Black hoodie,
black dress,
we are,
hopeless.

Your laughter is pinned up,
but I don't know its sound.
Your smile is three walls,
but I'm the fourth.

The butterflies flutter
and you don't see.
Maybe it's because
you're looking through me.

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)

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.

She peeks  out
from under her curtain of hair,
watching the world,
unaware.

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.

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.

His name;
it's on your lips,
a kiss, un-consented,
it's on your arm,
ink, black,
like his eyes, they looked,
it's on your wrist,
the red of his cold, hard heart.

At least let me be
the girl who doodles on her arm
because she's scared to get a real tattoo,
and the girl whose freckles bloom
like little daisies on her cheeks
to match her middle name,
the girl who leans out the window of the car,
to feel the wind kiss her face, her soul,
and the girl who sneaks out early
to write poetry in a French town,
who wears silver rings, not gold,
and sometimes laughs too much,
or too little, because,
this is also the girl
who breaks her own heart too often
because she believes that it's better
to regret what you've said
than what you haven't,
let me be her, because,
without her, I only exist.

We want to be remembered.

Is that not why we fold
pieces of gum into
the neat underbellies of tables,
is that not why we stomp up silent stairs,
slam arrogant doors, push back nonchalant chairs?

And is that not why we bury half finished cigarettes,
cherry stained from lips, and ashed
from the careless shakes of wrists?

Or throw empty bottles
as far as reluctant arms allow,
so that satisfying clinks can reassure us
of those other things,
as broken as our lives or sometimes
hearts.

We're afraid to be forgotten.

(but
in case you want to know: 


we were at your house, 

by the green trees, 


I made you wash your hands
in the river, 


and you waved them 

and I laughed


and you said: 'Say it, 

say it, 

say I'm dork.' - 


and I wanted instead
to say:
I
love
you.)

Fig.1.  It was 5 days - 4 days? - but I can't forget it.
           (By a road, brown buildings in the back, the filter is green - you    
            said you didn't know why. Half-smiles.)

Fig.2. Do you remember that you sent me this? Twice.
           (Same place, I kiss your cheek, you pull a sad face, a man walks by  
            in the background.)

Fig.3. God, that stupid headband.
           (Repeat again. Faces pressed, I smile big, you smile up, my hand is
            on your shoulder.)

Fig.4.  You said "The dots make it look arty." but that wasn't why I kept it.
           (Art gallery, two shots.)
           (At the bottom it says - I know that I will miss you.)
           (Nowhere it says - I will keep this because you will forgot to.)

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:
*******.

and when he smiled
god,
the whole **** room
just
       lit
           up

i watched the breakfast club for the first time
today. it struck me as  so  real  so  honest  so
raw     except that allison said      ‘when you
grow up your heart dies’ and i thought,   no
you       just     get better   at hiding it.

your hair 

after you cut it

your crooked teeth

your 

cockiness

dislike 

of scratching

and 

reluctance to bite,

that you're a coward

and
emotionally 

closed; that 

yousmoked

all 

my cigarettes,


your inability to text 

or

introduce me to yourfriends,


that you always wore the sameclothes 

and looked odd
in suits

didn't believe inGodorlove
believe
 that I was smart,

that 
you broke

my ******* 
heart.

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.

I see photos
of you
with a beard
(but no necklace)
and realise
that you won’t have to
shave it off
this year
and I
won’t be there.

for what i am
what
i was,

for everything that
i could
have been

and everything
i will now
just
have to be
without you.

We want to be remembered;

is that not why we fold
pieces of gum into
the neat
underbellies of tables,
stomp up silent stairs, slam
arrogant doors,
push back
nonchalant chairs?

And is that not why we bury half finished
cigarettes,
stained from lips and ashed
from the careless shakes of wrists?

Or throw empty bottles
as far as our arms allow
- so the satisfying clinks can reassure us
of those other things
as broken as our lives (and sometimes
hearts)

We're afraid to be forgotten;