This finger's for you, this time.

You gave me hands to make her breakfast in bed,
You gave me a heart that doesn't stop beating at the sight of her,
You gave me legs to run to her in the station,
You gave me eyes to watch her dancing,
You made the sea so I could see her in a bikini,
You made the sun so she'd wear tiny shorts on those warmer days,
You made me to love,
You made her knowing she had a plan,
A plan to be with me.

Her eyes are like crumpets, God.
They make my mouth water and my lips purse,
It doesn't matter if she covers the curves of her thighs,
Or her soft ******* in a shirt, the point is God, you tried,
And my, you crafted something magnificent,
Forgive me, but I didn't believe you existed till she said; 'I love you.'

I may be eating the fruit, but you cannot throw me out of the garden of Eden,
You can forgive me for opening my legs, but you cannot nail them shut,
If you must toss me into hell, as Mary M tossed him, then so be it,
I'd rather be on that crucifix alone, knowing I loved her, than not loving her at all,
I refuse to believe you would condemn,
Something as perfect as this.

My wasted children will forgive me,
As the only thing that grows within me is love.

I was born into chaos, lived through chaos, and later on, sometimes openly welcomed chaos into my life.
Call me the anti-freud, but I don't blame my parents.
They left me locked by key in my own bedroom long enough to know my decisions from then on, and the implications would all be my own.
I was the pioneer for my own future, a regular Matilda.
I learnt to pick locks at eight years old. I got myself in and out of bad situations. Even if it meant hiding for a prolonged period of time afterwards.
Hiding isn't always the cowards way, waiting out situations with a large bag of dolly mixtures and Pokémon cards in the woods has gotten me out of a lot of ****. Hiding long enough to be reported missing to the police, and having people realise they'd rather have me alive and hyper as ******* e-numbers, than hate me for hiding from negative consequences for too long.
I've always been a **** bag. An absolute **** bag.
I ran away from home more times than i'd had hot dinners accompanied by prayers there.
I made no attachments, I had this inner indecisiveness, the ability to choose what was worst for me, on a complete whim.
It's scary, being so impulsive at a young age. One minute i'd be sat on the school bus on the top deck, minding my own business, and the next, I would look down and my ******* would be stuck up at the school teacher making sure we didn't break our own ribs trying to get on it.
Then i'd give a false name.
I had a foul mind. So much that I used to have to write down curse words, and throw the incriminating pieces of paper behind my wardrobe. My mum eventually found them, she knew just how much 'passionate' a child she'd bore after that.
I got used to the taste of soap thereafter, let's put it that way.
I'd always hated the idea of marriage before my parents even divorced, I dismantled my mother's eternity ring some years before, pushing the remaining contents down the sink. Little did they know their marriage would follow it shortly after.
There's things that happened in that house I will never speak of. Like saying the name Voldemort, or Beetlejuice. Far worse childhood nightmares would come from that, realisation.
I used to have this overwhelming urge to see other people's genitals, like it was the window to their soul or something. Looking into their eyes told me nothing, but once i'd gotten into their pants, that was a different story. The unveiling could happen anywhere. Even in aircraft toilets on the way to Disney Land, Florida. I was pushy.
Being a highly sexed child that never spoke, felt completely abnormal. Especially when the only thing I truly found attractive were eyelashes. Which ruled out any gender differences completely. As long as they had good eyelashes, I would follow them anywhere.
Barbie please forgive me for the things I made you do to Ken. I was too young to know.
Being born into this world with nothing but these two people and a couple of generations before them, their job is to guide you. They might not have even wanted you, or later regretted it. But by blood, they're stuck with you for the rest of your life.
They can't send you back to the store for being a defect model, or a little *******. Or else they lose much of their own life to a cell. There's no changing your mind when it comes to family.
But you can choose the five people you meet in heaven.

She blew smoke rings like halos from her lips, she tried to teach me, to teach me how to make death look beautiful, like she did.
If angels had mirrors, they'd be as vain as she was.
I got sick of being the cotton wool kid; they never heard me say the word '****' but they all knew I did. They all knew I forgot to wear knickers that one day in school. They all knew I placed my hands firmly by my sides at night in fear of them wandering.
Say your prayers before bed and kiss your mother goodnight. Dream about killing your father.
I thought about seeing a shrink once; but upon that thought, I remembered psychiatrists don't suffer from insanity. They enjoy every minute of it.
I read somewhere that there's a Psychiatric Hotline.
If you are obsessive compulsive, please press 1 repeatedly.
If you are co-dependent, please ask someone to press 2 for you.
If you have multiple personalities, please press 1, 2, 3 and 4.
I can only imagine the awkwardness of small talk for the insane in the psychiatric waiting room; "My invisible friend is Caligula, who's yours?"
The hotline suddenly seemed viable.
I want to know your favourite serial killer, I want to know your last meal on death row, I want to know your weapon of choice, I want to know what you really ******* to. Because my crude aunt told me; "There's two kinds of people in this world, masturbators and liars."
Show me your primary colours. Truly, tell me the first thing that comes to your mind during the Rosarch test. I know you don't just see Eamonn Holmes and Ruth Langford, sat on the famous red couch of 'This Morning', innocently announcing to the world, the birth of the royal baby, George Alexander Louis.
I used to wait till everyone in the house was asleep to play with my chest of toys, because it's the only acceptable time you can make two Barbies kiss without getting caught. Good girls go gay.
It's societies last chance to save traditional marriage. Homophobic columnists writing about how Lesbians will enslave men in America if all fifty states legalize gay marriage. Lesbians already enslave men. Two triangles, a summer of 69,  a Star of David, a new religion.
Tell Father at confession how you like it when she talks ***** as she falls to her knees in front of you. "****, I love it when you pray. "
But ******* when you're insecure is like trying to losing weight, you don't use the scales, you just keep going until eventually you like what you see in the mirror. Until you're satisfied with the person staring back, until you don't want to damage them any more. Then let them eat cake.
I think it's why so many "last meals" on death row, include Diet Coke.
However, Noah built his ark before the flood.
Society and politics make it difficult to afford the trimmings when it comes to 'good health.'
Get rich, or walk with a stick.

It's a shame you're my best material,
Worthy of a sentence? Worthy of a word?
Probably; 'a word and a blow'

Replacement and distraction is a beautiful thing, isn't it sweetheart?
Rest assured, it will dawn in time,
Wade through it, not around it.

Maybe I need you;
The most suicidal sentiment
A chamber my heart and mind dared to open
My chest, open, red and live as after birth

Maybe I just need something;
Something to live by
Something to pick at, and master like inhale, exhale
Give me purpose, give me religion, give me sense

Berlin no longer has walls
A war is for those who can see it
A one way ticket from poisoned routine
A single cigarette, chain smoked

Materials become only threads on my back
Pull apart the fibres, till I am bare
Year zero, cotton picking
You'll be my one drink in the dessert

Stamped, I said; don't you dare let go of my hand.
Until the day my breath and your hair turn silver.
Holding my jugular, I let you watch me undress daily
My love for you was bulletproof, but you're the one who shot me
What you don't know, is you missed the cavity
I romanticised the cocking and pulling nightly, murdering beauty.


I ran away from home, to sleep in a manger
I ran from a man, a man I never knew
Same genes, same jeans. Denim was my choice, and yours.
Rotten, like and old pair. Chromosomes.
I lay on your thick neck
The weight of a field mouse, tiny bones, pulled, curled in the straw, invisible to everyone but you
Your shoes always faced upwards
Walking the line where the barbed wire tore your chest
Your heart was a runway, our family horse, chocks away
Twelve stitches, those same twelve stitches in my mother's neck, at twelve years old,
Twelve years on and it's taking thirteen to heal


I learnt how to pick locks at eight years old,
A lost boy in the body of a girl, skin of a thistle, no ****
Purple and armoured
A chameleon soul, belonging to no one
No compass due north, a ***** needle
She said; 'Baby, you're like cyanide, and I liked you for that.'


I believe in madness
Holding your breath for sixty seconds, because you can
Like a bird flying into a windscreen voluntarily
Throw me into it,
If i'm going, i'm going,
Pull me down harder, bind my ankles to make a tail
Hit me harder, hit me until I find it acceptable to hit back,
No halves, of the halves that halve us in half
I'm all