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Lauren Jun 2018
Sweetling, I miss you.
Sweetling, hold me.
I long to see your perfect profile
Outlined in the moonlight
Darling, speak sweet everythings
Into my ears and violently
Persistent ideas into my mind.
Darling, let me stroke your hair
Find comfort in my arms
Like a child with his mother
Like my darling with his lover.
Apple of my eye,
Share yourself with me
Bare yourself to me
Dare to trust (yourself with) me
Dearest, I want to know you
The presentable and the present
The vast past and the vile vices
The boundless beliefs and
Murmurs of futures
Dearest, don’t be so shy,
Don’t you know?
I am putty in your hands.
Lauren Oct 2017
It could be described as
Bittersweet
She confesses
Smirk of self-satisfaction
Moored to her mouth
With wreckage
Drifting in her eyes.
More bitter than bile
And sweeter than sugar
She quips
Knowing that no one
Would get it
Even if they could understand
They’d rather stand over her
Flipping admiration to condemnation
So, cowardly, she prefers
To tower over them with riddles
Flashing warning lights on stormy nights
The cryptic witticism she utters
Replaces criticism she’d muttered
Her pride at it pushes her cheeks to her eyes
Like tides a swell to the coast
But these waves don’t break where
Other salted waters are already welling

She had been as a measly canoe
Swayed by the greater milieu of the ocean
And tossed between her own four currents:
    Perfectionism
    Objectification
    Damages and Damagers
    Defensive Need for Control
The constituents of a perfect storm.
If only someone had been there to throw her a lifeline
If only she’d have seen it
If only she’d have grabbed hold
If only she hadn’t let go
She wouldn’t have been swept so far offshore.

Are the riddles clearer now?
The waters less turbid?

Now with feet on terra firma
And the memories of bile and sugar
Fading from her mouth
She murmurs
"I am the mountain.
I am the sea.
You can’t take that away from me."
I battled with bulimia for 6 years. I have finally won the war.
Lauren Sep 2017
To whom it may concern
Hereby, I retire from drinking.
It was a full time job
With plenty of overtime
But I realized it wasn’t paying off
Instead, it was taxing
It was costing me
Much more than petty money
Pity, honey.
I will pick up pieces
Of shattered dignity
Battered identity
That which I believed
Mattered indignantly.

Understand, I’m not just taking leave
Of this or that establishment
For a holiday; for a time.
I am leaving the lifestyle behind.

Perhaps you will say something like
You are no longer the fun thing
You used to be
You are no longer the young thing
You used to be
But I know I have grown
Old.
Hence me handing in my notice.
It’s funny,
I’ve noticed
That when you’re drinking
The time blurs by
And you don’t age
You don’t grow
You don’t even notice
“Forever young”
“Forever wild”
“Forever free”
Really?
At the end of your career
Do you want to say
That you spent your life
Labouring here?
Unlike temporary loves
In the clubs
Time does not grind
To a halt
So mind the malt
I find
I deteriorated with
This fiend that feigned
Many a thing
I think
That we must not drink
Water that stagnated
Lest we stagnate ourselves.
Lest we poison ourselves.
Yes.
I am not that fun thing
You used to know.
I am not just some body
You used
To know.
I know now
I am not a thing.
I am not an object
To gratify you
Or your eyes.
I am a person.
And, personally,
I have had enough.

Let me just say
I regret
Many things:
The incurred debt
The outcomes I met
You can bet
That you do not make a nett
Profit from this.

I was not an employee.
It was… slavery.
Now, hopefully,
In my vulnerability
Through introspection
You will see
That it is harmful
Not just to me.
It restrains you
From the person
You want to be.
Therefore, I rejoice
In a choice
That is finally
Mine.
Under no undue influence
I decide
To resign.
This is the first poem I have written with the intention of being read aloud. Let me know how it is. Constructive criticism is welcome.
Lauren Aug 2017
"Why can't you love you?"
"Because I lack perfection..."
How ridiculous!
If no one is perfect, and we can love others, then why do we require perfection of ourselves in order to be worthy of self-love?
Lauren Jul 2017
Listen…
Pitter patter
And flee the
Dribble drabble of life
It sets up a scribble scrabble
In my mind-game
Bonus points for melancholia
Ever the same.

Feel.
Aim to use all your letters
--use your words!

Think!
Use others’ words
Because intersections in the criss-cross of life
Are intersections in Venns of chance
And we build off these improbabilities
These words of others.
Others, mothers, brothers
Decadent thoughts
My mind-game wroughts
--a vivid world

But see.
It is grey.
It is cold.
It is wet.
And you are ever alone
In your head.
So I return smiling
and haunted
to a dark morning.
The poem is about getting stuck in your own head on a rainy day and trying to write down how you feel. It alludes to Denise Levertov's "To the Snake".
Lauren Apr 2017
Shaky, shallow gasps,
Dense. Chest. Throbs. Why so nervous?
I know you won’t bite.
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