1.  Sometimes I have conversations with you in my head – “you said there was nothing here” (blue biro)

2. Do you think of me at all? (black pen)

3. You better apologize (black pen, “you didn’t” is added later in blue biro, underlined)

4. I think I’m in a better place (faded blue biro)

5. I hate this (big letters, blue pen, scratched in)

6. I miss you, you idiots (pink pen)

7. I miss you, you idiots (the ‘s’ of idiots crossed out with blue pen)

8. I miss you, you idiot (crossed out entirely, two lines)

9. Why didn’t you notice (pink pen)

10. Do you think you matter to me? (blue biro)

11. I am done with you (black pen, capitals, scratched in)

Sit down*     they will tell the floral curtains   the year they buy you a puppy  

who is small and blonde     and likes to sleep    under the table

where you traced  your response.       You are eleven and wondering

how  hearts       un-

                                    -sync       and    you do not tell them     that    you knew

that    the spare room  sheets gossip     that    your father snores.

Six thousand miles away  the ground will shake     but your hands will not.

Spring is an awkward age –
she is transition, change,
the taste of heat but the smell of rain.

She is braces, bunches, tiny daisies
freckling a face.
She is the puzzle-pieced laugh
through a gap-toothed smile,
the hands that touch
through a broken space.

Winter has taught her
not to fear the dark,
but she still remembers
what it is
to be lost;
hence, she is little flowers
peeking shyly
at the frost.

Don't forget your lighter. Your mother only has one and the stairs are between you. Matches aren't great, their strike catches the onomatopoeic air, and your hands will smell like birthdays. Don't leave them either, burnt out, on your white windowsill. Check your window opens before one in the morning, they don't like to be woken up. Don't panic if it creaks; guide its sleepy sash with patience and that t shirt your mother hates. Try not to think of spiders. Pile pillows by the door, loose the sheets. Your sister has very good hearing. Look at the grey wool sky, count its sparse stars. Be quiet, be still, and do not think of the boy who has kissed another girl tonight. This, is your time.

I painted my nails blue
but the little silver hearts
snuck
through
while I was sleeping.
And
I let the smiles curl
back into my mouth.
I wonder
if that's why
you
scribbled out your name
with thick black pen.
Just so you know,
I bought a necklace that says:
*******.

Maybe our cars sat
side by side
at the traffic lights,
and you saw me
as the lights metamorphosed,
and I leant against the window
so something else could hold me
like the boy I'd left behind.

Or maybe I stood behind you, bad tempered,
impatient and sighing louder than necessary,
in the supermarket queue,
humming the notes of a song
that later would wrap you in the folds of slumber,
while I, in insomniac hours,
shrugged off dreamland and
wondered if he'd gone to sleep.

Maybe it was the summer
I dyed my hair blonde, and
had a face decorated with freckles,
and the pretendings of a tan.
I was desperately assigning the shapes
in the faceless clouds
to the boy who'd taken my heart
and forgotten me.

I hope that maybe I was the person
who reminded you of you,
on that particular blue Monday,
when you couldn't see
yourself.
Or perfumed the train with
your childhood vanilla, and you remembered
to call home,  
and it made your mother smile.

We are strangers, you and me,
but maybe, countries away,
he'll hear my laugh
unfold from you
in giggle shaped puzzle pieces,
and know.
You see, we are the stars of a labyrinthine galaxy,
inextricably connected as we trace ourselves
onto the night sky,
searching.

They were tangled in my rib cage,
the butterflies I mean.

I had to let them go,
they had begun to hurt me,
you see,
razor blades in a tissue paper disguise.

I can't blame them,
they were trying to get free.

It's my fault,
for swallowing them whole.