I see her in every bonfire
In every sun ray
I feel her warmth in every palm tree breeze
and her voice whispers to me in the sea

Without her my hear no longer burns with passion,
only the ashes wither me away
I've started making fires in my backyard
hoping to summon her somehow
I'd make a deal with the devil if I had to.

I'd **** to feel her skin on mine again
To have her share my bed
even though she steals the ******* duvet
she could stab me and I'd say 'thank you so much'
but she didn't
She loved me
wholeheartedly
Even when I couldn't love myself.

Oh lover,
You bite your tongue until it bleeds
But you were never prepared
To bleed the truth.
The truth stains our relationship
Tarnishes it indefinitely
And like a sore scab begging to be picked.
I pick.
I pick and pick and I can't stop, I can't stop myself.
And lover,
Although it hurts the more I pick, the more I think
The more I realise.
You were never mine.
You belong to somebody else
You always belonged to somebody else, because that somebody else has you in their heart and in their head.

Lover, I care.
Lord knows I care too much, so much so I have to let you go.
To give myself the freedom to move on,
To give you the space needed to search for your soul.

Dear lover,
Know that I see you in every moon and star
I would give you the entire galaxy if I could
I hear you in every breeze like your sweet whispers
I feel you in every love song that breaks my silent heart.


Oh lover.

I just hope our paths meet again, lover.

There is nothing worse;
or more painful;
or an experience more harrowing;
than that of being in love.

Love makes me want to scream in anger,
i become a wounded animal that snaps at any hand.
Makes me feel sick to my stomach,
that i can't eat for days.
It makes me sad,
so terribly and simply sad
that i have so much love
but no one to give it to.

I fall upon my knees
before love and somedays I am blessed.
Sometimes it is cruel,
it is pushing a dull dagger into my back.
Love makes me utterly disgusting,
makes me inhuman in my thoughts.

All this love and yet none of it is for me,
love creates this void of absence.
Reminds me of how
there is always extra space next to me.
Love isolates me,
condemns me into a life of
yearning solitude.

We came from the families that never really showed us what it meant to love and prosper.
They cared alright,
they picked us back up but never taught us how to deal with the traumas they caused.
You just have to keep going.
You have to keep going.

We came from the parents who that taught us that distance is key,
that its okay to push people away
but then get upset when we don't share the details of our day.
We shared each others experiences but never sat down to discuss it.
Just ******* and refused to stand up,
to do anything.

We just sat around,
raising each glass of wine to our pain.
Yet still no disclosure
but we knew.
We knew what hurt us,
what we wish to change for our future selves.

We don't have to talk
we don't have to say it
but we can give each other the look
it screams out a thousand words
we understand.

The rabbit never had a chance against the fox.

Love so deeply that it's pratically invisible,
the little gestures you make
like asking if they want anything while you're out
isn't enough for them to notice.
Or even the stupid notes you leave
which simply read
"Good luck and have a good day :)"
Just isn't the same as speaking
freely, openly with three words
ending your sentences.

When they leave, because they always find someone better,
make sure to step out of the way for them.
Let them go,
they still won't notice it's because you truly care.
You would never stop them from getting what they want
even if that isn't you.

Soon you'll realise that maybe,
I don't deserve to be loved
and wouldn't it be cruel of me
to get in the way of someone elses
true love?
Wouldn't it be selfish
when all I want is affection
and the feeling that I'm not entirely alone?

I've been swallowing my teeth in my sleep
I've been texting my exes even though I told myself no

And I realise that it's just the late night thoughts.

Tomorrow will be better
I will make it better.

I will mould it with my bare hands,
design every scenario like an architect.
I will change people's minds.

I'm going to wake up,
I know I will because I've seen it, in my dreams.
I dreamt of the moon and stars disappearing so suddenly like every lover and friend I accumulated.
And although I thought I was alone,
I felt the slow creeping warmth of the sun
and it was then I understood how life is created and sustained through:
such gentle burning power.

It hurts.
But still I will pray
that one day someone will take
this tender heart.
They will take it
and love it with the same intensity.

I find an element of peace
and hope in my slumber.
The moon, she speaks to me
in a lost language that only we
seem to understand.
She feeds me the bitter-sweetest
of dreams
that slice my heart in shreds
when I awake.

I've dreamt of loving arms around me
I've wished for soft lips upon my cheek
I've hoped for hands searching for me

I dreamt and felt strong caring arms around me
but when I woke,
I found I was only holding
myself.
And I can feel myself put so much distance between everyone who cares about me that I feel like I'm floating out to sea with my bed as a raft.

The Moon,
she does not care about my real life
only my dream life.
Now I'm a trembling addict
who never wants to leave wonderland,
because my waking leaves me so miserable,
and yearning for something more.
I get ravenous, beastly
sometimes maybe, delirious.
I forget who I am,
but it feels so nice not being me.

I leave her letters and wishlists,
in places I know she'll shine,
In hopes that she'll marry me one day.
because it's not the falling that hurts
it's the landing
so save me from heartbreak
and keep me falling

There is a house on Southeast Bank.
It simmers as it has done since the 1900s,
it's been derelict for at least a decade now.
Sometimes, the local teens hangout and drink underage
but mostly it sits
Patiently.

There is a living room in the house.
The house that sits on Southeast Bank.
A leather reclining armchair lays, sprawled across the carpet.
A carpet in which the previous mother of the house would've claimed "costs hundreds" and "came from Egypt".

As daylight stretches toward the bookcase.
The bookcase in the room,
The room in the house,
the house that sits on Southeast Bank.
It's not unexpected to see
all the dust that flitters in the air
dancing to the tune of what was once life
a place for the living.
Reminders that once there may have been a family here.
But who knows.

Who knows what happened to them,
did the kids grow up too fast?
Did the parents split up?
Did someone die before their time was due?
And it's all written in the dust.
The dust that haunts the bookcase
the bookcase in the room,
the room in the house,
the house that sits on Southeast Bank.

Tomorrow told me no, Promised me.

"I will be better"
He lied.

Yet I always fall for those promises, always let a glimmer of hope tell me:
"the sky /can/ clear and the sun will shine again"

So tell me...
Why am I stood out in the rain, still too depressed to care about my shivering?

I've wasted so many 'I love you's' on the wrong person that I can't say it anymore.

I choke.

Unless, I am drunk.
But let's face it I love everyone when I'm drunk.

I go places where no one knows my name, for once I can live my fantasy of being /THAT/ girl -
mysterious, cool, no one.
And no one knows my flaws.

I go so long being no one I forget my own name,
and I love it.
I relish in the feeling that I can be non-existent without dying.
Because I'd rather be literally anyone than whoever I am right now.
Nobody here knows how terrible I am at communicating my emotions.
How horrible I am.

Leave me alone long enough and I'l create my own friends, family, pets and even love interests.
I will break my own heart in more ways, you'll never know -
You'll never understand!
How lovely and torturous it is to be this lonely.

To go through 5 relationships in one day and to be the source of all your own suffering, yet still find ways to place your anger in a bottle of wine.

You see, because I was never in love with you.
I fell in love with the idea of you.

It's weird how our worst memories can be the most clearest, how the pain can last a life time no matter how hard you try to forget.

How our experiences shape us into the person we are destined to be and how we have no control over that,
was I always supposed to be so lost?
                                                  - desperate?
                                                  - lonely?
                                                  - ashamed?

Learning of the skeletons in our closets, some we didn't know existed.
yet I'm the one left feeling like I'm in the wrong, I'm the outsider, the alien, the intruder. I shouldn't be here.

And yet I'm so loved and loved like I belong exactly where I am.

Today was mediocre.
Today reminded me and told me how lonely and unlovable i think I am.
It almost convinced me to stay in bed all day,
but despite how warm and comforting my bed was i fought my way out.

I had 3 guys and 1 girl message me today and I almost fell into the love trap. But I didn't!
I have got to stop falling in love with people who give me the smallest amount of attention.
I can't help my empty hands that have a tendency to reach out to anyone who is willing to hold on,
they always forget how quickly people let go.

My diary told me to distract myself, to do the things I should have done weeks ago.
The unfinished to-do lists which were screaming for me to do that one thing I said I was going to do every day for the last 2 weeks!
So I did,
I've been meaning to start that essay and pull my broken pieces into a coherent mess.

Tomorrow will tell me to love myself.
To take it easy, you're only human.
Not to bother wondering why you're in this state. But why?

Well.
I kissed my loneliness instead of you then welcomed it with open arms.

And the more distance you put between us/ the better i feel.
It lessens the fire of rage in me.
It grounds me.
And all this distance, i can finally turn around and look forward.
But I'll always know you will be there/ just over the horizon and i hope you're not there waiting for me.
Thank you.

Thank you for making me not afraid to love again.
Thank you for loving me at some point
Thank you for making me feel special
Thank you for cheating on me
Thank you for breaking me, I now realise how the aftershock of withdrawal has made me a better person.
Thank you for being strong enough to move on from me.

Sometimes I like to hold my own hand. I like to hold it/ in a way a lover may. & i realise.
my hands are so small and delicate why don't I have somones hand to hold? Better yet, why do I invite literally anyone to break my hands?

When I look at my hands I see every memory of every boy I have loved. I see the very moment I held a man's hand.
How the spaces between our fingers fit perfectly, in harmony with one another. How we shared a very special moment before our lips met in the dark of a theatre surrounded by other experienced lovers and we just looked like kids.
You could've snapped my wrists, it would've been so easy to bruise me but you didn't. You were kind, you were gentle.

You were kind.
You were gentle

But now when I reach for your hands/ because let's face it my hands have such a great memory and they know every curve and nook of your palm. Your palm is empty.
I reach and I stretch so far but you keep on walking and I barely get to brush your hand.
Then the question lingers/ so thick I could cut it with a knife.
Have you forgotten me already?
Forgotten the passionate night spent searching for our intertwined fingers that wrap themselves in knots/the very same that stroked my hair so sweetly until I fell asleep/that held me so tightly as you whispered my name to calm my nightmares

These memories. They're trapped in my skin and you the culprit/placed them there so gently. Rattling like bees and I want to them free.
So I cut myself open and watch as every piece of you leaks out me.

No doubt my hands have only suppressed it's muscle memory. and if they saw you again, they'd wander around you.
They'd know, the shape to take as they patiently wait for your hands to learn the curve of my waist.

Hi, I'm Hannah.
I like reading and old books and tea. you could say I'm an  old soul. I also have a mild alcohol problem and if you can't handle that then you can leave already because my alcohol problem isn't just an alcohol problem it's a depression problem and I use alcohol to cover it all up.
You see, instead of fixing or facing our problems. more often than not we cover them with even more bigger and dangerous problems. Sometimes I'll start drinking and I'm not getting drunk as fast as i'd like to cover the pain and so I'll take codeine with it.
DO NOT MIX CODEINE WITH ALCOHOL. EVER.
it's dangerous and stupid but i'm dangerous and stupid but this can literally **** you.

My "friends" who i think are my friends, even though when i try to be a good friend they turn to each other and not me. But that's cool as long as they get the help they need even if it makes me feel completely useless. Anyway my friends, they noticed my issue with drinking, i just don't think they cared enough to help or at least i hid it so well that they had no idea they needed to help me.
This is all that it is. A cry for help.
Because I'm screaming and drowning at the deep end of a pool but the lifeguard can't swim.
I'm screaming but all my friends are deaf and I'm trying to show them but they're blind.

Then I turn to you.
You're the beacon of light in the distance. You're the destination my ship is supposed to go and it's following your light, the only hope left. My ship is finally sailing back home. It's been gone for weeks, months, years but it's finally coming back from the war.

But you're too far away.
And my ship sunk at the rocky shore.

I wake up. Alone. Covered in last nights make up.
What did I do last night?

Because although you never touched me with the same delicacy.
You still touched me, a sign that I still exist.

I've been thinking, a dangerous past time, you are quite convenient, I almost can't tell the difference,
if I close my eyes it's similar to kissing him, just not as tender. Our lips crash together whereas, his lips, they walk from my shoulder up to my neck, across my cheek until by chance they find themselves right in front of my own.

I can't ******* though, it's the one thing you can't get right. Not that I can ask you to be like him, it's a bit rude innit?
And I especially can't ask you to talk like him, you can't do the accent anyways. That, and you're not as sweet with your words.
My point is,
                                    You are not the answer.

I want someone to love and be loved like that but I'm me and guys like that don't exist or

                                          I'm afraid they wouldn't love me.

I want to do a lot right now and in my head I'm doing them.

I'm smashing every single window I see.

I'm bashing my head repeatedly on the pavement, until my brain is rewired correctly.

I'm throwing the new expensive mug I just bought on the floor.

I'm picking up the shards from said mug and smashed windows and ripping my wrists wide open.

I'm laying on the train tracks, my innards splayed out, a spectacle for everyone to admire.

When you told me, I wanted to punch you the **** out
I wanted to cry; to tear everything off the walls.
I wanted to climb out of my skin and watch someone else go through the pain.
The pain of loving someone too much, too soon and not being enough.

Wait, i'm not done yet.

When I thought of us. It was just us. No future. Just us.
And that, was the most beautiful idea I'd ever gotten stuck on. But you're gone.
That was hard to write.
You're a ghost.
I just had the most wonderful night of my life and you expect me to just leave?
You're a sick sadist.
Get help.

Wait! One more thing.

Why am I sat here in my favourite cafe. waiting for you?
Hoping you'll use your initiative to come back for me?
I want to see you casually stroll in, surprise me with flowers (which no one has ever done before.) and kiss me like you mean it.
Please pick me.

Pick me.

I fell in love with John Doe.
I fell in love with an American guy.

So, John Doe
Right now, I'm looking at you with rose tinted glasses and you're probably a bad person with a lot of skeletons in your closet.
But you make me want to never stop kissing you because I haven't felt this since I was born.
When I constantly watch you being content it's like watching the sunset go down and the antagonist eventually falls in love but. Not. Just. Yet.

So American guy,
Please

Keep leaving butterfly kisses on my back and I'll keep calling it love.
And note that I'll always give you a second-
Third-
Fourth-
Fifth-
                      Chance.

Step 1: get him to talk as much as possible because ******* that accent is so ****.

Step 2: get him to open up about his traumatic childhood that even he, is unaware of. Don't forget his voice is so dangerous he could lull you to sleep.

Step 3: Try to fix him. Then hurt yourself in the process.

Step 4: spend incredibly romantic and ****** nights together. Get REALLY close.

Step 5: DO NOT BE YOURSELF. He will realise that he deserves better.

Step 6: drop hints. Like A LOT of hints, he's too oblivious to get them.

Step 7: let him use you, because you'll do anything to make him stay.

Step 8: hurt yourself. Sacrifice your heart for this god. Bleed for him. Cry for him. Never let him out of your mind

Step 9: let him go

I love being in Love but,
I'm not particularly fond of people.
Perhaps I haven't found "the one" even though I don't believe he/she exists, we just settle for the person who annoys us the least.
I don't like relationships.
Simple as that really, it's all good at the beginning but then I just get bored.
I didn't realise it hurt people that much until now.
Then again, I didn't realise how much I prefer the crush feeling and the tense on edge butterfly feeling, until now.

I'm in love with Love.
And she (yes, she) is the most beautiful, blossoming, aspiring, inspiring thing I have ever known.
She is all I've ever deserved.

If you let me,
I could be your best friend.

If you let me,
I could be there for you.

If you let me,
I could let you into my heart.

If you let me,
I would come back round.

If you let me,
I can be the silliest and goofiest.

If you let me be me.

If only you let me,
I might let you in too.

Nowadays, I am a particularly content person.
I write, I study, I watch, I socialise (but only on Wednesdays)
and I am alone.
I have officially finished with the nasty business of a relationship, in fact, I don't think I'm relationship material at all.
All in all, I'm okay with where I am in life.

But at night,
I have to close my bedroom door.
I have to close it as soon as I turn out the lights, so the ghosts of my past regrets don't come sneaking in and come creeping into my head while I sleep.
I must keep them out of me, it's not my fault you see.
I tried so hard to help them all but I'm not as strong as I seem.

I accept my life of sin and solitude.
I'm happy this way, honestly, it's the truth.
You have to believe me, you must.

I'd never thought I would miss you
but here I am!
You see, missing you is odd
because I was so adamant that
I didn't need you.
Missing you is like
saying 'ouch' even though
there's no sign of being hurt.

I don't quite understand it
if I'm honest...
I wanted this
but I know we don't belong together.
Maybe I miss things being easy.
Missing you is
a bittersweet ache, that I'm addicted to.

It's hard to get my thoughts coherent
is this how you felt?
I wish I could ask you for help,
but it's not my place anymore.
I wish I believed your words
that dragged me to stay.
Because if I just had a little faith,
maybe we wouldn't be where we are today.

Yes, we've taken different roads
but for some reason,
my heart sometimes calls out.
It calls out to someone not that far away
but is now unknown.
I don't want to be strangers,
but you just feel like a distant memory
I like to think you don't think about me.
It makes breathing a lot easier.

I like to think you don't think about me.
It makes living,
It makes existing,
feel absolutely misplaced.

Missing you is a weird sensation,
can't say I'm accustomed to this feeling.
It's like being asked a question
that you don't know the answer to.

I don't know what it is,
I'm not sure if it is even you I miss.
I think you're just something comfortable,
someone familiar,
and when I feel lost or confused,
I feel like running to you.
I guess it's because,
you're all I know, or at least knew...

"Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."
-John Lennon

But when you're at the prime of your youth you can't live but you're not sad enough to die...yet.
We are told to "be free, live as if it is the day of your death!"
But what is it to "live" to "be free"?
Because we're never really free are we? We just convince ourselves that we are so we don't mope around all the time.
We think that living is when your heart is beating and your lungs are breathing.
I disagree.

The rush and adrenaline of sitting on the train tracks while a train comes charging at you, unable to stop. That is living.
And if I should die by the force of a train, I will become free.
No more worrying, no more planning other things. That's when I start to live. I'm not living but I live.

Perhaps our life begins after its over because when it ends we already know the beginning and all the morbidity in the middle. Well, the ending isn't much of a surprise we all know that one God ****** forsaken day, you'll suddenly feel cold and weak so you decide to have a little sleep but you never wake up.
No one ever wakes up, so then you're stuck in this dream where no rules apply.

You are free. You can live.
Heaven is only what we make it to be as it lives in us, in our heads, we don't go anywhere it comes to us.

One day you'll be okay, darling
you'll be clean of the blood on your hands
No trace of this soul will come around.
Groans will turn to softening whispers;
then they'll make no sound.

Aren't you used to being alone, darling?
I was an abandoned asylum
Still, you called me home
Nestled in my lungs
Giving breath for your life
You grew and punctured me with your thorns,
your knife

There were cards upon the stove
while you were crying into coffee
grasping your shoulders to shake
a message that you need to understand
There are things we'll just never know
There are things we'll just never know
There are things we will just never know
Can you feel me yet?
Can you feel my voice echo?

This asylum was abandoned before you came
But I can't blame you,
You were too, a haunted place.
But our ghosts just don't see each other
or at least yours won the battle.

It's not your fault, it is mine.
It's not your fault, it was mine.

So tell me, what was it like, darling?
Seeing my body hang like a light fitting,
Never knowing why?

There's a ghost in my house
More like a polterge/ist.
I've     never      seen it myself
But I know it's there.
I can feel it's e)nergy          lingering,
When I come back there's stuff
                     Just laying around.
  Stuff that I just put awa¥y.
Stuff that is^n't even mine.

There's a polterge\ist in this       house
I saw IT once or tw;ice.
There's more than one
They're ¿friendly enough.
Still, they intrude on my life
But I    can't get r¡id of them.
I just want ever@ything back to normal.
So I left.

There are poltergeists in that house
Just d0own the r:oad from the bus stop.
They all live happily together
With a# woman
Whose children have all grown.
Except one, the daughter
                          She lingers in     limbo
Waiting for her home.


Maybe
             she was the
                  poltergeist
                                  ­      All

     ¿¡ %'£     '÷×£-,!!;$@)
                                                  ­      along?

How could I ever
I don't want to forget.
The way my fingers
knot up together as I fret.

Every thing I remember
It means nothing to me
We've had our time here
Just leave it be

This person I heard
Only 2 years old than I
floated down, down stream
No one ever got to say goodbye.

I've wanted to leave
but I don't want to be missed
I wanted to be forgotten
but I want to remember,
Every face I have faced
Ever love I have loved.

My time is here is up
I've hung up the phone
I stand above ground level
with my pockets full of stones.

"Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too"*

Maybe I panic because I need to
for all of those who don't panic but should.
Maybe that's why I'm haunted by spirits I don't know.

Mummy, told me not to talk to strangers,
but these figures talk to me, do they not know?
In panic of the third hour
I don't see them but I know they see me
I feel their eyes move off my body

There are no humans in this world,
only animals, hungry for their instincts.
I am cautious of every detail
I know but no one else does
Can they feel my eyes?

Or feel my heart,
maybe even my sweat
and my dry tongue
because I pant
I am you. Animal.

*"They live inside us, and sometimes, they win." -Stephen King

I walked out of the river
The place where I was born
yet my roots remain detached, unbind
Looked up to the nigh's sky
watched the stars burn and thought of their end.

I ran into the forest
The place where I'm confound
my swing torn from branches,sawed off
Looked up to the morn's sky
observed the sun and feared it's distance nearing.

Milk bottle naked, I followed my destined path
the alien world full of new tech and standards
must keep up appearances, have to fit in
I have to fit in
I HAVE to fit in.
I must keep up appearances
I need a phone, I need a profile
I need those grades
I need to get into university
I need a job, a career!

Breathe.

If you read this, please. Read this!
Do something, change.
You must change.


I run to the river
My heaven, oh, home
The roots tied my feet to it's bed, trapped
Looked up to the outside
felt the rush drag me down.

I long to be sat in summers youth, that feels as crisp as my pages.

I am always sat on my empty bookself.
A one of a kind, first edition, tragedy.
My authors working on projects much more important than I.

Chapter 1:
summarises the bliss of fresh flesh, unmarked, unripped, ungrammatical because nothing ever mattered.

By my final chapter I had lost my friends, abandoning all hope I lost everything, as my protagonist writhes in agony from heartbreaks that are as fresh as when they began.

On my bookself, dust collects by my blurb (which is only half unwritten), I cannot move though my spine is unbroken.
Half of my contents, speak of brighter times.
Times of infactuations appearing in spring.
Times where playing in the streets was an everyday thing.
Times of scraped knees, bruised arms and hair which was once neatly plaited turned into tendrils spiraling out of control.
Times of being called in for tea.
Being told to remember suncream otherwise your baby doll face will turn to a shrimp.
Times where the nettles sting would be sweeter than the honey of a bee.

As every day closes each chapter, I know they will continue while I stay stuck in my days. Just a scap of literature upon a shelf with no map nor compass. I sit on my shelf and come 5:43 every evening, I watch. The streetlights flicker on and illuminate brighter every second.
I remember.

A happier time.

Before I was written.

Before my pages became tattered and torn.

Once again, I long to be sat in summers youth, that feels as crisp as my pages

When glass breaks
You can piece it back together
But it'll never be the same.
And along the way
You'll loose some chips
And gain some cracks.

Likewise, when the heart is glass
It'll never heal
It'll never be the same
No matter how strong the person
That heart will be the most fragile part of them.

The worst part?
It's always those with stone hearts that break those with glass ones.
Sometimes they trip up and it accidentally breaks
But other times the stone-hearted will push them over causing them to purposefully break.
Yet they will never feel the pain of breaking.
Never will they scrabble to fit the puzzle pieces of their glass hearts back together once again.

And whoever called love a dream has never lived through a nightmare.