Waking up in the remains of regret with eyes that are dead,
Awkwardly exploiting the generous distance of your king sized bed.
We are physically together but emotionally apart.
I know it isn't me whose name is etched into your heart.
Dressing in the daylight, our eyes daren't to connect.
We share a final cigarette, it's all that we have left.
I know it's her you think of when you put on your jeans
Because it's he who I'm still longing for in each and every dream.

Who am I?
I'll never know,
So you don't stand a chance.

I, the real me, has been hidden by fuchsia feathers and fairy wings,
Restrained in ribbons since in infancy.

Sometimes I think even my coffin will be smothered in sequins and surrounded by only my proudest of family.
"She was always so sensible"
"What an angel"
They'll say as they watch me lie there, one last time.

I was one granddaughter amongst six grandsons. Or as they put it, I was "our little princess"
(Even at the age of seventeen in maturity's mirage).

My entire life has already been decided for me. I am destined, doomed you might say, to be great. Great in their eyes, adequate in mine.

Never was I free to make my own choice.
Never was I free to find my own voice.
Never was I free
And never will I be.

It's a dull, lifeless existence for the middle class girl.

But I wanted to feel something.
I wanted to feel something real.

Electrified by the thrill of your touch; the light pressure of your fingertips on the small of back that sent shivers down my spine, awakening carnal instincts I knew not that I had.
Your kiss that infected me with the rush adrenaline which I would crave forever more, and search desperately to rediscover. And I never could. I never will.

I recall how it was to be your woman. Terrified by that crazed look in your eye, and that sneer, that grimace, fuelled by frustration? Or some sort of love I didn't understand? Or maybe just the satisfaction you gained from making me thrall. I bet you never knew how many moans I faked in the hope that you'd stop. Perhaps you never realised your misinterpretation of my cries for help as cries of pleasure. The bruises on my body were temporary but the scars on my heart remain a constant reminder of you. And how you were all I thought I wanted, all I never had, and all I wish I didn't know.

In disgust of what was staring back at me, I smashed the screen into a million shards.

Angrier I grew as more of me I saw;
A million broken faces in a million broken parts.

No escape from my reflection or what lies inside.

No amount of shattered glass will allow for me to hide.

Tell me,
what is so sweet about sixteen?

The layering of lashes in an attempt to age just two more years?

The relief when the shopkeeper served you that Smirnoff Ice?

And the excitement of drinking it in a park?

If you were lucky, the occasional spliff stolen from someone's older sibling?

Sweet is the nostalgia
but sweet is not the rawness of the reality.
Living the teenage tragedy is bitter and sour and tasteless.

Late nights
filled with mascara tears
fuelled by heartbreak.

Your rose-tinted spectacles see past the vomiting and the headaches and the regrets.

Would you do it all over again?
And would you do it exactly the same?

My glass was always half full
But now my bed is half empty.
My despondency begs the question:
*Did you ever really love me at all?

Did you ever hear the tale of the loneliest cigarette?
Bringing short term pleasure to just one man, while simultaneously burning herself away into oblivion, she is selfless.
He'll soon kick her to the kerb and stamp out her embers which she offered to him because it's what she thought he wanted.
When she is gone, he will take another.
*And she will be useless. Lifeless. Unwanted. Replaceable.

Pensive as I am, I thought of you today
Amongst the overgrown grass and the clouds of grey.
The heavens, they opened, perhaps pathetic fallacy
As I lay there saturated, already losing my sanity.
But I stayed in the showers and let nature embrace me
When all of a sudden a gold globe came to face me.
Warmer I felt, as down on me it shone
Almost as if to remind me to always be strong.

A girl's bedroom is full of choices
Which she must choose to stop the voices.

Hair curly or hair straight?
Leave early or just wait?
Tall stilettos or comfy flats?
Quirky bag or one to match?

The saddest part of this conundrum
Is she's trying to impress a special someone
Who'll work his way into her bed
And then join the monsters in her head.

Her house:
Now home to one person and a million memories.
It used to be their house, until he passed.

They told her to move,
But she never did like moving on.
And so she never did.

At the wake they brought her flowers.
Flowers that were soon to leave her,
Just like everyone else had.

I know that pearls
and diamonds are in,
But look at my necklace
of rope all tied in a ring.
The colour, it changes,
into that of maroon.
A little tight at first,
but the pain will go soon.

Bound together in ecstasy
Bodies shaking,
Pupils dilating.
No one I'd rather see.
No place I'd sooner be.
Because nothing makes more sense
Than the thought of *you and me.

They wait all year
To hear that bell ring
And now it's July
They don't worry about a thing.

Sandy toes
And salty kisses.
Too good to be true
It's almost fictitious.

Parents ask them
Not to throw it all away
But they're young, they're kids,
And they just want to play.

That lad with the freckles
Wants an August romance
And now there's no school
He might just have the chance.

That girl with the ribbons
Can finally stay out late
And maybe one night
She might just get a date.

They embrace every day.
They congregate at the beach,
Enjoying not learning from
A teacher who can't teach.

But Summer won't last forever.
In fact, September is near.
No more under-age drinking
Upon the old pier.

They know they'll grow old
And their hair will go grey
Which is why they insist
On seizing each day.

If this was a play,
This is when they would bow,
Knowing they'll never be as young
As they are right now.

As the weather gets colder
We enter into the Fall,
With your arm round my shoulder
But saying nothing at all.

The season cycle goes on;
Spring will soon be passing.
So when things seem to go wrong,
Remember nothing's everlasting.

Jealousy isn't an emotion.
It's a physical pain.
It's the twisting of the dagger, persistently fighting it's way deeper into your core.
The rubbing of the salt into the already excruciating wound.
The way your heart is so broken that you can almost feel the blood dripping and draining every inch of your soul.
The way each breath feels like your last, for just a moment, because you don't know how you could possibly carry on. Or how you could possibly endure another second of this pain.
The sheer chaos in your mind like a whirlwind of terror and panic and just physical sickness.
Paranoia. Disgust. Anger.
The voice in your head will never cease.
"She's better than you."
"She writes more eloquently."
"She dances more gracefully."
"She doesn't even have to try."
"You'll never be her."
And the worst part is how you hate yourself and the envious monster you've become.

Twilight.
Late at night.
Beautiful sight.

She blinks.
Heels in her hand, mascara flakes onto her rosey cheeks.
Swaying,
Secretly praying,
Silently in her mind.
Even more silently in her heart.
Who knows what of?
Who cares?

She thinks.
These are the best days of her life.
At least that's what they told her.
Eighteen,
Singing Springsteen,
Loudly in the streets.
Drunk and disorderly,
Who knows who she'll meet?
And who cares?

My brain must hate me.
What reason, other than that, to explain why I'm constantly tortured by the mental image of him. And her.
Him and her.
Him with her.

Drip, drip, drip
From the bracelets of blood.
Drip, drip, drip
From the salty eye-flood.
Drip, drip, drip
Followed by thud thud thud.
Drip, drip, drip
In the rain and the mud.
Drip, drip, drip
In the mud and the rain.
Drip, drip, drip
Sounds like the loneliest pain.
Drip, drip, drip
All over again.
Drip, drip, drip
Walk but don't trip.
Drip, drip, drip
Go on, just one more sip.
Drip, drip, drip
And then glug, glug, glug
Drip, drip, drip*
Until you're sick, sick, sick.

Memories are personal.

An experience may, at first, appear to have been shared by a number of people:

A concert, a meeting, a party, a date...

But upon closer analysis you realise that no two people have ever really shared an experience, a moment, a time, a memory.

That concert.
Attended by thousands.
But did they notice the short-lived beads of sweat rushing to death as they escape the forehead of the crazed fan beside you?

And that date.
There was two of you there.
But did she see the way you looked at her, besotted, and grinned when she dropped her fork? And the way you pretended not to notice?

No amount of camera roll and no 140 character tweet can do justice to the complexity of the human memory.

Finite,
irreplaceable,
and totally unique.

Another second,
Minute,
Hour on the clock
Reminds me the end is drawing nearer
And that, I cannot stop.

Twenty Six days left of your gaze that sees through me,
That sees through my facade of endless positivity.
Twenty Six days until the growing apart,
Until the increasing distance and the breaking of heart.
But see, Twenty Six days just isn't enough
Because, with you my darling, I'm still so much in love.

It saddens me deeply
To know you'll be gone
And you'll never be there
For me when it goes wrong.
The clock is ticking and
Every second that goes by
Is another less second
That I'll spend by your side.
I'm haunted by the thought
That you'll soon find another,
And you'll start out as friends
And then bloom into lovers.
Her hand will replace mine
And its place in your hair.
And when you get down
It'll be her who is there.
Her lips will replace mine
And their place on your chest
And it'll be her who reminds you
That, babe, you're the best.
Promise me one thing,
Just to never forget
The girl with the block fringe
Who is so happy you met.

A to B and A to B
Then back to A and back to B.
Monotonously making their way round the map
Taking Tom, ****, and Harry from A to B.

Oh, where would we be
Without the drivers who transport anyone that they see?
Enabling us to go about our lives no matter who or where we may be?

To allow old Mable to get out and about
Or old man Joe to leave the house.

To help adolescent Amy to see friends across town
And **** time for Doris by simply driving her around.

I know we complain that they so rarely smile
But think of how far they can take you, for miles.

I know we complain that at times they are late
And I know that the one guy made you miss your hot date

But think of that time you were saved from the rain
And how the bus helped you when your legs were in pain.

Think of that time you were saved from the exercise
Which we in 2015 do so despise.

This isn't ironic, it's a genuine ode
To the bus driver heroes to who I do owe.

I have a burning need to be adored
To hide the fact I'm insecure.
The guys I date all soon get bored
While deeper in love I seem to fall.

Today I cried because my arms are fat
And my eyes aren't pretty unless lined like a cat

I don't want to be the mousy brunette
Of average height and intellect

I want to be that edgy girl who rocks vintage clothes
And collects records, and reads, and looks like Bridget Bardot

Not good enough for you, but how can I forget
When my mind constantly replays the moment we met?

Breathing, panting, moaning into each other's mouths.
Lick. ****. Kiss.
Hot in every sense of the word
And every sense is heightened.
Grab. Pull. ******.
Flesh on flesh. Skin on skin.
Eye contact. Lip biting.
My nails in your back,
Your whispers in my ear.
Your name escapes my lips like a bird taking first flight.
And from this high, we leap together.
Falling and sinking, deeper and deeper.

I'd give you my last ciggy
Without shadow of a doubt
Because hearing you sing Ziggy
Is what love is all about

My muse.
The fuse
to the fire in my heart-
A most eternal flame.

I hate myself and my impatient ways
And how I overthink **** for days and days.

I hate the way I envy those better than me
And the way that seems to be everybody I see.

I hate how I cry every time I'm alone
And how they pronounce it 'scon' when I say it's 'scone'.

I hate that I'm lonely in a room full of mates
And my belief that I'm unappealing while I refuse any dates.

I really detest my mousy brown hair
And I hate how I'm here when I'd rather be there.

I'm starting to think never happy will I be
But maybe I could if I just wasn't me.

Maybe some day I'll be able to watch the sun set without wishing you were there with me.
Or maybe some day I'll hear 'Fast Car' and you won't be the first thing that springs to mind.

But probably not.

I prefer the way you feel between my thighs than inside my head.

I've written 64 poems about you.
Let this be the last.
I plead and I beg you,
Become a thing of my past.

If you love me
Then leave me
Like you left me before,
When you left me for dead on our ***-tainted floor.

Get out, get out of my brain and my head,
Out from under my skin and the sheets of my bed.

I'm not asking for our memories to be all erased,
Just asking to ease the pain of lovesick and daze.
I'm asking for my thoughts to be clear of this haze,
And to find love easier than in the paths of this maze.

Is it too much to ask to come down from your high?
To remove the imprint of handprint from my hideous thigh?
To fall down from something which once made me fly?
This rhyme scheme's a mess and I can only guess why.
It symbolises the chaotic and desperate tears that I cry.
And I cry off my makeup only to reapply
Mascara tears that give me another black eye.
And I cry and I cry till my eyes are run dry.
Want to know something else I hate about I?
I said this is the last but I know that's a lie.

Persistently you go
But she still says no,
Damaging your ego.
Then finally you date her
Though you know you'll learn to hate her
Like you hated all the rest.
But still you try your best.
High maintenance, she puts you to the test.
You accuse her of being a cheater
Which justifies how you beat her,
And the way you mistreat her.
Know you should be sweeter
But still you fail.
Repeat of past lovers,
You bail.
She's just like the others.
Girls are all the same
And *** and love are games.
Boy, don't you feel ashamed?
You think relationships are lame
So you again you quit;
Go find a hit
Because reality is ****.
You need a high to escape
From the feelings you hate
And the fear in her face.
But what's this? Now you want her back?
Realised she's the one who kept you on the right track?
Sober up and then you beg her to stay,
Beg her not to go away,
And not to leave you by yourself
Like an unwanted book collecting dust on the shelf.
Your power over her has gone,
She knows she's done no wrong,
Now she's singing better songs
About how she's moved on
So she ups and leaves.
She saw right through the tricks all hidden up your sleeves.
Should've treated her better
While you had the chance.
She's wearing someone else's sweater
She ain't under your trance
She ain't under your spell
Because now she's with somebody who can treat her well.

Your passion is poison and
aggressive like venom.

With your teeth in my lips,
and your firm grip
in my ***-tangled hair,
I was pressed tightly
against your door.

My heel marks are
probably still on that wall,
persistently reminding you
of those nights where
we never made it
to the bedroom.

Your wrists were already scarred
but now so are mine,
with the memory of
your fingers firmly around them.

I used to find it creepy
How you'd watch me undress so intently.
But now I find myself fighting to, for just a moment, catch your eye.

We used to feel lucky
Because I had you and you had me.
But these days I'm no longer the one who can make you fly.

You used to seem happy
When we would sit and we would just be.
But you realised I'm not like the drugs that can make you high.

It's somewhat funny
But it's also somewhat sad.

I can be surrounded by dozens of people, family, friends...
Yet feel so alone.
So empty.

Or I can be with you.
Only you.
And my world is complete.

Do you remember the sparks when we kissed that night?
In the sky, in my soul, in your eyes.
November fireworks both within and without.

Your veiny hands cup my face while your lips settle on my forehead.
My inner child uncontrollably grins at the fairytale cliche which, in this moment, my life has become.

Crazy am I driven by the idea,
the possibility,
of another's kiss on your collarbone.
I recall St Valentine's Day,
when your **** Jagger lips told me
'I'm yours'
with such sincerity
and that I could hold you to it.
And I will.

Simultaneously happy and sad,
I lay under the very same moon that shone above you,
(Although much farther away).
And I dreamt of the dreams we had not discussed, but I knew we both had.

Feet in the tide,
I gazed afar
Thinking of the beautifully exhausting wonders yet to be discovered.
I realise
I only want to discover them with you by my side.

Do you remember how it used to be?
3am secrets between you and me.
You'd plead five minutes more,
You'd stand blocking the door,
You'd beg me to stay longer.
I'd fight, but you were stronger.

But now we're like strangers,
And suddenly all the dangers
Are clear and the cracks show.
I go to leave and you let me go.
We go five days with no texts,
No kisses, and no ***.

I hate how all the sparks have gone,
How all the kisses now feel wrong.
I miss the old us and how we were
And the memories which fade to blur.
Darling, darling can't you see?
All I want is you to fight for me?

Fight for us and what we had.
Fight for the good, fight for the bad.
Fight for the *** and the jealousy,
The 'I love you's spoken breathlessly.
Unless you desire a life so bleak
Don't give up on what is so unique.

Does she listen to your stories and then pretend to care?
Do you make that moaning sound when she plays with your hair?

Does she hang out with your friends and has she met your dad?
Does she hold you oh so tightly whenever you get sad?

Does she let you keep her awake with your snoring?
Does she know how you like your tea?
And that it's coffee in the morning?
And which mug you like it in?

Does she know you listen to Green Day when you brush your teeth?
Does she know you like your teeth?
And that you hate the rest of you?

Does she notice the scars on your arms?
And then does she wrap you in her's?
And does it feel the same?

his smile more intriguing than that depicted in the mona lisa.

his hair so golden it puts van gogh's sunflowers to shame.

his eyes pop brighter than lichtenstein's art.

eat your heart out, monet, for my man is far more beautiful than impressionist landscapes.

and why did michelangelo not paint my darling on the sistine chapel?
for he is an angel on earth.

for he is a work of art.