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.

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?

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.

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.

She's left scorch marks on your fingertips
and circles round your eyes.
Hell to touch
but heaven to spend all night *******.
You see starlight in her hair
and rainbows in her smile.
She's with you
even when she isn't
and you miss her
even when she is.
I smile
to see you smiling
and I love her
for loving you.
I'd like to rub away your circles
with my thumbs
and **** away
your scorch marks.
I'd like you to see starlight in my hair
and rainbows in my smile,
have you clench your fist when I'm not there
and you need someone to hold.
But for now,
hold on to her tight.
For now,
love and be loved.
I know I'm not her.
I have thorns stuck in my hair
and barbed wire in my smile.
But when I think of you,
I can't help but smile 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 wish the world was
blind,
so that somebody could finally
see me.

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.

I am so
full
of empty.
It pushes against my cracked rib cage,
constricts my lungs so that breathing hurts,
chokes my throat like the swallowing back of tears.
I want to **** the marrow out of life,
live out the cliches sang about in songs,
the ones written about in the dog eared paperbacks on my book shelf.
How can a heart be broken,
if there is nobody to break it?

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.

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.

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.

Afternoons around the lake feeding the ducks,
throwing crusts from the bottom of a bag
that smells like home.
Scraping down a white wash hill
on a scarlet sledge,
fingers freezing in the spray.
Walking home from school with a lucky bag,
a smile
and a warm hand on my shoulder.
Watching football
with a belly for a bed,
shouting out whenever you did.
Clipping holly best I could
through a fist full of mitten,
from the special bush that we called ours.
Laughing at the funny men
arguing on the telly,
the ones with the bowler hat and the silly face.
Coming home crying
with a splinter in my foot,
saved by a steady hand, a kind word and a needle.
Finishing almost last
in the school fun run,
but still feeling like a winner hearing you cheer my name.
Being able to say
that you're my dad.

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 wish I could have stayed with you,
and felt how it is to be touched again.

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

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.
*****.

You are the funniest person I have ever met.
Perhaps that's why when you're gone
everything around me feels colder
and more unbearable
than it has before.

You have made me happier than I have ever known.
So I'm not sure why recently
I've been waking up with a lump in my throat
and a heaviness in my limbs that causes me to crawl,
bent over,
broken.

I am so unbelievably scared.
Scared that you're going to turn round and tell me this was a mistake.
Scared that you're going to realise
that I'm not who you thought you wanted.

I don't know what else you could do
to make me feel any safer.
But I feel so vulnerable,
so incredibly close
to the edge of the cliff side
that I can hardly catch my breath
and I can feel the hands on my back
ready to push.

Is it too much to want for you to message me first?
Is it too much to want to feel your hand on my back?
Is it too much to hope you'll reach for me on a morning?
Am I stupid for being terrified that you lie awake at night
wishing I was her?
I wait for the day that you *** and say her name
instead of mine.

I thought we were sat on the same step,
even.
But now I feel myself looking up to you,
reaching out
and you don't even look down.

They say
that food and water
are essential to survive
but I've drank all I can
and I've eaten till I'm full
and still
I feel like
a daisy
in winter

Stone nightmares hang like bats off the edge of the
rain pocked buildings that line the street.
They were part of a hospital once, students in crisp,
white coats learnt the mysteries of life within their walls.
Echoes reverberate through the now empty skeletons,
of the scratching of pens,
coughs,
wails,
silence,
countless lives beginning and ending.
They're due to be torn down; bulldozers edge closer by the day,
cranes swing overhead,
drills shatter concrete.
Still, the gargoyles do their best.
I find comfort in their gnashing jaws and bottomless sockets -
amongst the structures popping out the ground like
worms during a storm,
they remain as a reminder of the past: an imprint, double exposure.
The old, shoulder to shoulder with the new,
a present memory.
Each day, as I draw the blind, I look to see what else has gone;
time marches on,
unrelenting,
mercilessly,
but the past, too, sinks in its claws -
a gargoyle on my shoulder.
What a glorious horror to call a friend.

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 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.

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.

It's hard to tell
if it's really you,
speaking to me so venomously,
words coming from some pitch black place
buried deep inside.
Your eyes stare
as if they're desperate to close;
the lids sagging,
the pupils unseeing.
You flinch at my touch
and I'm scared to get too close.
I can't remember the last time you smiled.
Sighs sit heavy in the air
and land every now and again,
falling with such force that they
bruise skin
and break bones.
I very much want to shove you down under the duvet,
wrap you in the sheets,
away from the falling sky,
but I'm frightened to touch
and my arms don't seem able to hold enough of you;
and if you're under the bed clothes
then the sighs have nowhere to go,
so the space between the matress and the sheet hardens and turns to stone,
trapping you inside.
Maybe that's what you want -
but I'm selfish and I'd take any amount of cuts and bruises
over that.
So we sit,
side by side,
on top of the blanket,
and you can't seem to find the motivation to speak,
so I say enough words for the both of us
and I hate myself for every little thing that I say,
because it all means absolutely nothing
and you stopped listening a long time ago.
One night whilst we slept
you walked too far
and went away
and I'm not sure when you're coming back.
I'm sorry if I'm the reason you had to leave -
I should have seen your back starting to turn,
heard the footsteps within the silences.
I'd have grabbed your hand and never let go.
But I need you to know,
I'll be here waiting when you come back.
I'll listen with pure joy as your jaw swings open
and the weeks worth of unsaid words come pouring out,
lie in total bliss as your fingers remember how to sit between mine,
soak up the hard pump in my chest as your tongue finds the words "love", "I" and "you" and let's them spill into the breeze to linger a while
before they float straight through my smile
and into my throat.
I miss you
but I'll never get tired
and leave you lost.
I'm here,
and I know you will be soon, too.

Age is no big deal,
but eight years contains a lot -
well love, so do I.

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.

Have you ever torn at your own flesh
in an attempt to be lighter?
Clawing at chunks of skin and life
to force a shape that isn't consecrated with shame
like the body that you're used to.
Have you ever looked at yourself in a mirror
and stared so long
with eyes squint
that you almost look like the girls in the magazines
on TV
described in novels
strutting down the runway
only to open up and see the same old you
soft
full
whole
and wish you could disappear
into the floor
forever?
Have you ever had a loved one say the very worst thing
you've always suspected?
The magic words that snap your heart in two
and confirm every doubt you've ever had
every bad thought about yourself
you've spent your whole life trying to swallow
into the stomach that has always been treated so cruelly.
Have you ever used every birthday wish
every dandelion blown in the wind
every 11:11
to pray
beg
plead
for a different person to live inside of?
I weep for my poor body
so bullied and bruised
and I swear to never wish
for another
ever
again.

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.

I turn on the news
Scroll all day on my phone
The first words on my tongue
Are how can this be so

I walk down the street
And see those without homes
I ask once again
How can this be so

I hear people talk
Of our great country so bold
But still the words on my tongue
Are how can be this so

The people with power
Spit on those down below
I cry out the words
How can this be so

Those around me are bleeding
While their pockets grow
I beg them to tell me
How can this be so

The whole world is on fire
And still we work to the bone
I get tired of asking
How can this be so

They would fall from their perch
If we all threw a stone
The system is broken
That I do know

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’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.

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.

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?

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.

These ears are full to the brim,
overflowing,
with words of hatred,
complaints,
moans,
heartache.

I'm scared they're going to get into my blood stream
and poison my heart.
Why do I have to be the good listener?
Why do I have nothing to say?

Most of the time,
your name stirs lethargically around my head,
muffled and not quite discernible
under the everyday sea of thought that laps
repetitively
against my skull.
But now and again
the tide turns
and you lurch out of it,
the single syllable crashing along with the tumultuous waves
against bone and flesh,
drowning tomorrow's shopping list
and that phone call I promised I'd make.
For a second,
I'm knocked out,
reeling,
struggling to contain the ocean -
you arrive so unexpectedly
and leave so messily,
frothing and spraying against the shore until all that's left
is a couple of red raw letters
and a memory or two.
I shake my head to get rid of the water
but everything still feels
cold
and
damp.
I miss the sun warmed lakes that used to reside in me
and the certainty they brought.
No turning tide
and no waves to knock me flying,
just a vast silky stillness that I could,
first,
dip a toe in to,
and then dissolve in,
fully submerged.
And I could scream your name until my lungs bled,
and hear the single ******* syllable echoed back at me,
again
and
again
each one different for each time I actually said it
(whispers under bed sheets, long moans that lasted long after you'd left)
and still not get sick of the short bluntness
of the four frank letters -
an unapologetic start and end
with a whisper in the middle.
But if I decided to put my lips to better use,
and let my blood stream soak you up instead,
all was quiet.
No slam of wave,
no spluttering sea -
and that silence,
full and happy,
said more than words ever could.

"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."

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.

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.

We walked along
the flowered streets
and felt the gentle sunlight
dripping on our shoulders.
I think I smiled
for two days straight
and every laugh
was like the uncorking of champagne.
The buildings on either side of us were egg shell white
and just as delicate,
their slender bodies and effortless sophistication
somehow humble and full of history.
Every turn was met with unending beauty,
so much so that it made your eyes hurt
and your chest ache.
Winding streets slanted us in the right direction
and the smell of fresh bread, crepes
and something without a name
made our stomachs feel warm and full
and rumble too.
The dirtiest newsagents was a palace
and the grimiest bar the same,
the topsy turvy,
tipsy language in the air adding instant elegance
to the ***** walls,
the filth on the table tops somehow romantic.
We left the city
and it whispered goodbye,
through the car horns honking
and the dogs barking,
a melody most sublime.
We left the city
but it never left us.

If a picture speaks a thousand words,
then I've just written a novel.
I hope it has a happy ending.

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.

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.