There was once a girl with a fear of mirrors.
A fear so frightening,
it followed her round wherever she went.
Zombie films were fine
and spiders didn't bother her,
she would have happily seen a ghost
and the dark was her best friend.
But the mirror haunted her.
"Look at yourself..."
it would whisper,
"Fat,
ugly,
baby face,
crooked teeth..."
Even in bed,
when night veiled it's reflection,
it spoke.
The duvet over her head wasn't much of a shield,
the voice taunting her,
ringing in her ears,
until she woke up,
a sticky, writhing mass in the middle of the matress.
"Good Morning."
The day time was no better.
Shop windows acted as put-me-up mirrors,
cutlery in cafes the same.
There was a solution to walking in the day time,
head down,
head down,
head down,
don't make eye contact,
head down,
but a rogue puddle could stop her in her tracks.
Her watercolour reflection swam menacingly on it's surface,
the voice rising dreamily from it like a mermaid speaking under water.
But she'd take a whole city of puddles
if she could avoid the carnival of horrors that was shopping for clothes.
There,
no matter where she stepped,
mirrors of all shapes and sizes would spring from corners,
the reflections getting redder
and uglier
and sweatier
and more pathetic
each time she span into a new one,
pretty,
thin,
popular girls preened themselves in the corner of her eyes,
friends with the mirrors.
She could hear the voice speaking to them,
but it's words were kind and friendly.
Looking down made no difference as mirrors adorned the floors,
up the same,
the ceiling a funfair nightmare of crazy mirrors,
the whole shop a kaleidoscope of her disgusting,
repulsive,
loathsome face.
She couldn't even cry.
The fear was so great,
that she couldn't risk seeing a reflection in one of the tears.
Even her sorrows mocked her.
The only way was to bottle it up,
to smile,
act like nothing was wrong,
look in her bag when her friends were looking in the mirror,
close her eyes at the hairdressers,
throw a sheet over her own, hateful mirror.
Throw a sheet over herself.
Nobody could hurt her if she didn't let them in.
One day,
the girl smashed the mirror in her room.
She grabbed a shoe and struck it with such force,
that the awful face before her splintered
and crashed to the floor in a thousand pieces.
When she looked down,
hundreds of dark eyes blinked back at her.
It's shell still remained hanging on the wall,
a black rectangle that looked like it could be a portal to another world.
She could still see herself in it.
She shut her eyes and squeezed them hard,
but the mirrors were behind her eyelids,
printed onto her brain,
painted onto her pupils.
The mirror was inside her.
The girl was now a looking glass of self-loathing.
The voice whispered inside her head.
"Just look at yourself.
Look at yourself,
look at yourself,
look at yourself,
LOOK."
She realised she would never be able to escape the mirrors.
She realised that she would smash herself into nothing but broken glass if she didn't just
look.
So she did.
As each day went by,
with every new mirror that crept up on her,
she looked inside it,
looked at herself.
The first time sweat beaded and dripped down her neck
and her hands shook.
She thought she would faint,
thought she was going to run,
thought she wouldn't do it,
but she did.
She looked.
She kept looking for a long time,
scrutinsing her every feature until she realised,
it wasn't that bad.
She looked,
until eventually,
as time passed by,
she managed to smile.
Until eventually,
whenever she closed her eyes,
the mirrors on her lids nodded "You'll be okay.".
Until eventually,
the fear wasn't so scary anymore.
Until,
eventually,
she let herself cry.
And she wanted to see herself in the tears.
There was a once a girl who liked mirrors.

I wish I could love my life and love myself
a little bit more,
fall on my hands and knees at every chance
and praise the life I lead.
I wish I didn't hate myself quite as much
and I wish I didn't recoil at the idea of my life,
the Grimm's fairy tale where Hansel and Gretel got eaten,
Rapunzel never threw down her hair
and Snow White was never kissed by Prince Charming.
The hatred burns hotter when I think of myself,
poor little rich girl,
sat in luxury in front of a warm fire,
belly full,
as thousands of kids in Africa bloat to death with paper thin limbs,
families in the Middle East are massacred and scattered across their countries barren landscapes,
innocent, too soon nearly corpses whither away in hospital beds,
sinking their teeth into whatever life they have left, clinging on.
I'm stable on the mountainside.
My family have never even seen a gun.
I haven't missed a meal in my entire nineteen years.
What the hell do I have to complain about?
My unhappiness disgusts me nearly as much as I disgust myself.

Sitting on a damp bus,
watching beads of rain rush down the dusty windows in diagonals,
like meteors crashing into Earth,
I curse.
I curse the vehicle,
I curse the safe home it's taking me back to,
the three course meal it's taking me from.
It's ******* sick.

I wish I could smile and mean it.
I wish I could love and not hate.
I wish I could love myself.
I'm so sorry for not being able to fully appreciate my life,
for taking it for granted,
for sounding like a spoiled brat.
You probably hate me as much as I hate myself.

I.
I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I
*******
I.
That's a vowel I'm going to try and use less of
(at least after this poem),
I promise.
Oh the irony.

I am not looking for sympathy.
I am not looking to be compared to a dying child on the street.
I am not asking for a single kind word.
I just ask for a bit of forgiveness.
I don't blame you if you can't seem to find any.
Just know I'm sorry
and I'm going to try.

Now.
A
E
-
O
**U

Deckchairs
on a pebble beach,
hands almost touching,
fingers brushing.

Deckchairs
on a pebble beach,
excited laughter,
quickening breath.

Deckchairs
on a pebble beach,
sun setting,
night time creeping.

Deckchairs
on a pebble beach,
the child who collected
shells on the shore,
a child no more.

Deckchairs
on a pebble beach,
sandcastle hearts
and tidal wave tears.

Deckchairs
on a pebble beach,
the seaside
will never
be
the same.

I think
moss is growing,
webs are forming,
poison ivy is creeping,
weeds are sprouting,
willows are weeping,
inside my chest.
I can hear the echo
of a tiny,
wavering voice,
calling down the
wishing well cavern
inside my rib cage.
"Help me..."
"Don't forget me..."
My shriveled,
weary heart
thumps
and
drums
feebly against my flesh,
crying out for attention,
creating tremors,
earthquakes,
in my overgrown,
suffocating,
internal garden.
The ripples,
in the pools resting on my chest,
tell me
"You're still there."

"Don't give up."

The constant fear of stomach aches,
back pain,
sore muscles,
colds and flu,
headaches,
bad coughs,
weird sensations that you don't even understand.
The constant fear of wrongly multiplying cells,
of hair loss,
of transplant,
of cardiac arrest,
of nausea,
of ***** failure,
of words like lymph nodes,
stage three,
clogged arteries,
terminal,
irreparable damage,
cancer.
The constant deaths,
in a thousand different ways,
in a thousand different hospital beds,
that consume you every day,
make you sick in the head,
sick,
sick,
sick.

The constant Grim Reaper's  hand of health anxiety,
forever on your shoulder.

My voice box has been cut out
and laid bare and ****** upon a table.
My tongue has been severed
and tucked away in a drawer,
a slab of hidden whispers.
In their shadows,
a new voice box has been installed,
a new tongue fitted in the empty hole.
They feel stronger.
Louder.
Different.
The voice box is loud enough to scream into the ocean
and have twisted,
unknown creatures at the bottom shudder at the sound,
the tongue is strong enough to slap and caress,
to climb a mountain and run a race,
with nothing but words to mark it's trail.
The old ones will sometimes try a feeble wail,
a shake of the drawer,
ghosts that I will welcome with open arms,
but the new ones are a gift.
And I will treasure them.

You've closed in on yourself,
like a butterfly that's gone back in to it's cocoon.
Like somebody whose seen the sickness in the world,
and wants to shut the door.
You've spent the past few weeks scrambling on your hands and knees,
picking up the pieces of your heart that she destroyed.
You've bound them back together with masking tape,
tight as you can with your now
weak
hands.
It's fragile.
You felt it's foundations tremble as I walked through your closed door,
and into your life.

I'm not going to hurt you.

Your skin that's so damp from all the crying,
is the opposite of my thirsty,
yearning body.
Your heart that is so delicate,
balancing on the precipice of
broken
and
fixed,
would fit perfectly inside my own
strong and
empty
one.
I want to show you how I can be your Superwoman,
how I'm ready and waiting to dash into the phone box,
and put on the cape.
I want you to remember how sweet life was when you first left the cocoon.
I'll fix your torn wings.
Step off the edge
and take the leap.
If you fall,
I'm there with my cape to catch you.
Let yourself love again.

New Year's Eve,
Auld Lang Syne,
holding hands,
clock chimes twelve,
midnight kiss,
me and my bottle share the moment.
Sadness tugs,
memories flood,
goodbye year,
you were good,
and bad,
a paradox
like sweet and salty.
I lick my lips and taste the sugar,
the last grains sticking on my tongue.
The salt left makes me thirsty
and I have to drink it all away.

But there is more just around the corner.

Life is like popcorn,
with sudden bursts
and noise,
and rush
and excitement
and panic
and commotion
and surprises
until
silence.

Even if we can't choose what flavour we eat,
we get to hold the bucket.
Sit back and enjoy the movie.

Childhood is full of
the tugging of hair
and licking sherbet so sharp that your
eyes water.
School is making daisy chains in the sunshine,
splashing through puddles in the rain,
socks that fall down
and hair that sticks up,
the clasping of sticky hands
and the shoving of bodies in ant farm corridors.
Friendships are forged in the form of
whispers,
hands cupped round ears
and tentative
"Will you be my best friend?"s.
These friendships
strengthen like super glue
or dissolve like sugar in tea,
fragile as a moth trapped in a jar.
Some friendships are more than
a breath of words in an ear,
some are a shout from
a mountain top.
Some friendships don't need to be deterred
by the length of a daisy chain
or how many sweets you've shared.
Some friendships don't need the deep roots that are
plotted and planted as kids,
because some friendships scatter off trees in the wind
all of a sudden
and bloom in the aftermath of tears,
tears cried over boys and cupped in collar bones.
Some friendships grow and blossom in the
sunshine of smiles,
giggles on lazy Sunday afternoons,
stifled laughter in sticky situations.
Some friendships are
sealed
by the soil of memories
more real than classrooms
and plastic chairs.
Some friendships are more than scrunched up notes
thrown across tables
and promises made with crossed hearts.
The best friendships are the ones formed as
adults
that make you feel
that young again.

I wish I could be brave.
The dragon leers it's angry head,
throwing flames so hot they peel paint,
scorch my heart,
and yet instead of donning my helmet and vanquishing the beast,
I clamber at it,
clumsily,
my armor too big,
my sword a child's toy.
Can it really be as hard,
as my quivering knees tell me it is?
In the movies,
the beast is defeated effortlessly by the lockers in school corridors.
"Hey, I've seen you around, fancy doing something sometime?"
But this is not the movies.
I ask the question
"What's the worst that can happen?"
but the visual replies that flicker through my mind are so unbearable,
I shut them off.
Instead, I stay mute.
I live a thousand lives,
a thousand moments,
with all the different dragons I encounter,
but the coldness I feel when the dragon and his flames have gone,
tell me I've missed my chance again.
I have a voice.
I can speak.
So why do the words elude me?
Just as I go to stutter something out,
my tongue a diving board of could be's,
the dragon roars
and warms my cheeks red,
my hands clammy.
Perhaps I first need to
love myself
before I can offer my being,
and my love,
to another.
But then again,
don't these sick,
twisted dragons enjoy
a girl with insecurities?
Instead,
I best stay silent.
Instead,
I best first conquer the beast within me.

Hello little girl,
hidden inside me,
I'm sorry we can't play.
My Barbie's were thrown out years ago,
there's not a teddy bear in sight.
Now who do I hold close at night?

Hello little girl,
hidden inside me,
I'm sorry I have to push you away.
My face screams nineteen,
my rib cage whimpers
child.
You must be getting lonely.
At least we have that in common.

Hello little girl,
who wants to paint all day,
play hopscotch and swing high as a bird,
no,
high as the moon,
on the swing set.
I'm sorry my feet are firmly on the ground.
These decisions are too hard to make
and you must be frightened.
Shall we paint a rainbow or paint a storm?

Hello little girl,
hidden inside me,
I'm sorry this is goodbye.
The photos and videos
will help me remember,
but I must start to walk
without anybody holding my hand.
You'll be okay.
You'll be alright.

Hello little girl,
hidden inside me.
It's time to grow up.

In my mind,
the fight was a result of your undying love for me,
an act of protection,
for your fair maiden.
I was the perfect damsel in distress,
simpering,
dragging you away from the bad guy.

How I ever managed to daydream,
over the screams
and the struggling,
is beyond me.
Wishful thinking
I guess.

As you gracefully caved in the guys skull
with your elegant knee,
painting a watercolour of red on the concrete,
I stood back and watched.
Each drop of blood,
that splattered the night scarlet,
mirrored a drop of the salty tears
running down my cheek.

I wanted him to get back up
and smash your beautiful face into a perfect Picasso.
He didn't do anything but lie in his own river.
I wanted to be washed away with it.
Instead, I had to watch you triumphantly step back from your ****,
the picture of alpha male,
a predator,
and look for your mate.
Why won't you capture me?

Because you want her.
My best friend.
The one who I should be comforting,
for having two guys so in love with her that they'd **** each other.
I'm scared if I place a hand on her shoulder,
I might crumble.
I'm chalk,
she's marble.
I could leave my soft white mark on you,
if you just gave me the chance.
Marble's cold.
But maybe you like the chill,
the chance to pull her closer.

I can't look anymore.
I step over the battlefield and make my way down the street.
I see her get in a taxi
with the guy you just half bludgeoned to death to win her heart.
I see you stood amongst the wreckage,
confusion on your war wounded face,
not knowing what went wrong.

You cared.
Just like I gave in and cared about you.
What idiots we are.

Somebody punch me in the face.

Oh how I long
to fall asleep soundly.
Turn off the light,
flick the switch
and dream.
I dream alright.
My dreams are so far from reality
I can't bare it.
I know alcohol
can make you weepy,
but the willow with it's reaching branches,
that droops so sadly,
is teetotal.
My pillow
is my confidant.
I silently sob into it's
soggy material,
stuffing corners of duvet in to my mouth
to stifle,
s t i f l e,
the sound.
The taste of salt runs down the creases of my cheeks
and in to my mouth,
taking me back to days at the seaside,
fish and chips.
I finally tumble in to a fitful sleep
thinking of the ocean.
But it swallows me whole.
And I'm drowning.

I'm not me.
I struggle through life with my
siamese twin.
It's getting stronger than me.
Heavier.
It's lied alot in the past,
first white lies,
then little fibs,
then real lies
and now we're here
and I don't know who to believe.
I think this time it's telling the truth.
I think this time the boy's not crying wolf.
I think it's just me doing the crying.
Nobody seems to help,
nobody seems to understand
how big,
how tiring,
how cumbersome
my twin has become,
what I have to lug about
every day.
Nobody understands how much it's
distorted reality,
so I don't what's real
and what isn't.
But no.
This time I think it's being honest.
And isn't honestly the best policy?
Although,
they also say
ignorance is bliss.
I wish I had an on/off switch for my twin.
I wish I could turn off the power.
I can feel somebody hovering over mine.

I am dead
and buried
and dust
already.

I am rotten
and rancid
and revolting
as I type.

I am hooked to hospital drips
and unable to move my lips
and slowing from gulps to sips
and falling
quicker
and quicker
and quicker
until








I am dead
though I breathe,
my parents laugh,
not knowing they're bereaved,
and as the dirt fills my nostrils
and the soil clogs my throat
it turns damp
from my tears
and flowers
hopefully
grow.

I wouldn't say
I hate myself,
so why do I hate
what I see in the mirror?

I’m always hungry,
so I’m always eating,
and I’m always growing,
even though I can always hear the wind whistling
around my chest,
cold lashes that escape when I open my mouth,
freeze the air when I try to speak.
So I tell myself,
“One more slice of cake,
on a lonely Sunday,
surely can’t hurt”,
right?
I wait for a reply,
from the empty room,
but I’m already licking
the crumbs off my fingers.
I want to
gorge
on happiness,
drink down mugs
of sweet nothings
that will make my heart stretch
instead of my stomach.
God knows,
I have enough room
in this swollen rib cage.

Halloween.
Where have the days gone where I dressed as a witch and went from door to door?
Too old for that now.
If a zombie,
vampire,
or any form of ghoul,
decided to visit me tonight
I
wouldn't
even
flinch.
Because now phantoms come in the form of
finance pamphlets,
skeletons visit me disguised as
university prospectuses.
I quiver at the whispers of
"career choices" and
"moving out" and,
the ever looming,
satanic big one,
"The Future."
I use my duvet as a shield as if I was a child again,
shaking,
pleading,
"No, no, no",
only to be told
"Get out of bed, take some responsibility, grow up!"
Grow up.
I'd rather take on a werewolf.
I check for the monsters under the bed, only to find
they're my parents,
my tutor,
myself.
Please let me be that little witch again?

There once was a woman in bed
Who groaned, and cried and bled
Her daughter's last kiss
Was bitter sweet bliss
As the virus, to her, did spread

Dad.
I will always remember when I was thirteen and you came into the living room and said
"We have nothing in common anymore. Nothing to talk about."
That broke me.
At the time I didn't understand what you meant. But now I've grown,
and the years have gone by,
and I think it's finally clear what you meant that day you made me cry myself to sleep.

I have always been a Daddy's girl.
My first word was "Da Da."
You taught me how to walk, ***** trained me, took me to the doctors when I was ill.
I used to lie on your belly and watch football with you, even though I had no interest in sports
and would rather curl up with a book instead.
But I tried.
Because thinking even your gender is a disappointment to your own father is a pain so sharp, so unfair that I was willing to try anything.
I remember when you bought me a jumper, bag, trainers, t-shirt with your, our, favourite team on them.
I proudly wore them to school, only to be pounced on by the older boys.
"Haha, they're *****."
They kicked my bag and stomped on my trainers.
But I didn't care.
It wasn't only football.
I remember us sitting on the sofa watching Laurel and Hardy videos, stuffing ourselves with pizza,
you beaming down at me as I laughed and laughed at the silly man and his angry friend.
That made you happy.
There were lots of things that made you unhappy.
If I spilled a glass of milk, or drew on my hands, or forgot to wear my coat to school,
you'd transform into the 'other' Dad.
A man I didn't know,
still don't know,
spitting and screaming at me, your wild eyes vacant of the real you.
The shifts made you tired, and I crept around when you were in bed,
and even when you were awake, afraid to bring out your Mr Hyde.
Being ill didn't help. You clung even more desperately to life,
Mr Hyde coming out when anything went wrong.
It wasn't your fault,
but try telling that to the ten year old me.
All I knew was my Daddy might die.
I was scared.
You were scared.

I'm still scared now, at nineteen years of age.
I finally understand what you said that day.
We are like a ghost of our former selves.
When we sit on our separate sofas, I can hear the faint laughter of our times watching Laurel and Hardy.
When we greet each other on a morning, a grunt from me, a grunt from you, I remember our embraces.
Now it hurts to touch.

How can I love somebody so much who scares me so much.

I find it quite amazing,
that you don't realise how my lips tingle and my heart swells
when you make me,
yes,
make me,
kiss you.
Just a friendly little peck, eh?
You could be kissing your Aunt Mildred,
your lips remain so dead
and your stomach so still.
I'll give you one of my butterflies,
if you want one.
The brushes against my back,
my cheek,
the brush strokes that paint sparks along my skin,
leave your hands lifeless.
They resuscitate me.

When you say you 'love me',
I don't think you understand
how many times I've imagined you whispering those words,
in a thousand different places,
in a thousand different situations,
in a thousand different ways.
They float through the air,
stopping time and creating pixie dust,
before falling into my ears,
forcing tremors throughout my once stable foundations.
In reality,
you could be asking somebody to pass the salt,
your voice is so flat.
So why can I not stop fizzing?

If you grow old and look around
and find yourself alone,
don't worry.
Don't cry about how nobody ever wanted you,
about how nobody ever needed you
or loved you till it hurt,
hurt so bad they almost hated you.
Because they did.
I do.

I do.
*****.

In adverts for chocolate and sweet companies,
the thin pretty girl seductively
consumes
a bar of chocolate,
or the hunky male model
gets the girl
with a Mars Bar in his perfectly carved hand.

What you don't see,
is the tear stained faces of the chubby guys and girls,
the ones with an endless cavern of hunger that no amount of
consumption
can ever fill,
the painfully skinny guys and girls, skinnier even than the
pretty faces in the adverts,
desperately turning their mouths into an abyss of thick
sickly brown,
before forcing it out of them again, like a perverse sort of
waterfall.
The endless sadness,
and need,
and starvation,
and greed,
that leaves them even more hollow and engorged with shame and pain,
than whatever they seem on the outside.

The adverts are just a candy wrapper.

The needle opened a heavy, internal door
to a colourful, devilish tidal wave of pain.
I told him I didn't want to try it.
I told him I was scared of needles.
The needle opened a heavy, internal door
to a colourful, devilish soft spray of pain.
He asked me if I loved him
and I answered with hot metal
and the push of a syringe.
The needle opened a well used, flimsy door
to a colourful wave of pure, sweet pain.
Shadows line my arms like forget me nots,
and I spend my days lying in tranquil meadows,
surrounded by forest fire.
The needle opened me up
and gutted me out,
and I liked the pain.

Last night is blurry in my sleep fogged mind,
through my smudgy black eyes.
But I can feel the ghost
of the awkward,
stumbling,
kisses we shared,
the faint tickle of your hot breath
that whispered down my neck.

Did it really happen?

My throat hurts
from screaming silently
in crowded rooms,
and my face aches
from smiling
far too much.
But still
nobody hears
and still
people ask
"Why the long face?",
even though
I made extra sure
to laugh
at all the right moments.
How do I explain
that my heart
feels like it's trapped in a vice,
that my eyes are so very tired
from constantly blinking back oceans?
I can't.
One more smile,
that almost makes my cheeks
crack,
and an
"I'm fine"
will do
instead.

How strange.
The dragon,
which I'd trained so valiantly for,
expected to breathe fire and
spit flames,
turned out to be more like
a cowering puppy.
Hiding behind his hair,
eyes rarely meeting mine,
I could put the sword back in it's case.
I felt more of a beast than you.

How strange.
The struggle I'd imagined,
the whirlwind battle,
where I defeated my demons,
and the dragon,
turned out to be nothing but a mere
pillow fight.
I entered the lair,
to find nobody there.

How strange.
The dragon I thought I'd
fall in love with,
failed to flame the spark.
My heart remained
irritatingly unscorched,
nothing more than the odd
plume of smoke
wafting around us.
And that was mainly your cigarettes.

How strange.
The 'dragon',
with his timid tone
and reserved demeanor,
roared
"F R I E N D."
This knight in
not so shining armour
needs a dragon
who can grip her heart with their claw,
and turn it white hot with desire.
You,
my little 'dragon',
are not that.
But you will make a great
friend
anyway.

I got tired today
Tired of looking
so hard in the mirror
that shapes swell and burst
and fill the room

I said no more today
No more wishing
No more waiting for a day
that will only come if I let it
Not because I've bent myself
in an impossible direction

I said "look at me" today
I'm beautiful, I'm soft,
I bulge and I tremble,
I hit and I kick
and I do it
hard

I thought girls
were meant to be cute.
Able to giggle
and flutter their eyelids
and toss their hair around,
to catch boys in the tangled net.
There's a hole in mine
and my eyes won't seem to flutter.
Moths lay stagnant over them,
not a butterfly in sight.
I try to look seductively out of them,
give a coy smile,
but it doesn't work
and my laugh isn't right.
Not the light hearted bird song that lifts a guy's heart
to a girl's mercy,
but an awkward
sigh
stinking of irony.
I wish I could be like the others.
I wish I could sway my hips
and lick my lips
and feel
beautiful.
I wish I could preen in bathroom mirrors
instead of run straight by,
the ***** floor a better sight
than what the mirror would hold.
I wish I could be in the pictures
instead of taking them,
the friend referred to as pretty
instead of the one made to deliver the message,
the girl that talks instead of stays quiet,
already knowing the outcome.
I wish I could just
be
a
girl.
Whatever that means.
I wish the mirror wasn't the scariest nightmare I've ever had,
scarier than the men I can't please,
scarier than the fact that I can't please myself,
scarier than all of that.
There's a crack in my reflection.
How do I seal it up?

I feel just about ready to
burst
with all the love
and kind words
and stroking of the cheek I have ready to offer.
But nobody wants it.
So should I just burst,
splatter all over a canvas and create a sick sort of work of art,
leaving me a let down balloon, a broken shell?
Or should I leave it to decay,
to slowly eat my insides and eventually fester out of my
ears,
nose,
mouth,
into something bitter and spoiled.
Or should I just keep growing
and hope I find you?

It's the night times that are the hardest.
The image of that cute couple in the coffee shop from earlier flickers through my mind.
I look up at the TV for a distraction, only to see a tender embrace, loves first kiss.
I search for the remote on the side of my bed where a body should be,
brush a hand across the cold fabric.
I put on some music.
"And all I could do was cry"
Crying, Etta, is futile.
Each tear hammers down on my hollow emptiness like a drum,
a-lone, a-lone, a-lone.
Alone.
The alarm clock on my bedside table ticks and ticks,
waiting
and waiting,
ticking
and waiting.
What are you waiting for?

Time to go to sleep.

The only thing worse than being with you,
is not being with you.

The only thing worse than talking to you,
is not talking to you.

Every time I try and go cold turkey,
I find my hand automatically
reaching out.
I grasp and open my fist,
but nothing is there.

You thawed me out,
a task previously thought impossible.
Problem is,
I can't stop melting.

How dare you give me these feelings,
turn me into this,
when you get to walk around solid
and free.

I'm a wreck.
Unrequited love is too pretty a term for whatever this is,
the ugly, confusing mess that has
spawned
and
grown
between us.
The one you engendered.

I hope you're happy now.
I hope you can sleep soundly at night,
whilst I toss and turn between images of you.
I hope you can look me in the eye when we speak,
whilst I try hard to find the floor,
the table,
the clock on the wall,
as interesting as possible.
I hope,
most of all,
that one day you'll open your eyes
and finally see me.
I'll be waiting.

Sad thing is, I think you know it.

Eyes staring,
eyes everywhere;
watching,
looking,
laughing,
judging.
Can't breathe,
can't walk,
can't speak.
I just wanna get on the bus,
I just wanna eat my lunch,
I just wanna buy a cup of coffee.
Can't find the words,
can't find the breath,
hands shake,
coffee spills,
I blush -
violently,
unmistakably.
Walking across a room feels like running across a desert,
talking to a stranger
is incredibly impossible,
looking at anybody in the eye
is not gonna happen.
Just leave me be,
just let me live,
without this constant commentary
racing around my brain.
Does everybody feel like this?
Does everybody hear this voice?
Is this just how it is?
I'm not special,
I'm nothing to look at,
not attracting attention;
so why do I feel the burning stab of a thousand eyes
pressing against my back?
Am I just totally mental?
Is this just pure self-obsession?
Just simply BEING shouldn't be so excruciatingly difficult.
Should it?
I wanna go to the bathroom
but I can't get across the room
without anybody seeing.
An easy-breezy laugh comes out like an uncertain whimper,
a friendly smile makes me look angry and confused.
I swear I'm nice, really,
I promise.
Just don't look at me.
Please don't look at me.

I finally did it.
With a deep breath,
and a little help from my friend Mr Alcohol,
I conquered the dragon.
But now,
despite the heroic gesture,
the sword held high in the air,
it seems the real battle has only just begun.
The day we have decided on
looms
like an execution date.
How do I pretend
that I'm confident?
How will I manage to,
dare I even say it,
flirt?
I feel the raw sensation of panic
creeping up my throat,
a lump that tells me I'll have to choke out my words
to even communicate with you.
I'll be so red you won't be able to tell if I'm embarrassed or sunburnt,
I might shake so that I spill my drink,
it's likely that I won't be able to look you in the eye,
I'll probably keep making frequent toilets breaks,
but if,
if,
you can like me,
even through all that shield I hold up,
I promise you,
I'll wear a suit of armor so strong,
hold a sword so surely,
that no one,
especially me,
will ever hurt you.
I'll slay your dragons.

"How was your night?"

Drinking,
as usual,
to numb the constant,
dull hum,
of emptiness,
crying by myself,
at the back of the club,
watching my beautiful friends,
with the perfect faces,
find somebody to hold
and love for the night.
Going home by myself,
staring out the smudgy window of the taxi,
wondering if I'll ever make the journey with somebody next to me,
a hand to hold.
Getting into bed as dawn breaks,
just as my heart does the same.

"Fine."

Sleeping in the same bed was,
at first,
hard,
limbs at odd angles
and breathing self conscious.
I’d roll one way,
then the other,
not sure what I was looking for
until I found you
on your back
mouth agape and body warm.
The first few times I didn’t dare touch you
not sure if I was allowed
and not wanting to wake you;
until the sun came up
and the light gradually let itself in
and I hid my face under the duvet,
scared you’d open your eyes and see something in it
that gave the game away,
or that you’d see something that
you’d missed before,
that made you want to get up,
put your socks on
and leave.
Even so,
I grew braver each time,
until I let myself roll one way,
and then the other,
with such force that I’d
‘accidentally’
roll into your outstretched arms,
which were always
palm up
and open.
Most of the time you’d **** awake,
bleary eyed and mumbling,
while I lay there
breath caught and wondering,
before turning your palms in
and bringing me to rest somewhere between the notches in your rib cage,
arms closed tight around mine.
I’d count the minutes as I felt you go from a sturdy pillow,
all old cotton and chest,
to a soft wave in a calm ocean,
rising and falling rhythmically
and in harmony with the beating of your steady heart
(lovely and loud beneath my right ear).
Despite your woozy ocean waves
and despite your bath water warmth
and despite your arms,
palms no longer up,
wrapped around my rib cage,
I didn’t sleep.
How could I?
Although I could already hear the birds calling,
see the light starting to slip silently across the wall,
I prayed that the sun would never come up
and that you’d never stop me swimming
and that you’d never let go.
The night used to seem like it stretched on forever,
dark,
empty,
unhappy;
but now it leaves almost as soon as it arrives
and,
somehow,
the day is never as bright.

I would do almost anything
to feel the crippling,
rib cracking,
pain of heartbreak radiating through my chest.
There's nothing I want more
than to be able to cry
huge,
salty tears each night,
one for each time he held my hand,
warmed my lips.
I want to feel the itchy,
sodium stains on my cheeks,
the dampness of my pillow.
I want to be able to hear songs,
watch movies,
that take me back to vivid memories,
that chisel away a little bit more of my
soul
eachtime.

Because what's that old saying?
"It's better to have had and lost love,
than to have never loved at all."
It circles through my mind,
screaming like a banshee.
This empty ache in my rib cage,
this dullness in my veins,
is something I want rid of.

I'd take the sweetness of the sugar,
followed by the sour of the lemon,
over this bland gruel anyday.

Make me feel.

To the boy I saw at work today,
the one so beautiful,
my heart
stopped,
what happened to our fairy tale ending,
the part where you give me your number and sweep me away?
Maybe I was just so
blinded
by your watercolour eyes,
of blueish grey,
your large, steady hands that brushed against my own pleading two
when you payed for your drink,
that brushed against my bare back,
against my stomach,
against my cheek
in the very same moment,
that I saw the stars that you didn't.
I was sure I saw something buried in the creases of your smile,
something that said
"I'm yours."
All
mine.
But something told me otherwise when you walked away,
blessed the rest of the room with those watercolour eyes
and gave them all the same promise.
To you I was just a
faceless vending machine,
to me you were
everything I've been longing for.
My pathetic
pictures
I paint with people like you,
like the boy at the bus stop,
like the boy in the cafe,
like every boy who ever took my breath away,
are as realistic and accurate
as the finest Dali or Picasso.
But to me,
you are all more real,
more beautiful,
than any work of art.
More even than my own
pathetic
paintings.

There's the sort of fear
that
paralyses
your body,
and
the sort of fear
that eats at you
from the inside out,
until your smile wavers
and the truth starts to show.
There's the sort of worry
that
plays on your mind,
and the sort of worry
that
ruins your mind,
turns it rotten
and blinds your eyes,
so there's no colour left in your isis
and all you see is black.
There's the sort of hope
that seems
like a light at the end of the tunnel
and
the sort of hope
that is essential
and is the last bit of rope
for you to grip on to
before the darkness eats you whole.
There's a type of
pleading
that means
"Give me the last cookie",
and there's the sort of
pleading
that means
I'm begging.
Please,
please,
please.

If I am as cold,
as empty,
as lonely as I think I am right now,
how much colder,
emptier
and lonelier will I really get if I truly
be myself?
Winter doesn't last forever.
The ice will melt.
I can put on a jumper,
wrap round a scarf.
And maybe,
just maybe,
I'll actually get a little warmer.
Maybe,
just maybe,
I'll see the sun.

I told you I'd stopped drinking coffee
because it made me too anxious.
You told me,
wide eyed and serious,
that I was a different person
after a couple of cups,
my mood changed to black and unstable,
harsh.
How could I tell you
that it wasn't the coffee,
but you?
No amount of caffeine could make me shake like you could,
send the invisible hand wrapping round my neck,
constricting,
refusing to let go.
That sick twist in the pit of my stomach,
you,
the vice like tightening of my muscles leaving me bed bound,
you,
the topsy turvy, murky milkshake of words in my head,
you,
the quickening of breath,
short rasps racing up my throat knocked back and left to struggle somewhere around my lungs,
you.
It was all
you,
you,
you.
Coffee made me more alert, aware, awake;
unable to switch off and escape into sleep.
All I wanted to do was stop feeling tired.
You were one great big exhaustion.

I want to be one of those girls.
The girls with craters for collarbones,
arms so gamine and slender
that they mirror the bend
of a flowers stalk.

I want to be one of those girls.
The girls who can wake up and go
without spending an hour
scrutinising themselves in the mirror,
so naturally beautiful
that they exude summer.

I want to be of those girls.
The girls who like to dress like the magazines,
that are entirely sugar and spice
and everything nice,
always painted
with a rom com ready smile.

I want to be one of those girls.
The girls who always know
exactly what to say,
when to laugh
and when to shut their mouths.

I want to be one of those girls.
The girls described as ****
and cute
and girlfriend material,
instead of
'one of the guys'.

I want to be one of those girls.
Not whatever I am
who laughs too loud
and eats too much
and drinks too much
and doesn't care
what Kim K wore to the gym last week.

I want to be one of those girls.
I want -

I just want to be me.