It's hard to stop
loving
the things that
hurt you,
especially when
they're hurting
too.

Love is like
a cigarette:
temporary,
but worthless
if kept
unlit.

This will fade
like a stick and poke tattoo
but the heart is
a sensitive place
and right now,
it hurts.

Covered in
hickeys
and cigarette smoke
- art is
interpretation
and I
am a masterpiece

We were
on fire while
skating on ice

melting

where we stood.

When was it
that I stopped
making you feel
a little less
lonely?

One moment
I was in your life
- in every single
nook
and cranny,
trying to
smooth out
your broken edges
the same way
you smoothed out
mine.
But that was only
for a moment,
and the next
I was gone.

You cleared me out,
got a paint job and
fresh wallpaper,
stripping me of
mine
and leaving me
naked and
alone and
bare.

Don't you care?
Don't you care that
I had made a happy
home
in your heart
even though I'd
only just moved in
and the previous
resident had
left their mark?

I don't know what to
say other than
god ******,
I've got space for you,
the keys in the lock and
you don't even need to knock
because
I'll be waiting.

So please,
please make room for me
because I've never felt
so beautiful as when
you took the word and
translated it into
a hundred thousand
gestures and
expressions
and precious memories.

My wallpaper's
torn right through
but I can stick it back
together
if only you give me the
permission.

You don't have to
keep on living in
broken homes.

So just let me
try and fix the
one we made.

Snipping the
stitches
sewn into
my heart
and letting
it all
fall apart

I had all these little
perfections
hung across my life
like fairy lights
but now they're gone
and it will take my
eyes a while
to adjust
to the dark.

It has started
occurring to me
that I rely
too much on my
muses
to give me worth.

We are
too young
and I am
too small
to start giving
bits of myself away
to be stretched and
expanded upon
by others.

I cannot
be restricted
to dependency
or limit myself
to the dead-end
streets
paved by
people with names
I forgot.

I can walk
in whichever direction
I choose
and write words
that I will not
dedicate
to you.

They say to
write what you know
but I'm just so
sick of
tragedies

I was so willing to
fight for you
but you took away
my armour and
stabbed me
in the back.

Walking on
shattered dreams like
broken glass;
piercing the soles of
my feet like the
soul of my
heart.

Untied my laces and
slipped off
my shoes;
it's hard to
let go when you've
nothing to
lose.

Look at me.
I'm peeling back my skin
for you,
can't you see my heart
all black and bruised and
covered in burn marks
from the cigarettes I
never told you I smoked?
You turn away because
it's kind of gross but
here I am,
exposed,
tearing myself open
because I don't know
how to keep things inside.

And I spent so long
trying to tell myself
that I am strong,
that you cannot
break me
- but I'm already
breaking.
I'm fragile and
I'm weak because
I took my backbone and
built it up at your feet
like a Jenga tower which
you dismantle so recklessly,
never guessing it might
fall.

I will fall because you
built me up so tall,
tall enough to get a grip
on the expectations I
set for you
- left hanging there -
feet kicking helplessly
through thin air
when the
hands that lifted me
so high
move away to
see some
better sights.

I am not afraid of heights
I'm just afraid of
not being able to get
back down.
But you've already
taken what was
left of the
solid ground.

And you let it
rain down on me,
all those sticks and
stones which
pierce my soul,
you let it shatter me
like the bathroom mirror
in which I never saw
beauty.
You let it break me,
and I will let myself
be broken
because I've already given
that power to you.

But what you
don't understand
is that
I have a fuckload
of superglue.

And I will stick myself
back together.
It doesn't end
here.
This is just another
scar
on my already
blemished surface.

And each scar will
line itself up,
branching from each
other like the
wrinkles on the palm
of my hand.

And each one will be a
reminder that I
survived.
I am still here even after
being broken
time and
time
again.

You were not the end
of me.
This was not a loss,
but a victory.

I am surrounded by
glass walls,
covered in smudges from
where I tried to wipe
my fingerprints
away

Love kills my
                        brain cells,

but also,

               **ignorance is bliss

You dropped me
like loose change into
a homeless man's
Burger King
cup.

I would have preferred
to be thrown,
to be
smashed
into a hundred
thousand shards of
broken cardiac muscle
- because at least
that would mean you had
made an
effort.

I wanted you to
push me away with
all of your strength,
leaving me to trip
and fall
right out of
love with you.

But you merely
nudged me aside
- too weak to break the
chewing-gum strands
which stretched
between my lips
and yours.

I was
stuck and
I was
craving,
maybe out of habit
rather than desire.

Too short to reach
the emergency exit
I was left
wishing you had made me
feel a little
taller.
There were twelve inches
worth of difference
between us,
everything that you
were and I
was not.

But I guess I got it
wrong.

You are not
six feet
two inches
of man
You are
six feet
two inches
of cowardice  
and your
extra large
t-shirts correspond
to your
extra large
apathy.

Because you didn't
care.

You didn't care about
my five foot
inferiority complex
or the five feet
of reassurance
it would have taken
to make me
feel worth
something.

But I will not be
confined
to the gap between
your height
and mine.

I have the strength
to pull myself away
and snap
those chewing-gum
strands
I don't need you
to make the effort
I'll make it
myself.

And if you still feel
inclined
to drop me
like loose change,
that's a **** lucky
homeless man.

******* for
turning out to be
nothing more than
two wasted months of
maybes.

I packed my past-lovers
into a box and
put it on the
top shelf of
things been and gone,
leaving it to
gather dust
like a heart
gathers apathy.

I had to look up
the word
'dating'
on Urban Dictionary
because I didn't know
what we were,
what we are.

And it said things like
'a socially acceptable
form of prostitution' and
'feelings of
puppy love that usually
dissolve
in a few weeks'.

But this is
not
puppy love.
This is not going to
dissolve or
fizzle out or
whatever,
you're not a
fizzle
you're a *******
fireworks display.

And you turn
everything in my head
into this
multi-coloured
turbulence and
I can't keep up with
how much I
adore you.

But the thing is
I don't know
if your view
is as good as mine.
What if you're
looking at something
a little less
beautiful.

What if I'm your
fizzle.

What if I'm as
temporary
as the flame you use
to light the
cigarettes
you find more
addictive
than my touch.

If that's the case
I'd rather
I left you
craving.

Because
if I'm your flame
you're my
forest fire
and you're burning
it all down until
the only thing left
standing is
you.

And I'll walk for
miles across this
carpet of ashes
just to feel the
softness of your skin
against mine.

And I'll cough
and I'll splutter
on toxic smoke
but you'll just
breathe it in because
you never realised anything
was even
lost.

You don't see me
crawl
you just know that
I'm here,
I'm here
I made it
I'm yours
I'll always be yours
because there's
nothing else
left.

And maybe
I can be
content with that
if only
you will see
that
you could burn down
everything
and I still
wouldn't put you
out.

We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.

Porcelain angels
are delicate things
and darling,
you broke
your own wings.

I want you to
pick something.
It can be anything:
integrity,
last Thursday,
your grandmother's
socks.
I don't care what it is
but I want you to
pick that something
out of all the
other somethings
and I want you to
believe in it,
I want you to
scrunch your eyes
up tight and
slow your breathing and
put all your energy
into that singular
belief.
And while you are
busy believing in that
something
I will believe
in you.