Voices,
and
they're all mine.
I reside in the
heartbeat
of my own God;
On the scarlet
knuckles
of a
voice.
Pale night,
and fear.

your eyes are hurricanes;
they enrapture me in their
stormy green-blue shades,
they whisk me away
like alice
to your wonderland.

your lips are earthquakes;
each quiver
of those perfectly curved lips
make me tremble and shake
inwardly
and my knees buckle without
my knowing.

your hands are tsunamis;
they travel up and down,
a mind of their own,
aliens.
they caress every curve and edge,
study every detail of
the skin
over my muscles and bones.

you, my dear
are a spectacle indeed.

She was the type who would comfort her attacker.
All memories of love were postcards for her wall,
as she slipped undetected through life, collecting
bus tickets, old receipts and post-it notes,
all with an atypical tolerance for red wine.

She spent her days lying in waste, lying in wait
for the moment that life would catch up with
her beautiful mind. She gave love to him
in magnetised letters and pillow talk,
but she was forever replied to in silence.

She would reinvent herself in hangover light,
before ordering take-out, and spending
the week inside. She cursed her translucent skin
in the sunlight, and yet she glowed in the summer,
as the breeze unsettled the hem of her skirt.

i am seven and in your living room
with antiques & photographs
of family that are more like strangers
and handshakes at christmas
there is a jar of circus peanuts by the armchair
and i remember being told that these are here because they are never out of stock
and that they are the only things
children will not want to take from me
i still do not like the color orange.
i am eight and round the bannister
to an upstairs that reminds me
of heaven in that
place i can't go sort of way & i am
knuckle deep in your pumpkin pie
wiping it on my uncles suede jacket
our hands still shake but the jury is still out
on if he looks at me and napkins the same
i hope you do not sleep
with my apologies under your fingernails
i will not say them out loud
i know i should have mowed your lawn
i should have been a home
for second hand smoke
if i could go back i would be your ashtray
i remember the day you forgot who i was
i bound into the room and throw my arms
around you like an armistice
and you ask who i am
we are not in church
but everyone stops singing
i am passed from child to child
while we all laugh
but my lungs feel like
they've been mugged in an ally
who's son does he look like, mom?
my father says like gospel
you pull on your cigarette
sip from your watered down wine and shrug
and i am neck deep in forgetfulness
i imagine alzheimer's
as being born again every day
so, we will spend ages
looking at captions to photographs
telling your stories to strangers
as my father begins to forget
and when i imagine probate
an unfamiliar hand unfolding a will
to be read to wayward angels
i want to burn down the house
and sleep in the ashes

It's three am
We're walking the empty beach
Lovers are the only people silly enough to be up at this hour
It's six am
We're crashed on your best friends couch
Curled up tight because there's barely room for one, let alone the both of us
It's nine am
There are pancakes and strawberries, almost in edible because I'm known for burning everything I touch
You eat them anyway
It's twelve pm
The sun makes the world too warm, so we stay inside in our underwear
Wasting the day away watching stupid movies
It's three pm
You've fallen asleep
And I've taken to tracing the lines of your face with my forefinger
It's six pm
There's champagne and flowers and a warm bath
My lips burn from all the kisses
It's nine pm
Your words are full of honey and brass tacks
I never knew something this sweet could hurt me so
It's twelve am
You're gone, slipping out the back door as soon as my eyelids close
You won't be coming back
It's three am
I'm screaming on the bathroom floor, struggling not to open the medicine cabinet
I don't know how to handle the pain