My mother said we were different.
Round peg, square hole,
but you still put your red peg right through my chest
as my heart was the minefield where you and me played battleships
till we sank into moonlight on a blanket in
your yard smoking cigarettes.
That blanket was my starship and your yard my volcano
as I couldn't be less square than
the night I said I love you, I love you.

That night you manoeuvred my body
like you had a map of my soul engraved
in the palm of your hand,
crafting me into stanzas with rhythm
even Shakespeare could not teach.
My syllabic speech echoing your rhyme
as you read between my lines
that were no longer straight.

My mother said we were different.
That we didn't fit, that I didn't fit in.
That love is not a feeling
but is a bicycle you learn to ride.
That true love is something to hide
at the bottom of your closet for
no one else to find.

No, closets are for clothes and bicycles for forests
as love is falling into dirt with your mouth wide open.
It is dancing naked to Nirvana at 3am
Screaming come as you are.
Please, come as you are.
I will never change your shape so that you fit me,
and I will never erase the lines that make you frown
or make you smile.


My mother said we were different.
Geometry was never my thing.
Thats just the way I am.

My lungs are beating like they have swallowed my heart whole.
Divided on who she loved more, they choke my breath so I taste sour gummy bears as I curl over wounded,
a victim of one of loves ****** battles.

As I have fallen in love with every girl I have seen since I was 10.
I saw her in the playground with hair to her waist and we picked daisies like I picked her.
Seeing something beautiful and killing it for the sake of beauty alone.

I stopped falling in love when I chose the scent of musky sweat over the scent of rose blossoms.
It left a stench on my pillow so pungent and powerful I slept by the toilet which I shared my dinner with unwillingly.
Curled over out of no love I spat into the mix of **** and princess shapes and went back to the man who thought my interest in women was a turn on, so I pushed his button to turn him off.
It was that night I left.

It was that night I put down my fork and threw out my two meat and veg into the recycling to go into the arms of another woman's cutlery.

It was that night I stopped dispensing my body like candy from a machine and instead knocked on the door of myself and welcomed her in. Fall in love she said, but with me.
After putting the kettle on I fell in love with the curve between her thighs and the scars upon her arms. I fell in love with her inability to eat spaghetti elegantly and her obsession with trees.

Ever since then I have started living in my body as a home rather than a hotel I can change every week, I have begun to uncurl my spine and untwist my mind.
I now love a girl who smiles at the sky and shares food with her lover rather than an appliance.

But love spreads faster than fire and if you're not careful it can swallow you whole.

I say swallow me whole. Swallow me completely. Rip out my lungs and replace them with trumpets as I refuse to do anything but love, love, love.

Darling, you can be anything you want to be.

Just pick yourself like a chocolate. Admire the red foil that engulfs your small fingertips with that smile you do as the caramel swims between your rose tinted lips.

Pick yourself like a flower, like that snow drop the fairies plant every February under the apple tree, or that single rose that pricked your finger, the red one you once gave me.

Be an astronaut and bring me back a star. Wrap it up like fish and chips and we can watch it shine when the time comes for you to kiss me goodnight for the last time. And I will appear, my sweetheart, in the place from which you plucked it from in that velvet patchwork quilt we call a sky, and I will watch  you, always from afar.

Be a surgeon and find yourself the biggest heart. And when you do, let your darling love you and love your darling back. And when your darling hurts you, do not try to fix your broken heart with liquor or lust, but patience and promise, as your heart is the strongest ***** in your body. It keeps playing the most beautiful music when all else fails, and whatever God you choose my darling, he or she will listen to it always, even if that God you choose doesn't exist.

If neither these excite you, be an acrobatic swimmer and keep yourself afloat. Be a carpenter and build yourself a boat. Be an academic at Oxford and stand up and say 'I am a ******* academic at Oxford' and stick your finger up at Mrs Lewis down the road whose children have 'the potential' and gloat. Or be a mother like me, and know how to always make the world a whole better place with just a smile, a mothers grace.

But darling, if anything, just be you. As you are perfect. Not just perfect because you make the air dance with just a mere breath, or because you can sing the alphabet backwards, but because you are you.

There are 1,013,913 words in the English language, and not one of them describes how I feel about you, about us.

I used to say you were my strawberry jam, my little preserve that I would lay and spread on the table each morning, and I would lick my lips and say 'my God isn't she magnificent'.

I was your hero, your savior, your Christ that you had at Sundays Eucharist, and thank God you did. You dissolved in my mouth like that little piece of bread called a body but you tasted of everything instead of nothing, and **** me for thinking of you instead of God, thinking of you as my altar as I said 'hail Mary' and I worshiped you like a school girl with an orange full of candles in her hand, and for that God will **** me. He will **** me to hell but I don't care as the Universe lives under your tongue and everything I had ever dreamed of was right there in the right hand corner of your mouth.

You were my Wendy, darling. You stuck a thimble on my heart and said now you can never hurt me. But you did. We did. And the never of Neverland drifted away like a ship sinking into the sky, enveloped by darkness, smothered by a torrential rain of tears that washed away your fears that we were perfect, as there's no such thing as perfect when you can see your heart in the mirror with a target fixed to its center,

There are no words to describe how I feel about us. I still lift up my shirt and see your name inscribed on my chest, I still wake up and transcribe the words you wrote on my breast. I still touch myself up and think of you bribing me to undress. I still think about us.

If I could re-write my world to involve you in it I would. I would leave a piece of the jigsaw for you to carry around in your pocket so you knew you always fit in the world some where. I would make the sun rise each day through your window so you knew that life was worth living, that life was worth living when you were so what I am saying is I am forgiving. I am forgiving those days you swore at my reflection, and that day I slept on the sofa till three in the morning chain smoking till I was choking, remember? You said 'what are you doing' and I said I was in a smoke straight jacket and I was dying. You went back up to bed and I started crying. I am forgiving myself of those days I lay in bed just sighing. I am forgiving us for not trying.

But most of all, most of all, I am forgiving us for lying.

There are not enough words in the English language that can say I'm sorry like I am.

Or that I want you to move on. But I don't want you to move on.

Or that I want you happy. Because I want you happy.

I want you happy.

Forgive me for the ink that strains your innocent purity with words I don't even understand.

Pick up your rubber and erase my right hand with swift flick of the wrist

and a gentle caress for you cannot forgive me for what I have done,

but I can.

Stone me. Cut off my hand and stone me.

Let the blood drip like my wasted children that come and go with each

waning moon,

as the only thing that grows within me is love.

Open up the gates of hell and toss me like Mary Madeline tossed him,

and let me burn; but God, you play with fire

as I will only burn for her so nail me to the cross with my convent robe

and watch her kiss my feet and continue up to the heavens.

You can forgive me for opening my legs but you cannot nail them

shut, and you cannot cleanse my **** with salt from your narcissistic

***** that seeps between thighs in an unconsented **** of fertility.

Eve may have eaten the fruit of they womb but you cannot throw me out

the garden of Eden and you cannot tell me not to love when my heart

smells her sweet flower.

Nor can you curse our open mouths for taking a taste.

Forgive me Lord,

for I do not know what I am saying, and only say the words and I shall be

healed.


Malevolent God, this finger is for you.

But benevolent God, you gave me hands so I can make her tea

when she is dreaming,

and you gave me a heart that will not stop beating at the sight of her

sneakers on the floor.

Her eyes are like crumpets, God.

They make my mouth wet and my lips moist

and cover me in cotton blankets, just like 1993 when icicles clung to the

rooftops like I cling to her waist when she is sighing.

You made the ocean just so I can see her in a bikini.

It does't matter if she covers the curves of her thighs in shorts,

or her soft ******* in a shirt.

The point is you tried, and my God did you craft something magnificent.

Forgive me God, as I did not believe you existed till the day she said

I love you.

I smiled like second grade when I found a muffin in my lunchbox

and I ate it like my life depended on it, as if I don't have her

I fear I might explode.

But unlike 2nd grade each day I open my lunchbox and I find her

next to my sandwiches.

You made us like peanut butter and jelly.

So forgive me Lord, but I refuse to believe that you

condemn

something so perfect

as this love.

I met her in the parking lot of a liquor store one Friday night with my naked body hidden beneath a dressing gown.
I’d put it on whilst I finished the gin from my 20th birthday within my boyfriends closet as he drank his **** down in beer and asked why I was in the closet.

Impotent, it was a quick exit as I thanked the drink for making me able to ride my bike back minus the safety of a sanitary towel, without my **** left to think of his grunts and groans and his hands which branded my thighs as he fed me lies that it was just in the moment; his finger prints left signatures citing his latest triumph of lasting one hundred point thirteen seconds.

The magnetism between the Alchemist and me was instant.
She held out her palm and asked for mine as the lines in my hands rewrote themselves in twisted, hopeful anticipation; reaching out, what I felt from the tips of my fingers was magic as I traced her navel to the logo of DKNY on the front of her black, cotton *******.

I taught her how to blow out smoke rings like the clowns at a circus who sit within purple tents and repeat sums of the class of 1969, the date they got their ***** kicked in, indigo, violet, for being performers.
I taught tobacco. She taught me ***.
There was ****** deviation towards devilry as I delved into the darkness between her legs as her ****** enchantment captured my hand and leaned me back;
Black blindfold, sight slaughtered.
Burning desire rolled over my bare ******* and left a trail of rouge; yet her warmth was not tender nor loving, but raw, earthly.
A sensual split as she clawed my back and licked the drips of blood that seeped into the bed, which was our place.

I felt myself become an astrologer as I left my body and rose in starry bliss; I became an adventurer as I breathed out ships, which sailed us to Stonewall as I stuck ******* up, not her sadly, but the blue meanies, the pigs which ate out of the trough of **** Tim Loughton fed us from our backyard.

I said we are making love. She said we are making a revolution.
Our energies combined, our spirits sang as it is in all and all is in us.
Time was alive as my fingers curled, my teeth bit into my open lips,
My back arched and my arms reached out in holy restoration.
Her incantation was irresistible.

Cosmic forces worked effortlessly as we evaded time and entered a transcendent state. Magical longing; primal consciousness;
Fate brought us together, past the ******* stage of our ****** evolution
As what we felt replaced what Freud saw.
A ****** of witchcraft.
An ****** of obsession.
The day I stepped out of the closet and away from my boyfriend I drank the elixir of life from your lips and knew our love would never die.

I lost cuntrol when I was nine years old.
Mother took my hand off my crotch yet left my brother to the confinement of his ****;
Girls good, boys bad, and oh no sweetheart your beauty is your only power.
And I’d blush; not in the way she’d hoped through the sweep of a brush but rather when my teacher left her hand lingering on my back as she bent over to tick the formula of the female form and cross out what the chimes of the church commanded.
I looked at the curve of the x she used to mark the spot and sighed.

Teach me. Teach me your ways so I can breathe in the sweet blossom of your hair as I rest in the bossom of your heart, its smells like lavender. Lavender.
Lavender sweet dreams honey and I will see you there tonight.

It was then I began my perpetual low earth orbit from dream to dream and departed from what mother said that day when I asked the question that makes mothers quake as they smooth out the creases in their dresses and tuck their unravelled hair behind bitten ears.
Making love. We made love only to make you, darling.
Mother smiled sweetly and turned her back on me as her mind traced back to that morning when she made mad passionate love with the milkman when daddy wasn’t looking. I am still waiting for my little sister.

If practice makes me perfect then meet man, mother.
I used his rocket to launch myself into space where I spelt her name out in the stars and jumped over the moon to Venus. I felt the warmth from her skin like the sun that keeps me alive. Alive. Alive.
Warm me, darling, just with the nestle in my vessel in my veins in my sugar coated spaceship.
We found sticks and made smores and we floated together, with my hand tracing your V in that three-dimensional galaxy between your legs we fell in love. No void existed between our celestial bodies as gravity pulled me into your arms.

He came as I came back from space thinking of nothing but the soft shape of her hips and the trail of her spine that led me back to earth.
There’s man with his grey socks still on his feet, dark matter on the sheets and a wrapper on the floor.
******* I thought, but in the sky…
That night my mother asked me why I am smiling.
I said I have become an astronaut in orbit with a woman who I love in space.
She cried shes lost it.
I smiled, nodded yes, I've lost it to her.

I lost cuntrol when the earth, heavens and waters fell in love and sailed and soured as we danced on the tree tops of your garden, with waves crashing beneath us leaving salt shimmering particles like diamonds on your feet.
You were my alphabet soup that filled me with too many words, the thrill of the prize at the bottom of the cereal packet and the noble intentions of stopping the Titanic from sinking with the touch of button.
We had love at first sight like David and Jonathen, Ruth and Naomi who boarded the ark as my back arched in passionate throws below deck, as Noa held Emzaras hand smiling.
Adding a letter to her name on Transgender Tuesdays was just an afterthought.
Opening her drawers to pack up her boxers and bind her ******* Noa smiled as the clock cocked Tuesday.
She entered her escapism; what the Bible calls a natural disaster, I just call natural.

I lost cuntrol when I re-arranged the stars like pick and mix, so I could always find my way back to you. When you said I love you I wondered whether I’d had too many dolly mixtures and where jelly babies came from.
Sugar rimmed your lips like salt on a martini and left me drunk with desire as I licked around your edges. You slipped a haribo ring on my finger and I gave you my loveheart.

I lost cuntrol one day when my lover Alice said eat me. She showed me Dinah who hide beneath her skirt and I followed curiously.
I didn’t ask her to say please but that’s another story.

After her lesson I was told the Sputnik satellite was man-made and I laughed.
Oh no, women have been launching rockets with complete cuntrol between their legs for years, leaving the earths atmosphere and dreaming of everything else but ***** ****’s ****.
During countdown they think of shopping lists, whether they’ve burnt off enough calories for wine with their girlfriends, and sometimes, sometimes, of her.
Do good girls go gay?
In space, my mother said, in space.