He left his mark on me,
angry and aggressive.
His clutching fingers scrambling for purchase
on my delicate ivory skin.
He laid his claim like one would mark territory,
so that every absent touch would bring back
the phantom of his teeth,
haunting my flesh like a ghost.
Under covers at night it lit a spark in me,
but the dawn broke with my smile
shattering with the burden of my regrets.
I am filled with such shame
that the break in my skin
is a wound that winded it's way deep into my gut.
Your mouth upon my skin
raises the bile in my throat,
and I am sick of lust.
I am sick of the memory of you - of us -
and if I could wish away the night,
I would.
If I could wish away my fluttering heartbeat,
the fumbling darkness,
the alcohol in my veins,
I would.
I would wish myself away
in a second
because the thought of your hands on me
repulses me.
I am sick of your face,
burning in my mind.

We have a legacy
that we share in touches rather than words.
I have a whole life
spelt out in the way
I gesture with my hands
and tap my toes upon the floor.

The grace by which your fingertips dance across my ribs
tells me of how you'll never leave.
Your lips speak of how you love me,
in silence,
against the pale skin of my neck.
Your palms whisper to mine
talk of how the distance between us is like the stars
- constant, yet beautiful
in such a way that makes me feel tragically alone.

I cannot bring myself to love anything that isn't you,
or the softness that I feel when I run my hands through your hair;
I cannot bring myself to want when you are not there.

I have so much to hold onto,
so why does it still feel like I'm falling?
I've made a mistake
- no - I made a choice.
And that choice is already a regret,
and that regret is crushing.
Halfway between a pain and a hunger
for his touch,
so I fill it with the touch of another.
I feel so ******* ***** and wrong,
and worthless.

The sweet whiskey drown
burns my tongue.
And the smoke in my lungs
is a cloud I can blame
for the blur in my vision
and the way my lips find their purchase
on lips that aren't yours.
But when the liquor fades
and the smoke disappears
in my cold morning breath,
I suffocate.

Your fingertips whisper words I dare
not hear,
your eyes are the secrets
unspoken.
Through your dreams I see you, dangerous
in fear,
as I linger here, waiting,
broken.

A fleeting feeling,
once here, now gone.
A quiet question,
always heard, never asked.
That tender touch
of yours, of mine.
The igniting of a flame, hands
outstretched, reaching in darkness
for you, or me,
or love.

I’m still me.
I still eat and drink and breathe
And walk and talk and skip
And sometimes I try to dance even though everyone knows I’m *******.
I still cry when I watch certain TV shows
And laugh when I watch Titanic
Because of the one guy that goes spinning when he falls of the top.
I still hate tea – because it smells weird and it’s leaves –
And I’ll always be a caffeine addict.
I still sing obnoxiously loud in the shower
And spend evenings strumming away on my guitar
Even though I’m not that good.
I still write free-verse poetry
Because I could never get the hang of rhyming
And sticking to patterns.
I still like to say ‘**** the system!’ and ‘***** society!’
In moments when, really, those words don’t apply,
Because I still like to think I’m a rebel.
I still get scared of going to university
And moving out, and getting a job.
Of having to pay bills and shop for myself
And all those adult things that I don’t quite know how to do yet.
I still think and feel the same as I used to
And I’m the same on the inside.
The only thing that’s changed is
My view of my identity,
The clarity by which I see myself
And the way I let others see me.
I’m still me,
And I always will be.

A Sudden feeling
crushing, overwhelming
It’s everywhere, surrounding
No escape, no distraction
No denial.
It’s real then.
Then and forever
and you’ll never forget
never really escape.
It’s a forever thing.