'i can breathe, i can breathe!'

i scream it into the air because there's space to scream it.
grass and trees and water as far as the eye can see,
even turbines spinning slowly,
i'm telling you now i have never felt like there was so much air before this moment.

i move upstream through the running water just to remind myself that this is real life and there are still difficulties
i laugh to myself though - it's never been this easy to bring myself back down to earth, because there's so ******* much of it

my vision is blurred from wet glasses. i'm delighted. the stress lines are melting from my face with the rain. i'm unashamed. i don't think i've ever been this free of pain. aaand hodor's howling from the top of the hill like a tiny wolf again.

side by side i walk through heather with my mother and i remember lantern-lit martinmas walks when i was four feet tall or thereabouts, and with the peppered scent of brambles and moulting leaves, i'm a child again and the leaves are mine to crunch and kick.

we pick wildflowers for the kitchen and blackberries for jam. we find ourselves going to extraordinary lengths to get the best ones, which of course, are always just out of reach. it becomes a quest for the unobtainables. but we come home with stained hands, faces aglow and two kilos.

bernie learns to fetch the ball and drop it and i almost cry because i love him so much. bernie investigates the deeper water of the river because daisy is swimming and i almost cry because i love him so much. bernie lays his damp head on my legs after a walk and falls straight to sleep and i almost cry because i love him so much.

the mist lies on top of the mountain like a protective blanket and i feel myself become one with the mud. i am the mud. the mud is me. i am a mud lady now. ever had muddy water flow over the top of your wellies and not feel remotely bothered? better than yoga.

never thought i'd ever be wishing for a wetsuit but here we are.

oh and, cold sunshine. gorgeous, crisp cold sunshine.

i'm always
in between places
encouraged to embrace new phases
been told that my tension is baseless
and if i'm so restless then maybe
i should rest more
forget the urge to explore and
try harder to be relaxed, or
acceptable, adorable,
but i swore that this turbulence would mean something
whether on dancefloors or in bookstores
i'd be there, carving out a slice of the world
to swallow whole and put gleaming eyes to work
healing old wounds covered over in moss and stones
sinew and muscle and skin so new that nobody who's hurt me
has ever touched it
i figure there's water in some places that can seep through tired bones and reach even
the smallest, longest-burning embers in my lungs that catch my breath sometimes
when i see an old photograph, or the at the smell of petrol
and sitting here means nothing more than coughing up ashes
so i'd like to know what sort of rest they think that is

i want to believe that the one place in this town untainted by trauma is somewhere i leave bluebells behind me with every footstep
then if i revisit i might be able to spot where my healing started
somewhere between there and starlight in june
or maybe it was underneath july's orange moon
or maybe it was after soaking my face in lightning storms on an august night
either way, whenever i've daydreamed about my life
this place wasn't what i had in mind
or dragged out for this amount of time
so perhaps all it means
is that my dreams remain untouched by clumsy hands
and i can still be charmed by fresh lands and familiar plans
and even if the restlessness never wanes
i still have the moonlight in my veins

until then all i have are grey skies and citalopram
and this place looks the same all year round
and nobody even notices ashes in the atmosphere
because everything turns to dust here

she told me i should put my heart in a box and so i did
lined with alstroemerias and ever-closing eyelids
breeze rushing through hair thick with bleach and memories
blowing the dust of his handprints from the backs of my arms into the wind
first driving lesson dreaming of san diego sunshine
catch me outside in a year's time
lana del rey record playing in the 4x4
hand out the window california dreamin' eyes
ocean roaring far from my little 20 zone
i always did fantasise about being an optimist
never quite managed it
but she told me i should put my heart in a box and so i did
lined with alstroemerias and polaroid candids
and i still dream of sunshine and straight roads on a daily basis
even if i don't get to have all that i want and still get to be his
i've wasted too much of my life being bitter for me to feel the world's sweetness
but driving home under dusk could perhaps fix the rust while i'm sleeping
'cause on highways nothing's sad and nothing matters
even if the earth shatters, you just keep one eye on the dash and one in the sky
you can keep the speed, i'll keep the romance
rosy perfume surrounding me like a fortress
because she told me i should put my heart in a box and so i did
filled with old dreams filed under no longer relevant
and as much pain as i have felt i am lighter for it
can't help smiling as i reach for the coffee and start to pour it

she overlooks me,
her hand like a pale sailor's greeting
shadows her eyes as
dappled light flutters along the rooftop spire above her head -
her forefinger curves to her browbone,
a buffer for the kind of morning
that greets those from high rise
windows
in places like this
for faces like hers
to stay just a little while
and leave smiling over one shoulder
in a stolen shot of a car window;

secrets swallowed and adventures washed down with beaujolais in the backs of black coupés
whisky, cherries and dual carriageways
thick cigars, rubber on tar
all the way to those dark places and bars
that leave most half-hearted,
but she is more sparkling and effervescent than champagne stars,
and more well received than a cacophany of applause.

she overlooks me,
craning up from under the morning mist
leans, eyes closed, on the iron railing and breathes
a familiar rise and fall
expanding of lungs that she and i share, but different air
mine fit to burst with coffee and car exhaust
hers with that crisp stratosphere coolness:
the penthouse breeze.
her arm like a swan's neck curls from elbow to chin,
shadowed straps and sunbeams
take turns dancing on her skin
as though they could flirt forever.

and she overlooks me:
a face in the crowd
searching hard for access
moving through a chaos of flickering flashes,
just a droplet of light in the bright white clouds
of camera strobes
and crushing against body after body
my crumpled black t-shirt dreams of her atmosphere

it is no fault of hers though
she remains as generous as she is radiant,
waving and beaming over the awning
so that others may enjoy a little warmth this morning.

still,
she overlooks me,
my eyes still set on the perfect curl of her hazel hair
as it drops and slips over her bare shoulder
and her forefinger
as it rests in the space between jaw and cherry painted lips
parted in laughter
where sit teeth like the first row of an audience enraptured.

finally, as the performance ends
and the sounds around me swell
with mona lisa eyes
she throws me her last, lasting look
before turning and disappearing beyond invisible thresholds
and the mass held spellbound
recedes and melts
but in that moment,
i feel seen like everybody else.

under blankets of shooting stars,
red velvet and chandeliers
she moves ceaselessly
through hazes of gaultier and hallways
humming nightingale songs at midnight
and falling back into bed linen
sore feet and tipsy eyes
fingers still dancing across pillows
mind still racing
chest still whirling,
but making a home here
for now.

and only then
does she roll to the side
and rummage to the back of her bags
past silk and sapphire
past black tie attire
sleeping, that night,
with its familiar longing
in her old black t-shirt
because nothing fits so well.

except in moments, she will always overlook me
and although i'll never meet her
she will set me free,
and in this one moment, true as salt in the sea
i know one day i will know her
and she'll remember me.

my whole life i've been breaking my heart on memories too jagged for it
moments like an intake of air
too short and sharp for my chest
that wants to rise slow and easy, graceful with every breath
a shock to the system to say the best,
the intimacy's fading with every detail of disrespect
heart skipping a beat before falling awake
back in step with recognition after being
stuck for a second, on the eerie formality of
small talk with such a familiar blank face
overwhelmed by that sickness in the back of my throat, urging me to get some space
choking on places that never wanted me
never asked for me,
never knew me,
never wanted to know me,
but my heart just wants to remember everyone fondly.

so my whole life i've been breaking my heart on memories too perfect for it
coffee and candles and inky hands in the evening
whisky lips and late night screenings
even the fighting the endless tears and the screaming
and the people that always ended up leaving -
like a beautiful little fool,
i fell in love with my pedestals
lived up to them one by one and had them leaving me breathless like duvet covers pulled off in the night
like green eyes under dim lights
and his lips on mine made me feel like i'm soulless
like the air i was breathing was nothing but stardust
pretty and cosmic but finally fruitless
and i can't lie, i didn't mind
'cause his hand round my throat made me feel like i'm worth this
like he gave me a promise
and said here, now keep it,
i promise he didn't.

sometimes i'm laying on carpets more worn than i am
staring at ceilings that have seen my hopeful eyes a few too many times
wondering if i really have nothing left to give
if i've had my fair share of people who want to stretch out moments with me
enough people to bathe in memories like warm oceans for the rest of my life
and maybe i should get going,
make like the moon and cling to horizons only for an evening
but my heart proves time and time over that i am overflowing
because here i am laughing at the sun like it isn't shining enough
to blaze through a summer that shines brighter than us
like i light up the dark.

and then peace finds me,
somewhere between forest pines and no trespassing signs
somewhere between my sheets and body heat
somewhere between one moment and the next
between car seats and ***
i am everywhere and i am nowhere
i'm his girlfriend, i'm his best friend
he's swearing under his breath in the lounge chair
like he knows i'm more than just the hot air on his skin
more than he ever knew he was involved in
i'm a universe of my very own and stardust is my cornerstone
breathe it in like magic, it's time for me to begin,
i am not just spare
i'm the whole engine
and i'm starting now, at the ending

He's a skyline
Endless highs wash and glide over my eyelids sparkling wide like the sea
Hook line and sinker, those blue green irises sure do allure a girl like me
Caught in the West-side stormy horizons around his pupils
Falling deep into his sunny day Harbourside gaze
And he wonders aloud why I'm so dazed
so I say yeah, honey, yeah no, I'm great

He's a skyline
Running along avenues of my skin like a city that he's glad as **** to be locked in
Climbing streetlights and smoking trees like it's easy
Feels me in like a summer breeze 'cause it thrills me
Writhing like a motorway, scaling ribcages like a multi-storey
I think he might want to stay, I know cities have a certain glory
I curl up in the curve of his spine like a half pipe
I know he'll keep me safe, he's positive like his blood type
Early morning grey he stands on top of the world with me,
and his heart shaped face breaks me out of boxes I didn't know I had in me.

He's a skyline
I know all the words to his sunset car songs
He likes the windows down and we both like to sing along
And when we go in circles, slipping past the road to the M5
We just turn the volume up and let the whole world just pass us by
It's true what they say that time flies
I can't hold onto these eternities in every easy moment, but I,
I know I'm shotgun eternally, double barrel shots of red wine
and he's gonna think this is funny now 'cause I can't find a clever rhyme

Still,
We're a skyline; an only-way-is-up vertical horizon of opportunity
and he knows exactly where to drive to get into my
brain, and
It's only us in the whole place and our bodies breathe adventure 'cause all I see is his face
Close to mine, eyes shining like the universe awaits
With fingers intertwined like atoms in space

The catalyst for my daydreams is the rave where time stopped on the bass notes
So I could build a wall right up to his skyline for all my high hopes
But he breaks it down every time I fall asleep in his arms
Hearts replace guards, never felt so good to be disarmed.

If everything that’s going to happen has already happened,
could you change my life with a word?
Does the change in my purse keep that man in the street
in the street instead of a hearse?
I heard he was always going to live
from a scientist,
that no lack of change
could change the fact that I gave him the change,
because the change was always there,
and I was always going to do it,
and I changed nothing.

But I felt changed, still reeling from the possibility
that my small offer could save someone from death,
And short-changed by the short answer
that such is time
and such is breath.
Nothing more magic than tea in the morning, he told me,
as I had flashbacks of steaming tea and someone holding me,
when I needed it,
that could have saved my life, I think,
but time had already seen to it.

So, could you change my life with a word?
There are things, I think, that if I hadn’t heard,
I’d be an actress, not a poet,
I’d never even know it,
I could Marilyn Monroe it –
beautiful, famous and dead
instead of the opposite,
mutable, aimless, but well-read.

Not understanding the gravity of the situation
maybe I could warp time to suit me
But that’s a mass effect, a contradiction,
being so small yet so multitudinous, simultaneously
Two things at once, or more,
well that’s the heart of every human core.

Because it changes you,
knowing nothing could have changed,
you see your whole life in a very strange way.
You’re no longer writing your story, yet to be ended
but reading through early chapters, knowledge suspended.
So maybe it’s not your life that changes,
but you.
If time correlates with our need to be free,
then that right there,
that’s some really super symmetry.

So, could you change me with a word?
Because I can’t time travel back to when I didn’t know how it felt
to be told that I was beautiful,
or to be told that I was ugly,
I can’t fuse the blank slate state with the confusion that tugs me
into the haze of self-perception,
I can’t find solid footing now,
I guess that’s sublimation.

Could you change me with a word?
Because I can’t see any other reason why when we’ve come this far in scientific understanding,
it’s still possible for you to make me feel so two-dimensional,
and no matter is unintentional, see
The words I’ve heard defy time and space in my memory,
providing a long list of reasons why I am me,
language has made up almost every degree of my identity,
all things tie together, that’s my string theory.

You could change me with a word, maybe that’s science fiction,
but I like to think that’s what life’s about,
Transforming each other – the slow burn and the friction,

and that scientist changed me,

no matter his doubts.

My mistakes go retro, I’ve made them before
sometimes I think being forced to talk through lightbulbs would maybe stop it all
all the awkward hello-I-exist moments all the overreactions all the irritated snaps when I can’t snap out of it all the times I didn’t mean to cry out *******,
no, with that limitation I’d only say what I needed to

It’s not like I’m living upside down but it sure does feel like it
hidden away in my head so much that the outside world feels eerie
daylight is bright white and reality is my Demogorgon
I’m too tired to fight it, and standing in supermarkets, bleary-eyed
feels unreal, like a fake body in a quarry
I just wish love was enough to overcome worry

My dungeons are four cream walls closing in on me, infecting me with black slime that weighs me down too much to move
My dragons are adrenaline and exhaustion, they take turns attacking me,
these demons keep trapping me, and I keep getting told it’s too soon
It’s too soon for this, I’m just a kid
lost in the forest, upside down and off-grid
I’m off-kilter, with a faulty brain-filter and my squirming blue fingers
are gripping bike handles and trying to rebuild her

The ******* the wire, the girl with inner fire whose eyes shined like the lights I wish I had to communicate with
that girl would have slain the Demogorgon with idealism and defiance,
now I wish it away in the pretense that it’s a myth
She could whisk objects away into a magical space, a deep forest of brave faces,
seeing beauty in all things through summer dazed rays of romance
skipping along rivers, hair fair and careless, daring to dream of daisies gleaming, just on the lookout for the next rhyme,
unaware that this was the strongest she’d ever be, the least cowardly, unaware that she’d one day be me.

Locked up in the four walls with no fairy lights or lyrics,
Joyce Byers without a reason,
crazy with no spirit.
Months on end immersed in dungeons, fighting dragons,
only to escape and be faced with this deadly Demogorgon:
life without eleven lenses of hope. A life cynical and devoid of magic,
less nightmarish than the upside down but just as bleak,
this is the monster that makes me weak

it’s not the upside down, but my own reality.

I’m still waiting for my sling-shot, sleeping until my powers are restored,
there’s nothing worse than seeing the world and being bored,
in eleven days I’ll try again,
I have at least eleven days of hope left,
I’ll get out of this swimming pool, hop over the barbed wire,
eleven days to find that girl again and turn my gasoline fire inwards,
to escape the wasteland once and for all,
for the world to be big enough that I don’t hear the Demogorgon through the walls,

Eleven days to fix my sanctuary in the forest,
so I can light up both my outward-looking eyes like the aurora borealis.

You look

down

at me from a skyscraper rooftop,

throwing stones casually

from your glass tower

smiling,

you sip coffee

as they shower over me.



Falling over myself

to please you,

I climb every flight of stairs,

dodge every stone,

smiling,

just to find that you

have built ten more floors

‘Come on,

it’s just a stone’s throw for you’, you say

as I dawn another doorway

clutching my gut,

only to find it cemented shut.



You always love to remind me

no matter how much I grow,

I am still ten floors



below

and it will never be as awe-inspiring as your growth,

the doors I could open; you close.



Thank you,

for showing me that there

is no limit



to the floors I can climb

and stones I can take on the chin



I am so far from the dirt

you would put me in



But I think it’s time I built my own skyscraper

with no stones

no stairs

just elevators

for those within.

Mama told you when you were young
that people would treat you like a library,
come and go as they please,
sometimes leaving you a little more
empty,
sometimes curling up in a corner, immersed in you
an ark, strong and safe, for some
as they talk over you and
leave two by two,
fidgeting hands leaving gaps in your armoured rows of memories
as they drag fingers along book spines
unsettling old and stubborn dust
in neat little lines.

Sometimes they will come only to put you back on the shelf
in order to move on to some brighter place.
You see, your dim warm lights will comfort some and depress others,
and that's alright, she said,
some will risk it all to stay all night.
Still, knowing this,
you sit lamplit on the patio
buttoned up with regret
wine red lips pursed
burden on both sleeves
tired of the world already at twenty three.
She never told you that torn pages and unfinished stories
would bleed and hurt like real wounds
that some visitors would leave you
collapsing behind them,
crumbling, folding,
the threat of closure looming
like an unsatisfactory ending--
she didn't tell you that libraries are also oceans
stretching fields
and cities
burning crashing and fading into bittersweetness
and balled fists

she didn't warn you of plot twists like this
or what to do when they arise
your big moon eyes clouding over
like a stormy night
in front of living room lights
that have turned their back on you
or that sometimes peter pan at the window
would have more luck than you at getting
through people's frosted glass

You have to learn your own fresh start
you have your own paintbrush, you have your own heart,
So, paint your insides, watch them dry
under the new moon.
That sinking feeling is just
a new room,
no bookshelves in it yet.

Remember this moment

remember this, because I tend to forget her upturned
lips,
upturned wrists

and the way she rendered lists of reasons why it's splendid to exist,
reasons why living and loving and giving a ****
are only ten per cent struggle,
ninety per cent bliss

see, she made all the small things seem so massive.

Still,
I forget this
others haven't been there like I have
haven't seen her like I have.
Still, I forget this
how easy it is to push someone away because
I never thought I could,
but somehow did.

So then,
I can't forget again

not while we're still here

because it's never clear,
but through the moments between now and then
when I was drowning in my pretense
when I felt like I was losing the battle between myself and my health again,
drowning in premonitions of tense
fists,
blood spit
I shouldn't have quit
on her

But I had a bad habit of treating her like a forget-me-not
it's never something you can feel yourself regretting
until it's lost.

So, note to self,
remember this moment
and don't try to own it or clone it
possess it or test it
just let it rest
and quietly remember,

The reason you're not spinning out of control in the black hole that comes about when you're spaced out is that she

she remembered you.

Duct taped you back together with words
and you'll never really be brand new
but no longer on red alert
you can sit for a minute
and breathe a little bit.

Remember that she taught you to breathe again when you'd forgotten.

My beautiful oxygen mask,
I don't think for a second I could ever forget you,
but I won't pretend anymore
that I never did before
a forget-me-not that I swore to protect
and then stopped

when I poured out of myself,
helpless,
like a demon possessed,
like a woman on the edge.

I shattered glass and broke floors
like a decade-long hurricane,
now weak with relief, I piece together window panes
glue chests and drawers,
and lightly, lightly close the door
on dewy mornings, grey skies and marshy moors

I blow the bad energy out of the room
and swirl incense smoke around me and you

lifting your delicate face
with my well-meaning hands
I'll never, ever hurt you again.

When did I become so numb that I don't care about this?
You, with your arm around a girl that isn't me,
lipstick on your cheek,
me, seeing it the next day, wishing I hadn't
but telling myself I'm not sad and

I'm not yours anyway.

I always noticed the details, never missed,
like how you don't speak the same these days,
sentences rearranged in harsh beats like they've been set out all fast and neat in your brain,
like how you don't think of me in the mornings anymore
and it feels like I have to claw for the attention that a fortnight ago I couldn't have asked for more of,
like how talking to you had me leaving clothes in crumpled piles across my room, which I don't usually do
and now I feel like a shirt you've folded up and put away,
still stale sweat on me like you'd used me for a day
and then decided your style had changed

or maybe I was never your style in the first place.

But it's okay, because you never promised me ****,
and I'm so numb I just don't care about this.

Our disagreements weren't part of this agreement
that unspoken, poked at the little ropes looping tight my self esteem sheets,
that I use as sails to wail and bellow into
so that my pain might be just for me and not reach you.
Our disagreements weren't part of this agreement
not to let anything get too serious,
they were never epic swelling storms set on swallowing us whole
but listless clips of me checking my phone
to see that you still hadn't made an appearance,
a punishment, I assume, for my flagrant disobedience
for stepping outside of casual too soon
boundaries so fragile even I could break them
and I can do just about one press-up

Yeah, apparently that isn't gradual enough.

But I'm grown, right? So I'm not going to dwell on it.
I'm told it's dumb to care about this.

Just chill, you said,
don't get too intense,
so I don't -- I close my mouth, my message is bottled up until it drowns
and I paint my smile on like a clown
because hope comes hand in hand with fear
and hands down,
head up,
I'm as chill as the atmosphere
that's crept in
chill as the bed
you never slept in
chill as the threshold
you never stepped in

See I'm cool as the ice-caps
because I too, am having a meltdown
so don't call someone a flood,
when you broke the dam,
don't call someone a tsunami,
when you caused the earth quake,
and don't call somebody crazy
when you made them ******* crazy.

There's a disconnect here, between the real
and the face you must pull when you lie
maybe it's like mine--
but you swore --
--not that I'd know what to look for,
I see only what you want me to see,
on a screen,
disconnected from reality,
like a dream

I'm not a girl, I'm a dream

I'm not a human, I'm a dream.

We've created an art of not caring, of casual heartbreak
and never daring to talk
about the feelings or the fallout
because it's not cool to care, is it?
**** feelings, am I right?
those flames that shoot right through your veins and cause
unnecessary pain,
but hey,
let's reload the page and hope
that our burning hearts don't set alight our freeze-frame brains.

**** that.

It's not good enough.
I want the impossible: no ******* games,
I want to feel the flames
feel all the passion and all the rage that we have the ability to retain,
I want the embers in your heart to be the fire in your voice
and I want the feelings I express to be an easy choice,
that I get to make,
I want nothing to be faked
I want feelings so hot they burn at the stake
I want you to feel safe, but heightened, when you feel the light and
I want a love that shines so bright I have to shield my eyes
I want you to have the love you've long denied,
and if it hurts, I want you to cry
but not the single salty tear that nobody sees,
the tear that's allowed,
the tear that dies with the slightest breeze,
cry hot, fast, angry tears that your cheeks must make way for
you have to hurt like you love, you see,
and love defiantly
before we all freeze each other out silently.

Because people are burning up from within, smoke pouring from their skin and steam from their eyes,
time flies under dark skies
under the guise of 'it's alright',
a snapshot romance becomes a wretched glance back at you
knowing you still don't know the things I want you to

we treat people like they're disposable,
forgetting that tinder isn't frozen, it's flammable
we're human beings, we run hot, that's the way that it is,
when did we become so numb that we don't care about this?

I once stood in the middle of a motorway at 3am
just for fun,
I told myself, just for fun -
But I don't think it was, now I'm okay
I still sway, dream of far away but I get my exams done,
so I don't let my mother down again
so I don't hide inside from remaining friends.
I keep myself planted, smile slanted, half frown -
and I don't make a sound until I mean to,
until I breeze through,
until I need to,
this is the studied truth of the newly grounded.

I'm not into rushing things these days,
I mean I still do but less so in less ways
and my mind's all curly wurly and I have resting ***** face
and skin like a coffin -
I still can't get up early, still feel displaced
a little too often -
but this is my city now and I don't want to leave or get out,
because this time I am okay
and I'm dealing
and my anxiety still leaves me reeling
but I'm not panicking as much or screaming
and my pillows are the only ones who don't believe me.

Still,
everything is temporary, in constant flux
fresh cut grass and students in class
sunsets and sunrises
church bells and waist sizes
metal and petrol and monster trucks,
and it's all beautiful,
that's the most important thing you'll ever find out -
it's better to shine bright without background doubt
than to disappear into the darkness,
the dark mess,
I mean, I still want to run and shout but now
it's more writing my thoughts down and actually seeing the day
and not 3am standing in a motorway
telling myself, just for fun.

This is not the barrel of a gun, hard and cold
it's not the answer it's not made of gold
it's not a solution, it's the end of it all
and I don't know if we rot or acsend,
but it wasn't just for fun,
it was leaving the motor running,
it was something I was running away from -

Life,
it isn't easy, it's not like saying 'it's okay'
when it's not yourself you're telling
and when it's you, it can't be told or shown
you have to push hardest when you're alone
because finally, once clear of fear's icy gripping hands
I came to understand
that life is beautiful, even when it's sad,
it's the best thing I never knew I had,
so I started living,
just for fun.

I'm not done, you see?
I'm not done.

In primary school I learned the origin story of the forget-me-not,
a flower so small it cried out to be remembered and was named as such,
the forget-me-not,
ironically forgotten a lot.
Not romantic like roses nor symbolic like lilies,
not rare like orchids nor poison like ivy,
but some still remember and some still notice,
even if others prefer a marigold or lotus.
I always noticed
the forget-me-note
that dotted our gardens on Irish mountains
that smiled up at me during my first kiss on a camp site
that were ****** toward me in the balled fist of a boy who said he loved me,
at thirteen,
my first ever flowers.

He said he liked them because they were like me,
small and unusual. And purple, he added,
because purple is an unusual colour.
Forget-me-not,
except, he did, of course
I am worlds away from those mountains
and in every world since,
I have cried out to be remembered
by those who play on loops in my mind,
but been forgotten every time
until now.

I found other forget-me-nots floating through worlds like me,
girls with hard humour and soft hearts
who had been dropped and forgotten just as fast
and I remembered them,
and they remembered me,
and now I know what it’s like
and I am free —
thirteen again, a flashback to the past,
loved completely
in a moment.
But the moment lasts and lasts and lasts.

I was never going to be that person,
you know, the one tightly closed like a rosebud
pushing away all signs of blooming
the gloomy defeatist drenched in the blood
of the past like an English economy booming

I was never going to be that person, I decided
at eighteen, black jeans, idealistic and slightly misguided
I never understood the funny commitment-phobe trope on TV
not even when I got into poetry
and saw someone language fantastic weave webs of words about feeling dead
I could never get my head around it

I was going to be passionate and opportunistic forever
feeling everything to the very core of my being
I figured detachment was something that they felt
when they decided somehow to give up believing
and that pushing someone away was a choice
unearthed by some sudden urge to fly
and if you don't give fear a voice
it can't swell and crash and block out your sky

But you don't just stop seeing good in the world
and it starts innocuous, easily dismissed
they don't like me, he didn't call back
okay, move on, you won't be missed
They don't mean to hurt you and you know that
but you become the person who doesn't call back
It happens like that, careless encounters that you couldn't care less about,
in fact you prefer it this way, never stay over,
never let anyone stay over, always play the game
and always win, never care much, never care enough
It's what everyone's doing, it's meant to be fun, and love,
well, what is love anymore?
You don't know. And that's when you lie to yourself at night
because half of your bed is cold and the places you go,
they get old, and people finding excuses to leave
leaves you unable to stay awake or sleep.

So I became that person.
I didn't mean to, it weaves between vague memories not important enough to catch a hold of you for a second,
and apathy is easier than fear and loathing I reckon
and second guessing is second nature
I was a creature of habit who accepted nothing greater
but my walls had blocked out fear and anxiety;
no waves of panic nor joy could break the fortress in me.

I became the tightly closed rosebud,
and when I met you I still was
when your expectations are on the floor, you don't feel worthy of anything more
So it was fun at first,
with no expectations came freedom,
my nerves quelled by a casual reassurance that this would lead to nothing better or worse,
calmed by my own demons.
And then you said that you loved me.

And the walls didn't immediately crumble,
and my eighteen year old self would've grumbled
and not understood me at all
And the fear raged like a tidal wave over my sky and around me
and I boxed myself in and bricked myself up
Immune to the pain and the joy that had found me.

You reached through the sea and you banged on the walls and you screamed and you screamed and you screamed,
and I could only love you from a distance,
or else drown in the storm I'd dreamed into existence.
I placed my hands against the walls and felt you on the other side,
I thought you'd have gone by now,
left on an outgoing tide,
but you still said that you loved me.

I couldn't face the storm alone so I shut it out and shut myself down
but it hadn't swept you away and you clearly weren't afraid to drown.
How anyone could cling to walls like that I never understood,
but I started to build a door from bits of old driftwood,
You told me from the outside that it wasn't as bad as it seemed,
the storm was quieting a little and the horizon gleamed
I built that door with everything that I had, gluing together bruised and barkless branches
working towards a time where we could stand together on the threshold, facing the whirling ocean
a time where I could turn to see that the door was not still broken.

Opening up that driftwood door was like waking up from a dream,
you stood there smiling, relief painted across your weather beaten face, seawater still dripping from your hair,
and the threshold was mine to step across,
that little step toward solace, scary storm be ******;
and we stood together, facing the ocean.
It wasn't whirling but reflecting sunlight for the first time since the walls went up,
and I turned to you and said
I love you.
And then I started blooming.

I am a fortress.
I have withstood wars that should have broken me.

Burned down and decimated by the mindless,
I rise up from the ashes.
I stand with my body, eternally.

I am strong.
My thighs are battle grounds trodden down three times round
and they're blooming new flowers,
mending from those who fought over them far too long,
my thighs have super powers.

I am soft and sultry sweet,
full of vulnerabilities.
Nature proves if anything that this will never make me weak.
My eyes once snuffed out are blazing brilliant brightly now,
rivers of tears have been filled in,
replaced by peaches and cream and skin.

My arms are solid protective forces,
my hands, tangible whispering caresses.
I wear my broken bits on my *******,
puffed out chest with pride,
for I have nothing to hide.

My feet take me to and from all the places I've ever gone,
and my mind,
my mind, it tries. It tries so ******* hard,
and my heart cares so much that it shows
in every scar and battle wound,
in every mark that was ever taken as a flaw by boys who never saw
that without the storms I wouldn't glow the way that I glow,
every boy who told me to 'go with the flow'
like I couldn't learn a **** thing for myself.

Still, the lessons people preached did teach me a thing or two,
just not what they usually intended,
my face doesn't face up to face value,
belief is most beautiful when suspended.
My eyes see lies better than my thighs do,
yet resilience sees to it that both are mended,
but if there's anything I've ever learned that's true,
you should never leave anything open-ended

Your eyes once light and holy galaxies to me
look at me now like voids upon which I endlessly
search for stars,

Like the nights we spent smoking our last cigarettes
stars, like the moles on your skin that I traced in every last breath before we slept
stars, as vast and expansive as all the secrets we shared with our mouths and then kept
stars, that dot the sky which I lie underneath
when I had you, and then when you left.

I didn't mean to beam up at you like sunlight without remembering to filter through the clouds first
too overwhelming for those eyes that used to shine back unafraid and clear like glass
I didn't mean to make those eyes hurt

And I knew before that sunny days don't last forever
and I knew before that though you were lost in me, you'd find your way out someday,
that I was your city and you'd wander my streets without any guarantee that you'd stay,
but all the while I hoped that us being together
meant something greater than metaphors about cities and weather.

You don't understand how important it was just to be held by you,
how just your heartbeat could make me feel like one of the lucky few
who managed to really love someone
and be loved by them too.
And as I wrap myself in the photo-negatives of our memories I wonder why it is that
you no longer see these things like I do.

I never meant to create friction, but I set myself on fire anyway
just to give you warmth when you weren't cold,
just in the hope that when we were old and twofold
we'd be timeless.
I never understood that sewing our hearts together would make such a mess when you tore yours away,
but you took the stitching with you, and when I tried to make you stay
you ripped my heart in half too,
and you didn't even mean to.

So now I'm better suited to darkness
but all I can think about are those eyes, those eyes I'm so accustomed to
void of light that once gleamed through
every time you smiled that smile, meant only for me
eyes now dark, unlike mine that shine with tears clear like glass
with the salty residue of fear you leave every time you say goodbye to me
I never really knew it would feel so empty.

Maybe that's why I can't stand daylight, now
when it burns through my windows and doors.
I can't bear to be reminded of your smile
when it's not for me anymore.

Winter came early last year, cleansing people
of people
as soon as she could.
She was late this year, finally
icy winds have settled in
but she spent so long sitting and clinging
to summer's warm hands.
The waiting made my head spin, summer's other
crooning lovers stayed standing
far too long, as I prayed for sterile snows to snap
the swooning songs in half
and hollow them out for spring
so that I, perhaps, could join in.

Sleepy sickly summer thronged thickly around me
dragging hazily onwards
setting nothing forwards but my
happy heart rate,
full to bloating with hapless hope
— infatuated and ill with hope —
that I too would ripen on orchard walks
into a round and inviting apple tree
instead of oozing sap sickly, overzealously setting
roots in the wrong soil,
while winter, she let me toil on, clutching at s'mores with clammy summer hands, sick with excitement and marshmallows,
sick with the image of his face
when, like a grave,
he lay under me
and she refused to freeze the ground beneath
as though I actually I stood a chance.

But nothing grew and nothing changed
except my un-
happy heart rate.
The drought left me
without a hope in the world that I too, could learn how to play,
because he hid the rules from me
and like a schoolboy singing nursery rhymes relentlessly
he teased me senseless, then seized my heart for all to see
he adored me, then ignored me
and I clawed for disease, no matter the reach
I saw myself as he saw me

My rosy ballooning cheeks
were on the verge
of prematurely bursting and fading away to the apathy
of oxygen-starved grey skin;
rebirth still impossible with every sweltering day
that I got locked in.

I fell into a grave
sleep, and heard him say,
in a dream, in all his gleam,
'We were too sick for love, either way'
But now, I am awake,
Winter woke me, came to her senses and washed summer away
she said, ‘you can make this your day,
the air is cold and you are golden,
don’t be satisfied with all this grey’,
and I knew then,
that he had nothing to do with summer,
some are just too sick to stay.

It's been light years since my heart strings
were touched, gently plucked
in artfully arranged cacophonies of
'I love you' and
'Come closer' and, whispering,
'baby'
sweetly, in his waning symphony.

The fade-out drags at my feet,
while I move through moments now, slowed down,
talking loud,
as though words are my only means to stretch moments out.
These are the 4am secrets I cling to most,
sunlit smokescreen memories of a spaceman still haunting me, you see
no matter how loudly I speak
smaller volumes are still volumes
and his whispers were still words
like 'baby', hurtling through moment after moment
and I wonder why it still hurts.

An asteroid of his voice ricochets through endless stretches of space
and solar flares only spit flashes of his face until even supermassive black holes seem comforting,
perhaps they would transport me to a different dimension of blanket fort dreams
where I am held again, amongst whispers wistfully meant
and this time I don't forget to contain all the stars in my eyes,
cocooned in second chances on Solaris,
the planet where lost loves come to life,
where droves of the lovesick go to die.

I couldn't escape past the moon forever
but ****, I could still crash land whenever
These unearthly dreams created space for me
and in that space, I found my sanctuary
realising that with all the space that I need
the spaceman no longer had a hold on my dreams.

See, love was soaring music, elevation, no metre,
just levitation, almost timeless, but it teetered
on the finish line
to be stopped too soon by a volume dial and a frown,
I bottled up from bottle to cup and kept my voice down
but time has a way of showing you
that shutting people out isn’t profound,
but the absence of sound.

Endings quietened my universe, but
I stopped believing in the relief of silence
and since,
I have become a crushing crescendo,
I think even the cosmos could hear me screaming.
The volume turns up and I burn and I glow
feasting on feelings, wasted on whispers
I'll break waves against wistfulness,
Fling fists against fitfulness,
the spaceman can fight me for all he's worth,
I will not fade out.

I've been putting up walls but they're made of glass
and loading up on wooden guns
sprinting away from the prospect of living in the past
but armouring myself with nothing at all

I decided the best thing that I could do
is walk around like I'm bulletproof

but my biggest fear, while I stand tall
is that you never loved me at all

this town is filled with our old ghosts
so hit me with another dose

of haunted places with somebody new
nostalgia in my eyes like morning dew

because I hate myself for missing you,
but I really do.

If I could slide down icy slopes of skin
then I could burrow my way in
my fingers claw through me
to you
distant memories become vivid truth

I want you to ******* heart
bruised and swollen from beating so fast
I want a little too much
to run through veins, feel every touch

I need to be the only one
to feel your pulse, feel your warmth
some say this kind of need is creepy
but i just want you to keep me
and me to keep you, safe
encircled by my ribcage

I want to merge my soul with yours
just to see something magical occur
I want red beads from your pinpricked skin
to fall onto mine, and sink in

Be my ink, I'll be your pen

There is a tear in my existence,
the gap between two milk teeth
breaking away from wide-mouthed childlike innocence
and falling out,
lost to ice cream cones and garden fences
teen dream dancing and cool pretenses
ignorant bliss, aimless goals
and the taste of near-empty Jack Daniels bottles
seems wiped from me
like a milk moustache.

Adulthood, what are you but a mistress who is cruel to be kind
curling and winding around me until I choke in your perfectly proper pencil skirt?
What are you but a greater knowledge of the world and a lesser understanding of it?
What are you but a greater understanding of the self and a lesser affinity with it?

Adulthood, what are you but broken dreams and disappointment?
What are you but bigger dreams with arms that reach beyond death itself?
What do you bring except shrivelled skin and nostalgia for once upon a times?
What but wisdom and a sense of sanguine satisfaction?
What are you but blood and cells and bells and *** and terrific notions and consequences and deckchairs and chinaware and despair?

Adulthood, what are you but glazed-over wasted days and self-loathing?
What are you but three hundred responsibilities taken care of all at once, caffeine eyes and welling pride?
What are you but the inevitable crash and getting smashed and suddenly remembering why I should do things one at a time?

What are you but change upon change upon change upon mistakes made again for the millionth time?
And my changes, now lifeless
cause an identity crisis
about whether I'm really any different in the end
the likes of which will no doubt be seen again
when Monday rolls around,
what are you but Mondays, endless Mondays
driving me into the ground?

Oh Adulthood,
what are you but a downsize of naivity, a self-belief redundancy, a vitamin D deficiency and a proper place for everything apart from me?
What are you but desperate faces smashing into one another, drowning lungs, curtains pulled down, curtains put up, curtains being suddenly important? Curtains ******* me up?
What are you but woodsmoke and patios, warm faces, good graces and the ceaselessly mounting cost of Freddos, buildings and building things and falling in love...

And falling in love, falling asleep, falling awake, falling apart, falling together, falling
falling
falling
down.

What are you, Adulthood, but always always getting back up again no matter what, and alarms and reminders and no bed times
but being so tired you start to admire
that even the sun must sleep sometimes,
even if it always comes back up, shining even brighter
until the timing is right until the living is right until the mind is right only then can we stop trying
only then can we die
no wonder the afterlife is idealised
and even then, will I see the light?
Can I stop now?
Is it really alright?

What are you Adulthood, but a long list of questions?
Because I have so much to ask, you see, but mostly

What are you here for, except to show me how good I had it before?

Adulthood, I don't know.

winter depression
sets in quick succession
deep within your hollow bones
that creak and crack
until brought back
to their summertime home