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.

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."

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.

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

Sometimes,
usually when I've had a drink,
(or two),
I try to remember what it feels like to be kissed,
the hot, wet, desperate pressing of lips.
This is what it must be like for somebody with Alzheimer's disease.
Pretty much impossible.
I creak open my own crumbling, forgotten lips, lined with cobwebs, filled with bats.
I think of Miss Havisham.
"Can I get another?"

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.

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.

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

So,
even though you pushed me,
even though you charmed me,
with your words,
your smile,
it's my fault
and I'm apologising,
for doing what you told me to.
But I'm not sorry at all.

It feels as if a spinning top has been turned
and I'm stuck to it,
one side me a month ago
and who I am now on the other.
I was so happy.
I didn't realise before that such happiness existed,
or that I'd ever feel it.
But I did
and you let me
and I smiled so hard from morning till night that people were asking me if I was okay.
Okay??
I'd gotten all the way to then without ever really being okay,
but now I was
exactly right.
You woke parts of me up that I didn't even know were asleep,
helped me see things that before I'd ignored -
you made me feel like something worth wanting.
The mirror held me differently
so that I barely recognised my own reflection.
Did she always walk with her shoulders so far back,
stand with her head held so high up??
The second time I met you
I felt something physically change within me.
A sudden jolt somewhere behind my belly button,
the dislodging of stars and hot insides.
I wondered if you'd noticed,
if I'd changed on the outside too,
but you were too busy
tracing the tree trunk ring lines on my fingertips with your lips,
to notice.
Then I'm spinning
and spinning
and spinning,
and I'm grabbing hair
and tshirts that smell like you and home
and fingers that fit perfectly in mine
and stained with paint duvets that keep us safe
and door handles that lead to places I've never been before
and flowers and rain and mountains and oceans and forest
and I've landed somewhere hard and all too familiar
with the wind knocked right out of me,
like a boat being spat out of a storm.
Everything's dark.
Everything's cold.
Everything's exactly how it was before -
except,
now,
I know.
I know what could be
and who we could be
and who I could be
but now I'm stooped so low that I can't even see myself in the mirror,
people are asking me if I'm okay and my mouth is too sore to answer,
I can feel something just behind my belly button
but it hurts
and makes stomach acid swim up my throat.
I spit it out on pavement
and wonder if it burns.
I hate you so ******* much for doing this that it scares me.
You took me at my worst,
rolled me in your hands like clay till I was somebody new,
and then crushed it between your palms
so now I'm so broken it hurts to breathe
and bits of ***,
plate and vase,
rattle in my lungs
till I cough blood.
And just a month ago,
before you span the top,
I loved you so much it scared me
but now I don't know the difference.

What did her mouth taste like?
Did she taste like me?
Was her breath sugary and hot,
her sighs cotton candy and sweet tea,
or did the guilt turn them sour
her spit bitter and spoilt?
Or had her tongue dragged you in
and swallowed you whole
allowing any of trace of me to be forgotten,
the guilt but an irritating side effect
of one ******* magical poison?

What did her lips feel like?
Did they feel like mine?
Were they firm,
but soft,
sedated,
but awake,
exciting and strange,
but completely home,
moving in shapes you didn't know how to fit inside,
talking in tongues you couldn't quite understand?
I bet you tried.
I bet you thought she was calling you all the things nobody had ever called you before -
but can't you remember all the times I called you perfect?
Usually when you were half asleep or I was half drunk,
me watching your face soften from mountain to sea with each passing breath,
you telling me to shush because it was only the drink talking.
But you were wrong;
I meant it.
Every dumb sappy thing I ever said,
I meant it.

Where did your hands go?
Did they slide inside her tshirt
and wrap around her waist,
holding on so tightly that your skin seemed to melt into hers,
like they used to do to me?
I still have the burn marks to prove it,
thick,
hot welts on my hips,
ugly and the most beautiful purple flowers I've ever seen.
Or were your hands wary and unsure of themselves,
shaken by such sudden starlight,
hanging awkwardly around your sides,
reaching out
and falling back
again
and again
and again?

Maybe if I'd have pressed my mouth against yours that bit harder,
slid my tongue along yours that little bit quicker,
eaten sugar lumps before we kissed,
you'd still be here.
Kiss me again
and I'm not letting go.
Kiss me again
and I'll choke you with honey.
Kiss me again,
kiss me again,
kiss me again.

I feel
strange
like sunlight is trying to escape
through every crack in my body.
I don't know if this is happiness
but it sure isn't
sad.

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.

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.

The same thing
every day,
every,
day.

Tomorrow
the same thing,
every day,
every,
day.

Today
is yesterday,
tomorrow
and the same.

I loved you too hard
and I loved you too quick.
Well,
if you want,
I can love you soft
and I can love you slow,
if that makes things better,
but I can't,
I'm sorry my dear,
not love you at all.

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.

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.

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.

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?

Why won't you leave my ******* brain?
I know that you're a *******,
that you're not worth a minute of my time,
although really I know that that's not true
but that's what I keep telling myself,
in order to get out of bed in the morning.
I thought I was finally angry,
that I'd reached the long awaited
'Stage 2'
of the break up,
but here I am again,
sobbing in the street,
six beers in.
Do you still think of me?
Or if somebody mentioned me now
would you simply answer
"Molly who?"
Molly,
the girl that loved you.
Still loves you.
Molly,
the girl you ******
last thing at night and first thing in the morning.
Molly,
the girl that didn't turn out to be
the girl you prayed she was.
Molly,
the girl that's been alone so long
that she stays that way,
even when somebody else is rammed deep inside her.
You're with me more now
than when we were together.
How is it fair
that you get to snap your fingers,
say "that's that"
and be okay;
what happened to
"I'll never finish this"?
You lied.
Do you understand that?
You're a ******* liar.
You took me by the hand,
called me all the things I'd always dreamt of hearing
and pulled me down,
deep down,
to a place I didn't know I was capable of inhabiting.
I resisted at first,
the place you put me in strange and all too familiar,
and I wanted to keep one arm out of the water.
But you wouldn't stop asking,
wouldn't let go of my hand,
a merperson,
floating hypnotic in the water,
bewitching the love sick sailor with her head over the side of the boat,
cursing the moon.
And so I fell right in,
felt the foam crash right over my face,
the waves swell in my lungs,
the salt in my mouth
and the sting in my eyes like nettles,
and I laughed until I choked
and begged for more.
But that's when you swam away
and I was lost and lifeless inside the rib cage of a shipwreck,
right at the bottom of the sea bed,
amongst the whale bones,
and I suddenly remembered that I couldn't breathe.
I was stupid;
you were stupid.
I was clueless;
you were cruel.
There's shells in my hands
whenever I cough
and sand in my bed.
You used your tongue to open me up,
a clam,
and I swallowed down the ocean.
Fish flap on the shore
and search for sea,
puddles of air,
the kiss of life.
I wait for the rain
to turn into a river.

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.