i am just so ******* tired.
of people that try to write like me.
i hate it. you would think i like it, and
i am flattered mind you, but i ******* hate it.

sometimes i just see my words everywhere,
i see my sentences everywhere, ****, even the
way i have normal conversations. i am happy
and grateful so many of you idolise me, but
when i see a sentence of mine in another's poem,
it actually really hurts. don't ask me to
teach you how i write, because i cannot.
i hate it when its the people really close to me
that think just because i value your friendship,
you have that privilege. i hate it more when
people just try to be close to me just because they want
to write like me.

just stop it.. okay? or, i will be no more.

i know nothing of you

but that you are anthropological
when you are inside unexplored diversities
that are not plums or peaches,
that you are a white siren with red nails  
and that you want my knickers
sent enveloped, and sealed with
plastic cobalt kisses.


i know nothing of you

but that when they say poets are not in season;  
you pluck me out lime-coloured and prematured
and tell me to ripen beside your afternoon tea
because you demand embryonic words
and pretty phrases that will keep you
animated and high.


you make me know not-

ions are unmarried clouds pregnant with ink;
yours are metabolic and invisible,
injecting sugar into my fallopian tubes.
you press your mouth against my sternum
and interweave your tongue with my heart,

                                                      we mould into a double helix.


you make us into nothing

but a genetically mutated flower
with two vulvas, collapsed between two pages
of a book that a ***** slapper would read
in the rain at two ams in between
****** acts and neon sunsets.

i know a secret,
as small as a lump of cancer and pale
as oessin cartilage, insignificant
as the number thirty one
until the end of december.

i know a secret,
locked beneath the tongue of the demon
inside the piano,


-

spitting out keys, oxidised,
corroded, foul, cut for bone marrows  
and cheap hotels and umbrage and
odium and pathological experimentations.

i know a secret,
decolourised in the shade of red and
no matter how raw you scratch me,
it will never bleed out, not even
for you.


--

they are coming, the surgeons, you say.

they are here to anatomise, to dissect, to ****,
to clean, to find, to ****, to dichotomise, to
divide, to sever, to ****, to ****, to stitch,
to seperate, to hide, to fix, to ****,

to make me sick.


---

i may as well be sick.  


----

i think i may as well gut out your stomach
and tie your pretty ileum into a pretty
ribbon, to a pretty street lamp,
and make you walk in a straight line
until you die, to show me
how much you love her.


silly boy, getting to her heart
was an easy as a six point
four centimeter incision.


-----

i was the faire semblant and  
you were the toothless protagonist
of some drunk playwright's
filthy dream, they gave you
gloucester eyes.


euthanise me, i want
your ugly face




------

to be the last ugly face i see.

i was upon the onslaught of
desolation
and i assiduosly flirted
with suicide.

Contractility - i love you,
stitched in between two heart beats.
palplitations
that set blood cells on calamitious voyages.
that dance in sweet habanera
to the shrieks of your name.

i want to swallow you;
fold out your skin
into paper dolls.
to be intertwined by
the plaiting of flesh.
to be asphyxiated until
the colour of violet.

i want to carve your face
and wear it in burlesque.
to devour myself
in all aspects of you-
to become you.


i covet.

are weak in
your design.

perhaps one day
i would ask you
what you were dreaming of,

and then perhaps
you would ask me,

and i will reply:

*" why were you not there?"

My friend asked me the other day
"Why are you so sad? Tell me what's wrong. Please."
I told her nothing, but she new I was lying.
"There's someone else living in me, too. It's not just me!" I told her.
"Tell me about this someone else, then. Tell me about this person." My friend replied.
But I shook my head.
Because I felt the other part of me getting slowly angry..

That someone else, you don't ask about him.
Him.
Gender neutral, but I'm sure it's a him.
My other side of me.
He can be nice, funny.
But.. he's the angry part.

The part that lets out the sadness and the anger, even the rage, the want for revenge.
He's what makes me feel paranoia, what gives me pain, what makes me cut, what blinds me, what make me want to die.
He doesn't leave me alone.
I call him Ales.
Because he is what ails me.
Ales.

He's the part that makes me lose friends and fight.
What makes me want to **** things, break things.
What makes me want to scream, shout, jump.

Neither one can win.
I fight with you like I fight with a sibling.
You're not a sibling, though.
You're a part of me.

He's what makes me bored with lovers.
What makes me feel fear.
He's what makes me cry, sob, toss and turn.
What makes me unable to sleep.
What makes me lash out on impulse.
Yes.
He's my impulse.
I don't think when it's his time to play.
I act on impulse.

In chemical swirls
Swimming slowly through my brain
There you are
I'm not alone in my head, I'm not alone in my body
Multiple mes, multiple yous.