Single years roll down my face,
I send smoke signals to teenagers
Lost in the sound of their personal midnight,
Changing their names to ‘lost’ and ‘gained’
and remain unquantifiable
in the loose streets of halogen New York,
or the loose streets of halogen anywhere,

Some places you don’t imagine, only experience,
Some places you don’t  visit but get sent,
Some places demand sacrifice of years you don’t have,
Some places are just prayers and graffiti,

And here, here
The railway bridge adorned,
with tags and padlocks
and ****** fluids with different stories,
I see all the streets and city embodied,
She has a face like blunt force trauma,
Her legs are seductive and her hands
are covered in blood,
Her lover’s smile is an open wound.

In these places there is a fire in every tower,
In these places there is something sharp in every pocket,
In these places there is a sad drawing in your child’s notebook,
In these places there is always a ticking growing louder.

A foetus in handcuffs beneath a middle aged man
hanging from a traffic light;
Incidents unrelated,
Become dead words in piles of boxes,
That don’t realise they tell us how
this city or satellite town
is gathering the dirt for its own burial mound.

they say that time heals wounds
but I found out creating my own wounds
heal alot more than time could ever do

that morning there was blood on my sheets
that night I cried a thousand tears on my pillow

sad kids walking the streets these days
their arm filled with beautiful scars

and for the first time I found comfort in having my demons near me
I found a little bit of my home back in this darkness, this is a part of me

birds they are flying, the sun is shining
everything around me is slowly dying

the party was getting started and all I wanted was to get away
I wanted to run away from all these dancing, drunken youngsters
I remember this night so clearly, the music was so so loud

oh pretty darling here we are again
lying on the floor with demons whispering things
telling you stories about blood and death, terrible things

they will say that all of this is your own fault
so please don't tell a single soul about what you did last night

I made a mess again,
please help me to clean it up this time.

small chill sets through past& present
tides' turns; although, somehow, i've been
sweating more, lately. nerves, or insides
slowly lit& spread. but, if you truly
were wildfire (and, sometimes, you
are), i'd stay the kindling that i am,
anyway.
                   the light and
length of days
                              shuffle,
as normal steps, in this adjoining dance,
and i try not let it show but,
im still feeling the same.
still aching and burning.
little shivering hope, sat by a
little wavering candle, whispering:
you might change your
mind, but
people seem to stick to
their songs, and
i'm not quite sure if
you'll change your tune in time, but

i still adore you, so
i'll just keep waiting,
for now.

but i can walk around, having
written all the angles between
streets in the ravines in
my skin. and i can still
stare at the sky, from hilltops,
and know maybe the world doesn't
have to carry so much meaning or
get dizzy whilst spinning or even
notice that,
in its silhouetted waltz,
the moon, brilliant& alight, is quietly
headed out to sea.

i had hoped that by this time i
would not be scared of you or
the way cups look nestled in
your hands or the rumbling
down deep when you flash
me that grin, but i feel like i
am sinking
      sinking
      stuck to someone else's
fingertips, even after all this
time. i thought that i would
be able to give you more but
there is nothing left in me for
anyone else. i have scraped
down to raw tissue and tendons,
and i'm sure that if you opened
me up you would see the scratch
marks from where i have been
trying to find even flakes to
give to you. i'm so sorry that by
the time you came along all the
parts of me worth having were
gone.

I'm not very good at anything
Though I am a perfectionist
Finding myself below the best
In everything I do
I tell myself I don't need the satisfaction of Others
And that is the most substantial lie
I have ever told

right now there are eleven empty containers of alcohol in my bedroom,
but it's fine, i'm fine.
i've been telling myself for more than a year
that i wasn't going to write anymore sad ****** poems about you,
but here we are.
most days i'm sure i don't miss you,
but then i listen to the wrong song,
and before i know it -
i'm screaming along to band of horses in the dark,
stalking your twitter favorites,
and somehow,
i've managed to get snot on my forehead.
yeah, nostalgia is an *******
but not all the memories sting.
there was that one time we went to the movies
and i slipped on some ice and fell flat on my ***.
i just sat there while you took a picture.
but i'm glad we could laugh about it.
i'm glad we were comfortable.
in my head, we still are.
in my head, we're oversized-goodwill-sweater comfortable.
we aren't as comfortable in real life
but i'm glad we still laugh.
this is the part where i don't bring up the time you told me
my laughter could cure your sadness,
because i'm pretty sure i already put that in another poem,
and it makes me really ******* sad.
did i ever tell you i used to play guitar and piano?
i loved them, but i never tried very hard.
i wanted to be good without having to practice.
i wanted to be good without having to practice.
i wanna meet the girl you write about
so i can ask her how she manages not to love you back.
because i've tried everything & i am so tired.
i forgot this wasn't supposed to be a sad poem.
i'm not good at happy anyway,
i never have been.
but in your absence i've learned a lot about softness.
so if i ever find myself back in your passenger seat,
i won't correct you when you sing the wrong lyrics,
i won't ask why when you take the long way home.
i won't ask you why you don't have your seatbelt on,
i'll just say a silent prayer
and watch for signs that you might be about to swerve.
right now there are eleven empty containers of alcohol in my bedroom,
and i didn't find you at the bottom of a single one.

- m.f.