In Spring we dreamed of
flowers, yellows and oranges
and fresh grass, green
with envy for the
Summer

We held hands and
kissed along beaches
whispering secrets
against sunsets
on sand that burnt
the spaces between
our toes

It's November now
and we don't look
at each other,
our backs pressed
together, the outline
of our misery
blazing, racing the
flames of the
bonfire

I was dreading the winter,
the stale smell of Christmas fairies
that have lived in the attic
all year

I knew that if you left
then
I wouldn't follow you
out into the snow

I cling my arms
around your shoulders
like tinsel, draped
and static, falling
flecks of colour

I couldn't think
of a present so
instead I wrapped
myself, tight,
against the frost
that threatened
our future

swallowed down
all the things you did
that made my skin
scream, forgave
myself for drifting
away from you
and decided
to stay

by your side

as you poured whiskey
into the expensive glasses
we were saving

(not the cheap ones
we smashed against
walls)

touched drinks

and sat

with my head fitting
(a little too tightly)
into the crook
of your arm

As I sing I draw rings
around your name
turning my voice into thunder
that shatters, cracks,
breaks the window
glass

I am seeing inside you,
blood, heart, bones

Sensing storms that
haven't reached the sky
yet

My body aches for
disaster, a fire, a hurricane
a drizzle of acid rain

I am feeling the weight
of rage, of goodbyes
that shake to the depths
of our souls

I will carry you around
like a bird with broken wings

I won't let you
fly
away
from
me

My face is the front gate
of a rotting town

people sweeping
through streets
like a Plague
that kills with
disproportionates

my eyes the ticket-men
who check scraps of
yellowed paper for
numbers, ripping
of corners for their
pocket

my ears hum
with the sound of
Thalidomide bees,
collecting nectar
from dying flowers

I can smell scattered
chemicals and poverty,
children without shoes
and old ladies who
knit with rheumatic
fingers

I keep my mouth shut
to stop the spread of this
war

I let my head fall forward
sometimes, or shake

but

I will not open my lips
for anyone

It's five-thirty
when I walk
barefoot and
hesitant

eyes wide open
against the
dark

towards the place
I last kissed
you

I can hear
your lungs
lift and fall

lift and fall

like I fell
for you

I am wearing
one of your
shirts

it's sleeves hang
loose

I can almost
wrap them
around me
twice

my stomach
clenches and thinks
of breakfast

cups of coffee
and newspapers
to argue over

our kitchen is
bright and clean
red gingham curtains
like the ones
little girls

dream of

scrubbed wooden
table and chairs

each with a leg
that needs to
rest upon
a book

I'll pass you the
milk and sugar

smile into
my cereal
bowl

tell you where
you left you
car keys

stand in the
doorway waving
you off to work

I reach down
through the black-
ness

to where I think
your blanket
is

searching for the
soft corner of
warmth

my fingers touch
nothing but
air

my feet are
freezing

I hear the clock
strike six

and wake
up

It's an echo of war

a battle no-one can
remember fighting

or winning

but we know that
we are the
losers

somehow

even if we can't
see it

I wanted you the way that
January leaves need the
snow to water out
their dry, cracked
veins

but now you're in my
blood, the way that
an infection crawls
into an open wound,
plants it's seeds and
grows there

every lungful of
air is mixed with
sand, sticking like
dust to the back of
my throat

sandbagging
our voices, forcing them
to be content with
the odd restless
word that slips
through our lips
whilst we're sleeping

silence is our
live in and she
runs a tight ship

tight enough
to keeps us touching
no matter how hard
our limbs try to fight
their way to
freedom

Who knows the darkness?  she says.

I do, a quiet voice, in my head.

the sinking feeling in my stomach when I crawl into an empty bed

the frozen fossils of lovers tossed loosely
on the floor

I claw

from the bottom of my black, holed well
the air escaping like a slither of silver

the bars to my cell

I am a monster without teeth, who feasts
on the loneliness of my thighs

and I am walking, step by step, with the beast

of depression and anxiety, it’s pen pal friend

who I have known for years, through letters

but it now has a body to tend

I crawl

like I’ve forgotten how to walk,
across cobblestones that feel like boulders
beneath my feet

I have forgotten to eat

What do you have to be sad about? She asks.

As if sadness is a currency,
exchanged between  haves and the
havenots

whilst I am in knots.

I get her point, I guess

but I did not choose this never ending death