I finally got front row nosebleed seats,
I looked at you like a blind man seeing for the first time, and you look like the rest of my life,
My heart became a macaw in a canary cage as I envisaged little red ticks marked all over your skin,
You blew smoke rings like halos from your lips, you made death look beautiful as they burnt umber through my lungs as I inhaled, and I inhaled a lot of you,
Every strand of my hair became a kite string,
My ribs wore my skin a size too small that day,
There are some things in life that are so beautiful they hurt,
It hurt when I looked at you, and it hurt when I didn't. But my heart still became a runway.
A flash. This all happened within the first ten seconds of meeting you, after your very first words to me;  them being; "oh ****."
I didn't know entirely how to take that, but I always liked making an impression, and if; "oh ****" was it, then i'd take anything.
You made me stand in the very middle of the haunted hollow tree, although i'd already picked up on how beautifully you filled spaces.
You had your suspicions about the supernatural but,
Your hands and heart are made of all things we have trouble believing,
Like an ocean, you had the waves and I was a girl again, terrified of swimming,
We sat before the sea for hours, watching the clocks dance around us until time became nothing but the rise and fall of our heartbeats.
Feeling you near me, as apposed to any other woman before was the difference in being drunk and being sober, women like you slay anything ordinary.
You quickly became everything I saw, everything I did and everything I felt.
Whenever you tell me you had difficulty with words, to make sense of what's inside of you, words are just tiny winds with sounds of different arrangements, and even if you are never able to find the right ones, know this; you have and always will make sense to me.
I want to press you, not in a book, but against me, imprint the lines of your fingertips on my ******* like maps of Atlantis, because I want to go places with you that I never knew existed.
I want your nails engraved on my back like train tracks, so I can always find my way back to now, to then. Red arrows pointing North, South, East and West. Forever leading me to the auroras beneath our eyelids.
I keep wishing on your eyelashes, hoping they'll fall as fast as I do.
Push your nose against mine one more time before I leave to my own bed, how you wait for me to get my key in the door before you even dream of driving away.
Little do you know, you are home, I never knew I could feel homesick from a person too.
How I wish I could carry on the kiss from your car door, to my room, where our waists crash together so hard the earth spins off its axis. Pressing my lips onto yours like the little red button in the presidents office, the one that puts an end to everything.
Escaping to a world where I can use the wool from my eyes to knit me a telescope to see the stars between your thighs.
You're the one I think of when I stand on a mountain, before the open sea, when I look to the sky, and when I nuzzle my face into my pillow at night.
One day we won't have a twenty year olds legs, or a ten year old heart,
My eggs are all in one basket, that's true, but I wouldn't have it any other way,
I could drown myself in cups of coffee, in nicotine, old books, and whiskey.
But that won't make me crave you any less.
I could immerse myself in the deepest of enthralling literature, poems, a sea of colloquy,
Waves, strangling the current of my mind.
But you'd still be the resonant word.
I could listen to the sweetest of voices on repeat, golden like honey, sticky,
But my ears would only ever truly answer to yours.
This may well destroy me,
But you know what?
I am entirely,
Completely,
Magnificently,
Alright
With that.

When I walk into a clothing store, i'm told I am a medium size
When I walk into a boutique, I am told I am fair, and sensitive skinned
When I walk into the salon, I'm told my hair needs a little extra strength

When I look in the mirror at my bare body, the beauty felt inside of me does not harmonize with my outside.
If books could talk, they would say the same.
Paperback, hardback, French fold, perfect bound, saddle stitch, case wrap, dust jacket.
I know because i've asked them.
They'd say; "I didn't come here to write my heart out, I came here to write it in",

I stand naked in the bathroom, counting the tiles on my body until the plug is blocked with everything I wish I could wash away.
My pores may be open, darling, but they are as wide as the valves in my tenacious heart, because they're breathing.
I can only apologise, the porcelian cracked as his blimp of a hand grabbed my impressionable face and told me no one would ever love me like he did, and how beautiful I looked when I cried.
My medium, tired hips will bare a child one day, and her medium, ripened hips will do the same.
I was poor the last time someone stole my heart, I haven't flown enough to lose all of my baggage yet, my insurance never covered those losses, but I won't pander to your altitude, because I am as worthy of love as any other woman.
I can fall into another's arms in a million pieces and still be seen as whole, after all, the universe only became the universe when it shattered into dust.
I wonder if i've spent most of my life as a welcome mat, and I often wonder how muddy my own feet are.
Sisterhood is far from suffrage.
My heart feels like a Macaw in a canary cage,
I can feel her words needling between my shoulder blades as she whispers of my failed marriage and how she heard he now lies with a younger model.
And now, I lay alone.
I'm wading through molasses,
Social events these days require the brace position, your words are electrical sockets and I am seventy percent water.
I line up sugar packets across the table like trenches as you become increasingly bitter with every sip of your black coffee.
My ribcage became monkey bars for your every word to hang on to for a second there, but your sound became muffled as I dreamt of a world where women sang together.
To the moon, to the stars, to mother earth, to each other, creating a united galaxy of warrior women equipped with hardened feet, joined at their callouses, but with honied hearts that would melt through their sisters fingers.
I dreamt of a world where women tell each other they are beautiful every day, due to one single feature we all obtain. Spirit.
I dreamt of a world where our medium waist bands meet the tips of our  brittle, fair hair and our sensitive skin is more than enough to touch the souls of every female ghost that ever felt lost in this world our gentle mother made.
Calling all warriors, there's a boat named Serenity leaving the shore in five minutes,
I hope to God they brought enough life rafts for us all on this ship.

Scientists estimate that you will fall in love seven times before you get married.
That 50% of these marriages will end in divorce.
That lesbians get their sexuality from their fathers inability to maintain a platonic relationship with a woman, pram pushing into bedrooms whilst our mothers clean with wine stained pinafores and nicotine laced lips.
So when I sip seduction from your navel, when I unwrap you like the present at Christmas I never got, untieing the ribbon as I undo your jeans, just know, the only I do I will say is when you ask me if I think you look pretty.
I am chasing something that cannot be caught, something that has an expiry date before I can even co-create this thing called love.  
So forgive me if the only aisle I will see you up is the biscuit aisle, pulling the fabric of my non-wedding dress around my slipping tights,
forgive me if I trade in the sweat on your neck for the salt side of tequila as sometimes I like to use the wool from over my eyes to knit me telescope so I can look at the stars between your thighs, but no one ever tells you that when you wish upon a star, that star has surely died.  

Because I want to fall in and out of love 7 times.
Correction: I want to fall in and out of love with you 7 times.

I want to press you, not in a book, but against me. Imprint the lines of your finger tips on my ******* like maps of Alantis because I want to go places with you I never knew existed.
I want your nails engraved on my back like constellations of stars so I can always find my way back to now. To then.
The present. The past. That very moment where Greenwich meantime got it wrong.
Those seconds were longer than any before, and my life has been full of seconds. Second best. Second chances. Second love. The third the forth, the fifth the sixth but the 7th, the 7th time you tell me is no longer reserved for you.
You tell me the 7th time is for me to fall inexplicably, uncontrollably in love with myself.
So when I walk you up a different kind of aisle I can do it with you by my side.

She rolled the sixpence between her knuckles,
As she thought about everyone she'd ever loved.
Was it love?
It's easy to say no, in hindsight.
Theoretically, your love should grow, along with that person,
Each person being loved more than the last.
The next person is one step closer to perfection,
Because we love, and we learn.
We learn who was right, and who was wrong.
Like the sixpence, currency, it changes, it evolves with time,
It gets stamped with a mark, true to its origin,
Even after decades of changing hands, that mark is still visible.
One penny could travel the world, collecting fingerprints.
Or it could stay in one place, as a collectors item,
You could savour and cherish it, waiting, waiting for its original value to increase,
Or you could let it go, passing it on to someone else,
Letting someone love it better than you did,
There's a reason we change hands, why we're shared out as we are,
Money is *****,
Just like our hearts.

If someone tells you grafitti isn't art, prove them wrong,
It's okay to miss the people who were bullets to you,
Don't lie that you don't have a lighter on you when you really do,
Your mum definitely knows you've tried drugs,
Never be afraid to say 'no', even when you've already said 'yes',
For your own sanity, sometimes you have to stop romanticising, believe what is already there,
Ask someone older and wiser what love truly means,
When you meet someone, remember their eye colour not what they're wearing,
Don't be afraid to find counsel between the leaves of a book,
When your grandmother asks if you're okay, be honest with her,
When a relationship is over, leave, don't continue watering a dead flower,
One day you'll be eighty, you won't have a twenty year olds legs or a ten year old heart,
Turn off your phone one day and be involved in the world around you,
Ask yourself advice, you know you best, learn to trust that,
Do things differently this time,
Choose the one who looks at you as though you're magic,
Good people just made the mistakes and learnt from them before you did,
Take the time to give someone something they really need,
The one you can never watch a full film with will be the one to haunt you forever,
That song in Pocahontas makes more sense than any other you've heard,
The body has seven billion nerves, there will be that one person that gets on every single one,
We've all sat on the kitchen surface and spoon fed ourselves peanut butter from the tub,
Don't worry, eventually soul mates meet, for they have the same hiding place,
If someone needs a minute, give them an hour,
I know it's hard, but just ask,
Thoughts leave deeper scarring that anything physical,
Now and again, write a list of your best qualities,
Chocolate understands,
Better to have loved and lost, than to be stuck with them forever,
Some people you meet you might never see again, at least not in the way you did before,
Love doesn't hurt, loneliness does.

I could drown myself in cups of coffee, in nicotine, old books, and whiskey.
But that won't make me crave you any less.
I could immerse myself in the deepest of enthralling literature, poems, a sea of colloquy,
Waves, strangling the current of my mind.
But you'd still be the resonant word.
I could listen to the sweetest of voices on repeat, golden like honey, sticky,
But my ears would only ever truly answer to yours.
Serpents tend to bite their own tails, a mythological and alchemic symbol of the cyclic nature of the universe: creation out of destruction.
But I'm not breaking my heart, loving you.
Swollen, yearning, daydreamed astray, gathered fast by night.
Curiosity deniable no more, innocence lost, hands wandered exploratory below.
Clambering desperate over themselves, those hands fell over folds of warmed flesh, over forgotten nooks and unfound crevasses, over trembling thighs and aching calves.
Astounded by the vast array of fresh delicacies, of unencountered sensations and deepest pleasures, she stood by loyal as those hands swiftly accustomed themselves to pursuing true ecstasy.
What divine rapture. What soaring heights of pleasure to ascend to. And what a delicious revelation to encounter such unimaginable ecstasy.
That twelfth year become a fourteenth, a fifteenth, a sixteenth.
And with the passing of each came a series of ever more adventurous trysts, the sorts of which Cousteau, Armstrong, and even Columbus could all be truly proud of.
Depths sounded, crevasses plundered, self’s nectars tasted and devoured, the pleasures of the flesh went unearthed.
Elaborate constructions lovingly shaped, waxed and honed, years of heady experimentation, trial and errors, fantasy and dreaming, all in the pursuit of even harder, better, faster, stronger *******. Perhaps it was that, or was it more a case of welcomed companionship? Ambidextrous frustration? A carnal appetite, most terrifying in its magnitude?

Isn’t it time then, you tried a little tenderness?
Be good to you.

I looked at her like a blind man seeing for the first time,
I'm eighteen in my head and I don't know what i'm like,
I never thought i'd meet someone like me, I still don't think I will.
But I've met someone who understands me, and that's perfect.
Sometimes you meet someone, and even though you never liked blue eyes,
Like your own, you wouldn't have them any other colour.
One day you'll fall for this girl, she'll touch your body with her fingers,
She'll burn holes in your skin with her mouth, it hurts when you look at her,
and it hurts when you don't.
She stuck her soul inside me, after her fingers,
I'm not afraid to die anymore, cause like birds, and bees, and insects.
They all die after they ****.
But the country scares me - people in the country scare me,
A man dumps the body of a girl in a ditch. The body rotts; Melts into the ground. Flowers pop up where the body lies, seeds fly out of the flowers, and a bee ***** the flowers and makes honey. And then the family of the girl buys the honey from the store. And the family eats the girl.
Her parents were probably a bunch of Helen Kellers. All they do is feel. That's what being a bird, or a bee, or an insect does to you. Then you end up eating your own children.
Being in the city can be equally frightening -
It's more of a; 'Don't keep calm and carry on, call in sick and get a tattoo.' mentality.
Chivalry is dead because you're wasted at Tiger Tiger wearing your twelve year old sisters clothes urinating and/or crying on the pavement whilst singing Blackstreet. Removing your false eyelashes in the morning and taking some rill ones along for the ride.
There's that awkward moment between life and death, for some.
Exit the womb they said, life will be great they said.

Maybe if we were all better at lying to each other, we could have had something good.

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