the sharp extremities of the world cutting deep
droplets of you falling
forming
a sea deeper than my wounds
blurred at the edges
melting the heart strings
soft
leaving only the pitter patter of calm
to rest among my withered shoulders

but the droplets they
dissolved
drained away and
I am cold
for the sharp edges have gone for good
but replaced by a fog
a void
your absence
clings to me
the way damp clothes do
after the rain.

stained.
I can see my breath in the air
you are everywhere
maybe if I absorb you
i'll change
with the rain

a discarded umbrella
an open window
unsheltered heartbreak
if I bleed all that I have
without protection
maybe the clothes, like the droplets
will fade away

and you'll no longer cling
to my skin
because the cuts will be clean
after the rain.

No, you cannot join in.
Unless of course you also want the backlash that comes with kissing girls in public?
Take it-
please
share the homophobia.
I have had enough to last me 18 years of shame

no, this is not a game and you do not have the right to take photographs of me while I kiss her.
Unless of course you are a photographer  
here to celebrate our queer love in all of it’s natural beauty.  
For my love does not exist for your enjoyment
we are not the characters in your fantasy novel
my love is magical and you cannot publish it.
My love rains all over your non existent parade because your homophobia does not exist at pride

wide-eyed boys
encircle us as if to say that our mouths brush only so that they  
can paint the picture,
but you do not belong within my self portrait
you will not dip your ***** brush into my rainbow coloured paint set.
Clean your homophobia into the water
for our love is art
but you are not the artist
and my love is not yours to keep for later  
for wanking your anxieties into pleasure whilst you turn my pleasure, into anxiety.
This, is plagiarism.

Copyright my love.
For I should not have to be aware of who is watching
or pointing or shouting or stealing, my love.
So put your hand down your pants and think of your homophobia.  
No, you can’t come now
no, you cannot join in.

A trailed safety line hangs,
hazardous, homely.
The spider, desperately clinging to the edge  
of something beautiful lays in fearful pursuit,
for the hand that feeds us, does not hesitate to bite.  

Spinning thread,
a perpetual fight for protection.
Eight legs for eight webs,
“don’t bite off more than you can chew”  
but you,
you were born for this purpose.
A sac surrounded by sticky silk  
that serves to save,
at least until the hunger comes, in its waves.  

The desire to capture a soul,
with your words.
To entangle heart strings in webs that shine,  
rather than scare
and so the spider dares  
to take the plunge into the night.
Starving to succeed,
and blinded by the fall

into his (cob)web.  
His very own masterpiece
humbling his heart,
his art,  
has caught its prey.  

And so you lay,
ensnared by your terrific soul
and the strangers think you are terrifying.

They stand, the two of them, enveloped. Their bodies the segments of an orange before
ripped apart by delicate, hungry fingertips.
It is rush hour in Brixton and as she leans against this
unsteady machine, he holds her as if her limbs might fracture and fall
and land at their feet,
as if they might become neighbours to the newspapers and trodden gum that have
made their home there, *****, discarded, at ease.
Silhouette quietly nestled into his frame, sharing shadows
she, is elsewhere.
Gaze transfixed by a small being in front. A tiny entity that holds all of her undying
attention. Her lips bitten down to their core,
skin replaced by yearning and fear and a tenderness that you could touch.
The child’s tangerine lips waver hesitantly and then burst open, releasing a giggle
that sounds like fallen dust in sunlight, if it had a sound.
The space between them becomes a mirror, so much that the infant’s mother
looks like she has just learnt the definition of the word ‘envy’.
The tube falls into the station, and the passengers are squeezed out:
a frenzy of rushed beings in their most natural, narcissistic state.
From across the platform in rush hour, the train leaner is a mother.
And in her arms, oblivious, her lover.

never walk alone at night
never wear your skirt too tight
always shave your ***** hair
head down now, avoid their stare
don't touch yourself, that's just for him
oh but not for her, that's a sin
don't get drunk, you'll be blamed
for actions that you cannot tame
watch your mouth, imperatives are banned
for you're labeled bossy if you command
stand up straight, never slouch
keep your legs shut on the couch
eat too much and you're far too fat
eat too little, you're worth less than that
insecure, oh, what for?
confident? then you're a *****
naked face, spots and all
you might as well hide behind a wall
painted and pretty, just what they want
unnatural and fake, the endless taunt
so how do you win when it's lose lose lose
"boys will be boys"
try standing in our shoes.

He awoke and found himself
inside the body of another.
Safe in the darkness
gentle amniotic arms held him whilst muffled voices dictate his fate
“You’re having a girl” they exclaimed,
and he lay, wondering what this meant.  

He awoke and found himself  
inside the words of another.  
Inside the “brother” he never was, rather than never had  
and the “boy”  that scuffed his knees in adventure.  

He awoke and found himself
“a pretty girl”, “a princess”, “just like her mother”
so he closed his eyes and dreamt of another.
A world of train-sets and barber shops,
birthday candle wishes to replace long, curly locks

he awoke, and found himself floating
in space
his face, unrecognisable in the mirror.  
His chest seemed to grow branches  
as if by night the doctors that had pulled him from her womb
had suddenly discovered his secret.  

They grew like thorns until they were all he could see.
Those and the other boys, s h a t t e r i n g jigsaw piece body parts
every time he looked at them.  
He wondered why when their voices deepened, it was called a voice  
break and not a gift.  
A broken larynx. A birthday present lost in the post,
instead he unwrapped their super glued puzzle pieces,
piling them onto his plate
if you eat your vegetables, you’ll grow up to be a man.

“You’re having a girl”, more like “You can pass go but you will never collect 200 dollars”.
“You’re having a girl”, more like “earthquakes will erupt inside your mind every time you hear the words
“She”, “Her”, “Sister”
“You’re having a girl”, but he was  

“He”, “His”, “Mister”.

And when he cut his hair, and found himself  
in the arms of over-sized t-shirts and grown out leg hair,
they would say
“you look like a boy”, as if they expected him to protest in offence
but his heart feels as warm as the breeze that blows through thornless branches of trees  
and he wants to say thank you.  
He wants to say that the words  
“You look like a boy” manage to stitch up his jigsaw piece body parts,
for these are the words that cut through his mothers dresses and threw away the thread
these, are the words that in time would cause his voice to break;
remind him that he is not broken
and bury his girlhood beneath his bed.

I wonder who silenced you.

Who placed your soul in one hand and your voice in the other
and asked you to applaud. I wonder who made you feel small.
As if not yet conceived, your expression made redundant before
it had the chance to reach your lips- those barbed wire worms,  
a sealed suicide note, a tired mother’s eyes in the morning.
“Children should be seen and not heard”. Was it your father?
Did his gaze lock you in the corner and make you screech like the
boiled kettle on the hob? Did the water spill from your spout and
burn, was this the moment you learnt how to un-love yourself?  
To force a grin that buried tears when he said, “C’mon, give me
a smile”. To wrap your arms around his neck and envision  
tightening them until he lays limp in yours. I wonder if later, you
prayed for forgiveness for wanting to do so.  

I wonder who silenced you. And I can feel the shame on my skin
when I imagine it to be him. One who died in his chair and sat slumped
in saturation for days before they found him. One whose name may not be  
soaked in blame, one whose face, I have forgotten.  

I don’t remember Grandad. I wonder if you look like him.

I wish I were permanently drunk and I wish I didn't wish that.
I wish I were permanently hair flying mouth smiling loud talking proud walking drunk
in the middle of the day
replace the need to say
I'm sorry I mean thank you I mean please don't hate me I mean you can hate me but tell me if you hate me don't pretend to be my friend and
I wish I were permanently drunk without the drink
without the sharp taste that hits the back of my throat like the anxiety which comes with showing that I care
without the down it if you dare
without the fall without the crawl without the fumbling in stalls
I think you might have gotten the idea by now but just incase I'll tell you anyway
when I say
I wish I were permanently drunk
I mean
I wish I were permanently in love with myself.
I wish I were hands on hips and mouth on lips and a full chest and my absolute best
and
I wish I could move down a corridor without wincing
wish I could speak without convincing
myself and you and her and him and them
to stay.
I wish I were okay.
what did I just say?
I'm fine.
Ok but this poem was not supposed to rhyme.
I wish I were permanently drunk
or
rather
I wish I saw myself the way I stare at forests of green
I wish I could make myself beam
rather it is
the ******* the bus with the really pretty eyes
and
the poets with their words and their desperate tiny cries
and
I wish I looked at myself and saw sunflowers blooming from the broken parts of my chest
and
I wish I would just stop for a moment and rest
and
I wish I were permanently drunk
in the middle of the day
on nothing but self love and self esteem and self self self
scream it like I'm standing on the edge of a pier for the whole world to hear
I wish I could stop apologising for my existence
well, you know, the universe would shout back,
you'll get there.
It might just take a little persistence.

You have a heart shaped freckle on your body.
You have a mouth shaped bruise on your neck.
You wear a certain type of sweatshirt on your birthday
as a precaution in case they were to check
if someone had given you a love bite  
sunken lips deep into your skin,
but dear lover, a lesson you have yet to learn-
leaving the heart shaped freckle on display was your sin.

I was not made to be a waitress. To carry plates and pull pints and count coins and be able to breathe at the same time. I should have given up. Four years in and my boss was still telling them that it was my first night, not to mention that time someone half-jokingly asked me, a completely sober seventeen year old with an anxiety disorder in a family owned bistro in white middle-class conservative Hexham, if I was drunk. I was not made for fake confidence and biting back tears, for toilet cubicle walls and breathe in, breathe out, all you had to do was carry the potatoes to table five. I was not made to be a waitress in the same way that I was not made to understand the art of mathematics. The times tables in their white linen shirts stained with my clumsiness laughing at me as I dropped plates and couldn’t subtract fifty four pence from five pounds seventy two at the till. I wasn’t made for sequence. For questions with definite answers, I was not made for having to be right. I was made for having to be wrong. Over and over, for ******* up a lime and soda, or was it lemon? Four years into a job. I was made for honesty. For answering you truthfully when you ask me what I am thinking. I was made for chocolate on the hob and strawberries tickled with sugar in hand, for the familiarity of the songs of a home friend’s band, I was made for softness. For your lips on my lips and my hands on your hips and the imprint of your freckles on my cheek. I was made for learning that this is not weak. For learning that I was made for me.  For dancing badly and laughing loudly and eating messily. We, on the other hand, were not made for each other the way people appear to be on film, the megabus trips without air-conditioning and the seven inches and 165 miles that fall between us the ever persistent proof. I was not made for you, designed so that our lives would perfectly intertwine but what does it matter when in this moment I think I was made for this. For half-lit, half-fit bliss. For reading poetry to you at three am until you fall asleep, when all that is left is the hum of your breath as my voice echoes milk and honey, making me feel like I could be made for anything, even though we’re apart.

Sidenote: June ’17- this time there was only one 'first night' at my new job.

Running through the streets of New York in the rain

is like standing at the edge of the world and having no idea where you want to go.

All I know

is that as my hair hung, wet, and the moisture that hit my skin, set,
I could feel myself living.

I could feel the people parading the streets.
Their feet hitting the floor harder and faster than the raindrops that fell around them.
Their sound
echoing the gun shots they walked in dispute of.
Their shouts
screamed louder for them by the skies above.

I was but a particle of one minuscule droplet that fell to the pavement on one street of that entire city that night.

But I felt like the storm.

Come unto me once more,
read poetry in our laps until we have both fallen asleep.
The hum of flowery language on the tongue
the feeling of fear in our chests
the blatant avoidance in breathing that slows
to a rest.
The terror in wonder of
what are we doing?
What will we do?
In the end.
The end being a few short days away,
after comfort has seeped into our bones
the feeling of your skin pressed against mine almost becomes normalcy.
I wish
I wish the end didn't come
the way a child clings to the safety of young
but the inevitability of time
that brings trains and coffee in the rain and trying not to cry on the way home
is a cruel reminder that time is not a concept,
but a reality.
Writing letters in the mist of bus windows,
once more
I let the condensation leak into my heart,
the droplets frozen in january air.
They'll remain, solidified
serving to leave me blind
until I see you again.
And then, they'll fall.
Once more,
water down the windows.
Once more,
kiss your cheeks
the disappearance of past weeks
and condensation
and contrived nonchalance,
souvenirs of distance washed away
once more.
Once more we'll lie in each others laps with the honesty of poetry in the air
in your stare,
in the non-existent space
between us.

These legs have abandoned me.
Two solid sticks, tree trunks grounded in
dirt. I am spoiled goods, good for nothing these limbs
move only when forced apart,
a monotonous machine that melts in your arms.

Disarm. Even the rhetoric inside has
gone to sleep.

If sleep is for the weak then I am not strong. Although
awake, these fingers remain unconscious,
shaky branches the sisters of dead roots,
forgotten by the gardener.

In hibernation for the summer,
wake me when the leaves begin to fall then
plant me again.

Plant me tall,
I want to see the sky.

Plant me small,
so I can lie and watch the scattered stars disperse.

Plant me strong,
so I sleep through the night and **** what they say, because
sleep is never weak.

Plant me, but nothing else.
This time I will water myself.

a body
floating in space
a mirror
unknown, a face
a chest, that rises and falls
*******, unwanted, I stall
this label, this name, this "girl"
whom only on certain days, echoes my world
otherwise i'm known as the ghost
an inbetween, a maybe,
almost.

the words that whisper inside your head,

the thoughts that hang on feeble thread

sowing silent stories inside your mind,

unwritten, lost, the kind

that never reach the lips.

the conversations exchanged in glances

in the darkness of night, an eye that dances

I hold my breath and let my eyes speak

"what are you thinking”

“I don’t know"

but in all honesty

I'm thinking,

I'm weak.

times and rhymes and anxious spines
tired chest, worn weariness
"you express yourself eloquently", she said
"but you seem flat"
how do I respond to that?
fallen body, sunken in the chair
I say the words, am I really there?
a monotone voice and shaking knees
is this what it truly means to be?
they teach you the alphabet
and how to count to three
but not how you're supposed to see life differently
when the streetlights are smashed
and your lighters ran out
your whisper barely heard, in your head it's a shout
a distant plead
an aching need
the desire
to be freed
from this fatigue.

I hope no one saw me stuffing my fingers into my tshirt to smell my own armpit on the 14:16 train ride home

"But why don't we have straight pride?"
"I don't mind them really, I'd just rather they didn't shove it down my throat".
"Did you see those lesbians holding hands?"
"Do you have a boyfriend?"

These moments are usually filled with silence. The room is suddenly so quiet, that I can almost hear my fear in the key holes, tucked away inside draws, behind laws, In the space between us.

I sit there and I swallow my pride. I swallow the thoughts of years of coming to terms with who I was and kissing boys to try and feel the way I was supposed to. I swallow walking down streets and staring at strangers, trying to figure out who I found the most attractive. I swallow every time I used to think to myself "It's not real. I'm making it all up. I'm not gay". I swallow the first time I said it out loud. I swallow the first time I was proud. I swallow the way I traced her freckles softly in the sunlight. I swallow the fights with my father and the tears behind closed doors. I swallow the stares in public and the glares and hushed whispers that stayed with me for days. I swallow every time someone would say "but you don't look gay". I swallow being told I can't take a joke. I swallow teachers talking about "homosexuals" as if there were none sitting in the room before them. I swallow being myself. I swallow the very essence of who I am. I swallow loving who I am. I swallow reclaiming the word lesbian, the word that used to sound like a slur. Like a ***** piece of language that only lived in **** videos and his wastepaper bin. I swallow falling in love with women. I swallow each time I stared at my body, and didn't recognise myself. I swallow all the shame in the world. I swallow my pride.

But then fifty voices are swallowed. One hundred loving hands. Two thousand threckles. 20 different countries. 1 million breaths. Fifty hearts whose beats echoed in pride.

And suddenly, I stop swallowing, and start living. For they can take our lives, but they will not take our pride.

It drives me insane when people see me holding a girls hand and ask
“So who’s the guy? You know, who wears the pants?”
I want to scream and say WE ARE LESBIANS. Firstly, neither of us are ever wearing any pants. I want to scream and say WE ARE LESBIANS, and i’m angry because lesbian does not always have to mean woman but where did you get man from? I’m angry because maybe sometimes one of us does identify as a guy. A gay boi with an I. A soft boy. A proud hairy legged 5”4 boy. A drinking pints in the pub with my dad and us both liking that same woman’s tattoo boy. A cries every day boy. A feels cool when drinking beer boy. A boy that had to teach themself to like beer boy. A boy who sometimes does not feel like a boy. A boy. A boy. Oh boy. Boys. You see, this question is confusing for me because when I was fourteen, my boyfriend and I would joke that I was the one wearing the pants, even though at that point I was very much still wearing skirts and hiding behind ****-length hair and also watching the L Word in secret when I got home from school but that’s besides the point. This question is obviously as confusing for you as it is for me because in your mind you see two pairs of **** holding hands on the tube and think: Lesbians. Now, which one’s the man? And I think to myself, there are two ways to answer this: Number 1: So I know lesbian is supposed to mean woman on woman, two vaginas, *******, strap-ons, veganism, art degrees (and a lot of this is true but let’s not stereotype). So I know that to you, although we appear to be two women, two snap-back wearing, sports-bra bearing- I mean I thought about writing *****- tearing here but it just doesn’t seem appropriate- women, the funny thing is that erm, you see, gender and sexuality: as different as my dad to my mum’s other ex-husband. We are not a man and a woman. We are two people and what do pants have to do with it? We are two people and why does one of us always have to be a man? We are two people and the awkward part of the point i’m making is that sometimes I don’t feel like a woman but you wouldn’t know that so let me say: we are not a man and a woman. We did not ask for your confrontation, we are not your designated driver, your answer sheet to an exam you haven’t sat yet, your house party when your parents go away, your girlfriend that you think is obliged to **** your **** even though you will not go anywhere near her ****.  You are not our three year old son who asks too many inappropriate questions. To you, we are strangers and to answer your question, you seem to think that you’re wearing the pants here. So wear them. By the way, Number 2: *******.