You don't drive me crazy,
just so far out of my senses
that all I can sense is you

and all I can hear is your fingertips
singing to my skin
in a language my mind
can't comprehend
but I know they're saying something
that's making me dance

that's making me sweat

that's making me crazy

Lately my dreams have been working 12 hour shifts
and you seem to disappear at the 13th
But around hour 15 I start to draw your eyes on the tv screen
and taste your lips on my knife
and
then
I start to bleed because I think your name just cut into my lip a bit

and you're gone

At hour 19 i swear I hear your voice on the other line of whoever my dad is talking to and I can't breathe anymore
and
then
Hour 22 is the roughest
but only because my hands are a lot softer than yours and I can't quite get them to do that thing you did
and

It's hour 24
and I think this blanket was stitched from your body

I cut myself on the future
I thought of kissing your picture
I detached myself from
lullabies and sorry eyes
only to realize:

I want to make love to you in November,
just before the empty of December.
Where snow blankets
and suffocating leaf-beds
aren't the only dreams
to fall asleep in our heads.

I could hear your voice trip
as my hands started to drip
around your hips and thighs-
You could tranquilize
with your lips and byes.

You look so sleepy-headed
Many words I have threaded
to weave a dream
desperately
but you prefer my
reality.

If I struggle with the answer
For the price of these beers,
Please let me get on by,
For it’s a wonder I’m still here.

We’re swarming through headlights
As we make our way through town,
The women fix their heels and lipstick,
Whilst the streets fill up with sound.

And I can’t think about tomorrow
Over the loudness of my shirt,
An imitation of new Hawaii:
Throw a rainbow over hurt.

Yet still I say ‘thank you’
As you throw up in my face,
Then I’ll pour you another *****;
Everything can be replaced.

Over 200 schoolgirls,
what difference does it make?
If there were only one ten or eight,
they were never yours to take

Hadija, Febi, Chioma,
should be in all of our heads,
but are instead
in a filthy man's bed.

We are the hands
that need to hold their mothers
or wipe away the tears
of their broken baby brothers

One found schoolgirl

the difference that would make
to be held in her fathers arms

they were never yours to take

where's
the fun
in being
vulnerable
if there's
no one there
to use you

what's
the point
of being
lonely
if there's
no other island
to cruise to