fact: the beluga whale can live for around 50 years.

i see everything
i feel as if i have eyes
we all have eyes
but my eyes see it all

i wish they didnt see it all
i really really do

fact: the patients of nervosa probably can't live for around 50 years.

i know you dont think im looking
i see everything though
i see the sparrows feed and the iron bars holding on

i see the murky water bowl and the sprints up the stairs
i see moonlight situps
because you are "training for the new season"

loose shirt, yet to you it is skin tight
bulging
like a balloon

and we all know what happens to balloons
when they keep growing and growing swelling up
they pop.

and you realise in fact, that the balloon that you thought was there was in fact.
a lifeless hunk of rubber, desperate for a little air

now im not saying that the balloon is a figure of your mind
but im saying that this is.

i think about my time
walking around a vast expanse of nothing
it will be endless.

my body will go to the land.
land i damaged
hurt and killed
with my every waking breath

the land will take my body
unwilling yet grateful
and as i rot
the land will look at my

rotting liver
broken heart
black tar in my lungs
unbroken, unchanging, unmoved
destroyed

and sigh as she goes on with her day.

subconsciously happy that another
killing machine
is of her planet.

you know sometimes i think of mother earth as one of those grandparents
you know the whole "get off my lawn"
cliché
except the teenagers don't leave

the hormonal beasts rip off her lawn to expose
her jewels of life
marvels of wonder
and then what do they do

they take it.

so when mother earth sees another mortal soul
who's every waking breath
hurt and killed,
un broken un changing un moved

she sighs and goes on with her day.

sometimes i wonder if
i could live two lives
in parallel
but eventually
one of them is going to have to
split off onto a far away road

so i must no longer wave at my reflection
or reflections should i say

as i am living many lives, as many people
walking on with their many days
in black jeans, tweed pants, sport shorts,
until

one of them bumps into another
and they all shatter.

so i have to complete the arduous task  
of holding the rusty knife
and killing off the characters of my past
o what a beautiful sorrow

will i find the courage
or will my knees merely meet yours
in some navy blue darkness
will your hand be holding mine
will i be fine

i wish i could tell you
how it is so hard to see your grey face and dark eyes
and know i can't do anything without telling the one true secret
hiding inside

its sick of me right
to be up into the depths of night
wanting a diagnosis, a pill to pop,
morning and night
fixing this rot

the rot is me, for that is what i am
i am broken, bruised yet on the outside
i am well.

         well - in a good or satisfactory manner

except for tarnishing scars, carved into my back
faded into a splitting grey
'not my colour really darling' you say
in some grasp, clawing your paws skyward

imposter syndrome plagues daily
clinical trials never proved nor questioned
prognosis given minutely
updates routine
yet it all feels
deafening

like shouting into the abyss

calling meaningless names
and waiting for an imaginary crystalline rope to haul you up
a trojan horse, is what you are

hauling conditions at your enemies, in some screaming fight
when inside, it is just a ruse, a cry for help.
oh how could i not help, they think

yet when the rope snaps, they never put their ear to the abyss
instead chastise the creator.

a father and a daughter play snap on a whittled table
bandages around her spine
hot milk can't soothe the grey pain
but they play until she is tired
at 2am
they venture upstairs,
she is carried, weightlessly, in his arms
he is careful not to shatter the breaking bones.

when she is seven they ask her where the grey came from
she says she got into a knife fight
for she has never been one for the truth
she was taught to lie explicitly
her father telling lies so vast
that they passed into truth

sometimes her mind would create things
crystal structures sitting in her hand
a one am run
a girl
so real she pocketed them
into her mind
and she forgot that with a hammer
they would shatter

she forgot so much, that they passed into truth
a crystal lodged in the heart of the fifth girl she has ever liked.

you sit triumphant on the throne
red velvet, up there, on concrete stairs
i am a piece of glass to you
see through, ready to crack
to break, grovel at your knees
do anything that you please

and you see it.
i feel like a spy. everything is shrouded in secrecy now.
everyone says hi to me but you
you give me a glance telling me
"you will need to do more to earn my time"

i give you high 5's
your hand is bigger than mine
the prints studding my back are purple night skies.

you see right through it.
you know i would jump over hot coals to get a day with you.

****, a day with you.
if that were a drug i'd be a ******.
the idea of you, seeping into my veins
giving me a high.

withdrawal from you has become my pain.
i try to find you.
the you that came with me on the bridges of brighton,
the you that bellowed the lyrics of fuzzy 9:40 pm songs
sung an octave lower.

but you see that i'm searching
so you hide the key.

on top of your red velvet throne
you autocratic beauty.
i wonder if you know what you are doing to me
bug under your thumb, i squirm and you laugh.

give me my high, my ruler, my lover, my queen.
don't worry about the withdrawal my muse.
compared to your shots through my glass,
a little fire would be welcome.