Black leather
boots; worn through the sole,
my socks are flooded with rain.
The coat
is not mine, hair combed back
and pinned I
may look the business but it's
all a facade.

What if they
hear the buried country accent, see that
I'm an imposter? Realise I'm not even
twenty one? I've got
to push on, keep smiling,
keep climbing, swimming upstream
in my battered black boots.

You've been my daily
pen pal for months. My timely
dose of quasi love.
An artificial sweetener,
sugar with no substance.
Too sweet to be real.

Too afraid of real connection.
We chat on a dating app,
you live across the Irish Sea,
upper class in a different country;
miles from me. I feel a sense
of relief I'm not repulsive.

I'm not interested in marriage, kids
or love. Not willing to invest in
business based on luck.
I need control, won't gamble
away my life on you
but can't be alone. On my own,
on my own. On my own.

Drink makes you spill your guts
and I shouldn't stand laughing
pretending I don't know it's real.

You say you adore me.
I think I might be using you
for fun and drugs and validation.

I'm so ****** up.
I'm evil as they come, and everyone
seems to think I'm normal now

I hate myself, but I'm better than you at least.
Maybe I'm mad and I just can't see it.
You said you'd buy me things.

Fly here. Tonight.
We can score six grams of blow
book a hotel room,
order hookers and room service.

We could chain smoke
cigarettes out the window
and **** on the floor
'til the cows come home.

Live a little. I'm sick and tired
of this, day
after day. I'm so bored
and I'm finished my therapy.

You crop up in my dreams so much
that lately
I think I might still be in love with you.

It's been nearly two years
since I've kissed you.
It never worked, it was doomed from the gun.

You drove me *******
crazy. Your hands
were forever blackened with oil.

I'm making things of myself,
discarded home like old receipts.
I haven't been back in a while now.

You must have known that I'd leave.
I love words and you loathe them.
You'll be married soon, I think.

I'm sick for the days in the sun on the beach.
The familiarity of your skin,
your boring bravado, your gentle talk.

I miss kissing you in the dark.
I'm so far removed from the bog—
trekking the streets of Dublin with big dreams.

'Twas far from ambition we were reared.
Big city girl in the smallest pond,
where the fish all slept with eachother.

Slicker. Full of ideas.
All I want is a carvery dinner.
To sit in a souped up car at night

at Ross, off, but the heating on,
old blankets tucked up and
watch the waves lap

over and back
over and back.

Dreaming of Chateauneuf-du-Pape.
The wine is cheap, but sweet,
and fast. My eyes see stars
in the tiny kitchen, floating
over the microwave oven, I'm eating
Brie on crackers, alone— wearing
a Christmas jumper. Drunk.
I'm not looking for anyone to love
all I'm searching for is self love.
I'm hunting enjoyment of my own company.
I'm not a monster, for once, the self
loathing dissipates into laughter.
It's Christmas. I'm learning to be happy
I'm learning to drink six euro
2015
Cuvée Réserve; singing Sinatra
and smoking rolled cigarettes.

Haikus. I'm a fan.
Just because I don't really
have that much to say.