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Emma G Mar 2017
It would be right to one day take those vows;
promise to live by rules already broken.
But I would cheat myself to hear words spoken
by lips of mine so earnestly aloud;
mind far too scathing, heart already soured
towards this binding act and golden token.
My questioning mind remains forever open
to temptation in all its spidery forms. I cower
from commitment until the eleventh hour
when I realise I must reap what I did sow.

I see the surface ripple, split and break
And I must spare you from this lonely streak which binds me.
I see a life where all I've caused is heartache  
with nothing but the debris left behind me.
I cannot swear and all others forsake
when you have only ever looked but never  seen.
Emma G Jan 2017
He was not the beloved, the shiny prize.
He was not the Poincaré, with adoring eyes.
He was not and will not and cannot be
the one for you; you the one for he.

A year of pretense and of cracks painted over.
A year of neglect and of no self disclosure;
played out as a song, that you could not join in.
His hands choked at your throat as you struggled to sing.

He laid down a new route to walk upon,
of sheets and passion, that once seemed so strong.
He tied you in knots with his words and his tongue
but he pulled at the edges, which frayed; came undone.

He talked in figures; you talked in prose.
‘So little,’ he said, as he pulled you in close.
So easy to break, to snap and to steal;
so easy to love and so desperate to feel.

The emptiness fell, with the silence of snow,
subtle in arrival, the hour hard to know.
But draw back the curtains, and stark white: its there
It never would thaw in that thick, icy air.

The seasons rolled past and blurred into dreaming.
You walked that bit faster, cut corners to see him,
to avoid the moods that would meet with your stare;
to please and appease, and to meet with his care.

Oedipus Rex would have turned in his grave
to see the affection you lavished and gave.
Enduring; unfaltering, like mother to child
but the order was false, the roles were defiled.

So there you sunk, in the bed he had made,
lying alone, while the doubts were replayed.
He slipped you the key, and you locked yourself in
You came out for air, but it ****** you back in.

You forgot your language, lost your self, somehow.
So you counted instead, because he taught you how.
You counted those numbers on packets instead
and totted them up everyday in your head

The numbers mutated and changed, as it grew.
By the end they spelled out a new word, just for you:
CONTROL read the cupboards, the fridge and the plates,
the scales and the measure you wrapped round your waist.

With this you’d be happy, with this, he’d be kind
With this was the future you wanted to find.
But numbers are fragile, dividing and changing
It’s words that are steadfast, forever remaining

They alter the memories with reason and logic
They re write the story: not blissful, not tragic.
Yes; numbers are something you won’t understand
But words lay the power right back in your hand.
Emma G Jan 2017
I am always on display.
Mere arrival sculpted me in this affliction and
appointed me this unsought role:
A modern-day artefact in a museum of
clubs and bars and too-quiet streets.
From their vans; walking far too close;
sometimes in-step with defeated wives,
they watch with ravenous eyes,
although they are not hungry.
Fattened up by society, with
guilt-free snacks of seedy temptation,
they devour every bit, but are never full.
I know they would not look away,
in shame and shock
at my met gaze, if they were truly
famished.
Emma G Jan 2017
In the inky darkness around the bed,
you lit a cigarette next to me, while
I followed the orange glow with dozy eyes.
Kissing me after, with a smoker's mouth,
somehow, the coppery smoke tasted sweeter on your lips
than on any of the others' and we fell into fitful sleep,
your unknown body molten against mine.
In the morning I left,
strangely smug at my non-achievement,
and walked home in yesterday's clothes,
in heels that moulded to last night's blisters.
Unsure of etiquette, sure in my autonomy
I left nothing: no name, no number.
But as I sit here, a part of me is missing -
never too old for naivety, I thought we had
both taken what we wanted in equal parts.
But, as I desperately try to assemble the jigsaw
and piece together the features of your face,
while your far-off foreign accent melts in my mind,
I realise just how wrong I was.
Emma G Jan 2017
I am going to leave this place.
One month today I will not see
these walls which have seen such disgrace.
I'll leave this room, unfeelingly,
the way you did when you left me.

I will bag the disappointment
lining every inch of floor
and leave all of these empty hopes,
stagnation at their rotten core,
binlinered at the brown front door.

I am going to leave this house,
a structure quite devoid of home.
A year has passed, quite unannounced;
I came as yours, I'll leave alone;
but now I am not on my own.

And you can lose yourself in those
new women who are lost in you
and wonder how you feel so low -
an emptiness you never knew -
and wonder if I feel it, too.

I do not shudder when I hear
the things you candidly will tell
but know that you can hardly bear
ideas of me, clutched at, as well;
to hear the same from me is hell.

My feet won't tread these flights of stairs:
six floors which led to nothing good.
We will not small-talk our affairs
because we really feel we should.
You will not see me as you would.

This house I'll bid no fond farewell,
it never was a home to me.
Merely a place where memories dwell,
with things I do not wish to see.
I'll leave them here as I leave, free.
Emma G Jan 2017
And now, I will become the girl you never wanted,
to befit the fact that that is what I am.
As my skin cells are cast off,
in their brittle battle with time,
I will change into a girl you never even touched.
My skin will be mine;
it will not recognise your hands,
while life will cast yours in a new form, too.
Our skin, more than merely estranged,
will make us two new beings.
Two strangers.
Our eyes will be the only things unchanged
and we will look at each other,
in a fleeting double take,
as others do on the tube, across a room, in the street,
when they know that they have met before,
but can't remember where.
And the moment will pass:
doors will close, trains will move,
fate will move us past each other.
Two strangers, who will never meet.
Emma G Jan 2017
Wrinkled hag, jilted crone; I sit here alone
with dull eyes that stare, as bones creak in this chair.
It was he, it was he: He who did this to me.
Now grubby, grey lace spills all over this place,
from bulbous knees to floor, skimming knuckles which claw
and so desperately clutch at this craved nothing much.
Fermented by torment, detestable garment:
once such pure, lily white, now this odious sight.

Listless hate lines my gut, starved collar bones jut.
Will anyone stoop, graze my lips, resolute -
earnest in the flush of a youthful crush?
No one now; no one then; no one ever again.
None will gently curl locks that fall and unfurl;
this dry brittle hair would snap under such care
and these thin flaking lips are neglected by Kiss;
only fit to moan in this place I call home.

Desires left, maligned, a banquet undined;
its consumption forbade by the one left, betrayed.
Hanging cobwebs descending in this Hell, never ending
brush my arms and my face, atrophied and disgraced.
I keep captive here, as months turn to years
but this room is no solace. No, starved and sexless,
I sink here as stone with the life love postponed,
kept, barely, afloat by this last desperate hope.

Resplendent, fair Star, gazed upon from afar,
chaste, confederate child, unmarked, undefiled.
Feather light, youth's delight, while I suffer this plight,
she must remain headstrong, immune her life long
to this pointless abhorrence (they call love, I call grievance.)
She must never give in to that first deadly sin
for with great expectation comes most devastation.
Untried prisoner here, I do my time;
to love too much my only crime.
Inspired by Carol Ann Duffy
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