done, and they are no closer to being done, not one bit. The dishes downstairs lay stacked upon the work surface in the kitchen, crumbs gather on the floor and dust accumulates on the carpet which has not been walked on by a foot other than my own in almost 3 weeks. The windows need cleaning as the sunlight can no longer find its way into the room I currently seek my refuge in, and it is a pitiful thing to have to watch as the sun clambers desperately in an attempt to claw it's way through to me. The notebooks littering my desk are all but half-full, with its paper coffee stained as mugs of rotting liquid gather beside them, one by one. There is a rather distinct stink of mouldering books, as my taste for fine reading has become belittled and seemingly extinct as of these recent days.

There are far too many things which need to be done, such as clambering my way out of this hell-hole and seeking a refuge in something other than the room in which I have imprisoned myself in. There are far too many things which need to be done, in terms of escaping and finding a way to crawl to you, even though you reside in a place which is out of my reach.

Yes but really though Darling
what even are these 'angels' that you speak of
I do not understand
why it is my hair that you say is remarkable
or the way I throw myself off of bridges
or smash bottles against the cream walls
or the ways in which I threaten to **** you
whilst in the midst of kissing you.
For if these angels you speak of were
anything like these things
then I can find no difficulty in
realising exactly why Heaven
is precisely where I need to be.

You came to me when I was enraptured in
the art of drowning myself,
in half-full ***** bottles
and bathtubs full of bleach.
You became a personal sanctuary,
safer than the four walls of the churches
I was always denied entrance to,
due to misadventures as a young child
and community rumours which I knew not how
to rid myself of.

"but you're so beautiful, darling!"

"I don't understand why you're so sad!"

"Whatever you have done
it can't be that bad!"

"Oh? You're back on meds?"
"You're happy now? I'm ever so glad!"

"But wait, what's that? A cut on your wrist?"
"Pull up your sleeves and show me your arm."
"We told you and told you"
"Don't ever self-harm."

"You see doctor, she's not very well.."
"We don't know what happened-"
"We can't always know, it's quite hard to tell!"

"We tried to help her, in the best way we could"

You don't try hard enough. Maybe you should.

The sun tends to forget to shine
when you're not around to encourage it
and my coffee cools as I forget about it
and the crumbs on my bed all seem to
congregate and conspire against me
as I toss and turn at night
pleading that maybe this 3am will be different
(each morning)
and that maybe I'll manage to sleep a little
but those crumbs seem to always
get underneath me
and lay under my bare skin and irritate
and annoy and cause me to shift and turn
in probably the exact same way
your words of goodnight and farewells
always seem to do.

You often told me that
I was your Queen of Silk
and Maid of Lavender Island
and I would tell you that
you were my King of Chevron
with kisses as sweet as
Cyanide
infused with a bout of
Ethanol
and sweet Cherry *******.

You kissed me once
and I prayed that I would die
for I would love to die
wrapped in the taste of
your bad habits
and
King of Chevron sway.