One thread came loose with alcoholism at a very young age.
She recovered. She forgot and proceeded.
One thread was yanked loose by a growing tendency to self sabotage.
She clawed her way out of the spiral.
One thread pulled at others when she learnt she didn’t need alcohol to have a good time.
She felt deprived by self-restraint. So she slightly caved.
One thread burned along with her personality when she became a stoner again.
She was suffocated yet high.
One thread was singed by ****.
She fell back into her ***** habits. She found herself here, but not quite present.
She became dependant. As she flooded her body parts with superficial happiness, just a quick release, her mouth grew dry. Then the peeling skin on her stained lips began to stick together and she regressed into a still and faded silence. In the end, she was in shreds and blissfully unaware, alone with nothing but one solitary thread left to grasp at.

Filing errands makes you drowsy and nautious.
The tube dampens your senses.
The highrises make you feel down.
Your values are re-prioritised.
You become the binmen’s *****,
but all is not charred.
You have the chance to remember before,
and you grasp redemption as sand now sifts through your fingertips.
The stars awaken the you beneath the superficial.
The water nourishes your ignored thirstiness for passion.

She’s highness, deaf but not muted.
Still dignified, past perfect, but still pushing.
Withering tea addict,
laughs at her own sophisticated and immature jokes.
Farts.
How the highness gracefully descend.

Relaxed, reclined,
hands placed still on abdomen, yet they’re itching.
Noisy breaths lift her sinking body,
till she’s plastered to the bed,
not quite motionless.
Can’t decline.
Sits up. Peering, active, but stunted.

She wanted to remain pure,
unstained,
unpoked.
She had toyed with getting a tattoo
but realised it wasn’t
individual anymore.
But she was in need of validation.
Was she past her peak? She’s still cool right?

The needle stuck into her skin like the scent of an old lover. It left a fizzy sensation behind.
The ink spread.
She kept poking,
stabbing,
stick n poking.

What emerged was a star.

Startled,
strained by Tar,
scarred,
her sparkle faded.

**** it.
(just do it)
****. Me.
U ****** her.
**** U!
******* everything *****, ****.
- A millennial's poem.

Stinging morning coffee bliss acompanies the first cig of the day,
It’s all downhill from here.
Does normal things Goes to lecture
Lunchtime sugar low.
Self-destructive tendencies itching,
Beer kick - gets drunk.
Being constructive is crushing.
Goes to lecure
Mind numbing normality
Home.
Fearful of loneliness and needy, go waste some hours.
Its late. Restless.
Stoop on the street,
with friends. Anxious, ill.
Wasted night.
Collapse into a shallow sleep of self-loathing.
Zombied.
Repeated offence.

But she's exposed herself.
Flesh and bone protruding out the protective bubble.
She's only just gone and dragged herself to the margins of society.
Removed from the warmth of the gooey womb she supresses a lingering shiver.
Now she resides in a ***** dimension. Present, not quite faded yet.
Now the perfectly grown princess has self-inflicted chips on her shoulders.
Addicted to self-flagulation she tries to regress back home to her former alter.
Beyond. Reach.
A stone bleeding with pleasure weighs down the remains of her birth right.

The mirror is a farce, a myth, a crook
Look.
Really!
Our reflection is always exposed to our imaginative
creations,
concoctions,
and corrosions.
There is power in a refraction.
See whatever you want coz wer all blind anyway.

She gets high
to forget
feeling low.
In that instance the hair on her legs and her blood pressure spike, saluting the broken record chips rhythmically spinning above her dimmed wits.
Up, down,
with nothing to break down.
Deeply depressed,
she's high but low.

Jump
Don't think
Darling.

Recoil. And recoil fast.
She was of simple taste so He shattered her veiny lungs with his spit almost effortlessly.
Under his weight she was stunted, her limbs frozen by the constant of his blarring audioporn.
At every touch she had to brace herself for his embrace.

GO FOR JEUNE!
- darts for charcoal.
Jeune boy is compassionate, secure, loving.
What more could a girl want?
Charcoal.
Charcoal boy is mad.
Boy, is he unhealthy, inconsiderate, hurtful, hateful.
Full of everything but love for me
Choose wisely.
Self-flagellation anyone?
Because I can suffocate and choke myself on charcoal, I push jeune away in a bout of responsibility.

The beautiful sky smiles, why don’t you.
The merciless sky cries, why don’t you.
The sky is open. Open yourself up to me. Be like the sky you raven.

It started off with some blues,
coz every panting night’s gotta start somewhere.
She took him by the hand and dragged his lanky limbs past the pub,
in the back alleys she read him poisonous poetry until they were both drooling.
She wrapped him up tightly in her furs,
he stopped breathing.
He was hers.

She’s highness, deaf but not muted.
Still dignified, past perfect, but still pushing.
Withering tea addict,
laughs at her own sophisticated and immature jokes.
Farts.
How the highness gracefully descend.

Relaxed, reclined,
hands placed still on abdomen, yet they’re itching.
Noisy breaths lift her sinking body,
till she’s plastered to the bed,
not quite motionless.
Can’t decline.
Sits up. Peering, active, but stunted.

He tasted dry,
When licked with sour spit.
His scent was foul.
Broad hands rejected
Curling feet.
Met by scowling eyes,
He criticised me with love.

It’s hard to be your own person,
to move your singular body in its own direction,
when every corner is already crowded by other thoughts.
Your limbs brimming with self-loathing again, brilliant.
Bubbles of spit boasting as they frame your thirsty lips.
You’re picking blood-stained fingernails with yellowing teeth that never knew the curling cradle of a smile.
At a loss for embrace,
Fake hair plastered by stained sweat to your forehead.
There, in the hollows of your forehead, permanent lines appear prematurely, paving the way for the end of your rabbit hole, spiraling.
Head so full of heavy thoughts that your necks snaps.

But this is not ideal.
I don’t fancy him.
There’s no spark for me.
I admire him. I have love for him. But I don’t fancy him.
I find myself wanting to fancy him.
Due to selfish, superficial, unemotional motivations I give him a try.
He’s in ecstasy. Beyond pleased.
I’m in two minds. I’m kissing him.
But why?
Why am I kissing him?
I don’t fancy him.
This is so ****** up.
I tried mum. Honestly.

Lavished lady how brilliantly obnoxious you are. I admire how you tower over even the most merciless of men. Look how she floats, you’d mistake her for a benevolent. She can and does do everything. I can only stand here and hope you suffocate on your own ego.

She worships you. Your sinful indulgence and all.
She laps up your grey blood
and nourishes her flab on your staleness.
On her weaknesses and confessions you elevate yourself.
Higher.
The altar cracks.
She darts to heel your splinter but her limbs are broken under the collapse.
Upset at her lack of agency and engrossed in prayer she drowns herself in her own tears unknowingly.
In the end your ***** amassed.
An unexpected end to a story of fatherly shepherding.
See not every story has a Noah and his Arc,
most end with the egotistical on the altar, and the saints martyred in the gutter.
Sacrifice is still bloodshed.

'Put my ice cream in the oven.'
'Apply some lipstick.'
'Stop winning and criticising.'
'I understand everything just fine thank you.'
But she laughs at her own jokes, she misunderstands mostly, she is loved by me.

Plaits in theory seem to hold the threads of your hair together so tightly. But they’re loose, tangled, fragile creations that with one sudden misplaced head turn consequently fall apart.
Plaits are relatable.
What a disgusting metaphor she thought as she continued to plait her hair now in tears.

Describe him.
- He was dripping with sweat.
- Was it sweet?
- What?
  Oh, um I dunno.
- sigh
- But I know this much.
  He sweated under my weight.
  The nocturnal wind would then dry his sweat stiff.
  And he, perserverant as ever, would just sweat some more.
- Ok, so who collapsed first?

Embarrassed at her crude, superficial motivations she continues. This is a hidden therapy she’s toying with. She thinks she isn’t any good. She doesn’t know as many words as he does.
Comparison is her damnation.
Look at her, she’s plastered herself to the floor.
Immobile, she can’t even reach the glass ceiling threshold.
He slithers away, contented.

Hounded.
Nailed.
Arms outstretched.
Guilty by association.

Wanting cleanliness.
Wanting more.
Greed.
Lusting.
Guilty as charged.

At a loss for inspiration
Creativity crippled
Drained of motivation
Passion paralyzed
Spiraling depression the only thing thriving.
Still and quiet, the only thing she has the energy to move is pen to paper as she awakens muscles she didn’t realise she forgot she had. She drowned herself unknowingly.

Cubism an ugly distortion, criticised in comparison to fine art. Look at those shameful, jagged and unpolished edges. But no, change your perspective. These deviations are the very building blocks that allow us to tower over those who once marginalised difference. Those who rejected the ‘other’, for fear of refracting their own reflections in the opposition. Inevitably they’re left face to face with the ‘ugly’ perceived in here.

Immobile.
Paralysed.
Foul smelling.
Feeble.
She went with the flow
Insignificant.
Boring.
Unoriginal.
Sheepish.
Incapable of breaking free of the shoal she drowned.
Only dead fish go with the flow.

I don’t think things through.
Pensive punishment for anything slightly out of place,
n’importe quoi
I overthink.

Husband: I want a dog.
Wife: What! Why?
Husband: I need the company.
Wife: But, what about me?
Husband: You're just a ***** cat.

Groans.
Drink yourself away,
Drain drown your sins.
maybe a new you will emerge.
A you that you could be proud to walk about.
On a leash, choking.
Poison suppresses your organs.
Success.
Faded.

It's too late,
We can’t talk anymore, everything is nostalgic.
You’ve changed.
I’ve now hated you too much.

The hate overpowers your emotional concoctions.
Your drudgery of drugs are dead and used cells in me.
My head doesn’t drool for your highs and low presence.
I just don’t get a kick out of you anymore.
Ur needle’s been dumped.
I’ve become a heavyweight.
U loser.

Black tears flow in the gully alongside her lost voice.
She stoops under the remains of her rooted tree.
No longer sheltered, green anti-gravity takes her.
Her black tears turn painfully red as her cheeks are hit by lead raindrops.
Like the lead, her heart was too heavy to lift; so it lay stationary and vulnerable in the dirt.

Slirrppppp. Don’t slip up. Conform or collide. There’s no bigger disability than difference darling. Take it from that man in the corner. Slurp up the norm or slip into the unhealthy tendencies. It’s Sophie’s chaotic choice. Choose badly ;)

I’m a flirt.
Repeated offence.
Due to my own desperate insecurity I flirt with boys I don’t fancy.
I love to be loved.
I love the attention of it.
I need to constantly be told that I’m attractive. I want to be asked out in a flush of embarrassed pride. I need my ego stroked.
I get my necessary daily exercise off of this chase.
I want only the idea of you.
When I inevitably give a confused answer to your emotions either our friendship is already flushed or I’m perched panting on the toilet still.
****, get a plunger I want back what we had before. Oops. Lactic acid flows.
Now washing my hands I don’t know if I consider the flirtees seedlings of feeling.
Do I just want them drooling and gasping for air?
I content myself selfishly assuming they are happy getting to fancy me.
But what about when I throw them into competition with their brother?
Have a won the race?
Is it a straight stairway to heaven?
What then rationalising wannabe Mother Theresa?
Till now I hadn’t quite recorded how each lap brings a tiresome blow to my emotional intelligence.
Obsessed with the thrill of the chase
I put myself in a cat-mouse roller coaster trap that ultimately reflects badly on me and my exhausted lungs.

High. Grossly elevated to the point where only your bursting bunions can be seen by us commoners.
Don’t trouble your head in the clouds, us peasants will fan your warts and peel your pimples. You are so full of pus after all.
We have financed the altar with our pennies in the hope that it will lift us out of your corrupt oppression.
We will at a word carry your weight, thoughts and offspring.
Press down, go on, push hard, harder, bury us all in the dirt as you move up, high, higher. Altitude sickness? Ill. In sickness and in health you head explodes under the buzz of your unhealthy ego. The altar can be a hostile heaven.

Hey u, wat do ya wanna be when ur older?
- God.

He ensnarled her with his brutal guitar and poetry.
He was her first artisté.
He was oh so talented and even more tortured.
His twisted teeth spoke artery shattering words.
Under the depth of his performance she lay buried in dirt, thinking she was searching for a clover.
Hopefully she clawed and moulded herself to his grave.

Everyone’s only ever in love with the idea of her. They like her performance. She draws in many fleeting fans but not supporters.
With her sight withering and her back stooping, what she has established as her foundational support simply disbands in search of new fun to feast on. In vain she sweated so harshly while dancing for their judgemental eyes that their idea of her melted off of her skin and she was left naked and alone.

Perched by the sea wreck next to the fallen kite she stills.
Her accomplice applies lipstick to her chapped lips before they both stop screaming.

Are we grateful for our bubble?
The constant flow of comfort? The solidified love? The cushiony warmth of meaningful kisses? The lack of peril? The apparent feeling?
No. We lust after more agency.
We dart for the furthest ends of the edge. And when we fall off with a weak ‘pop’
We crave out beginnings in that gooey bubble.
Lacking in the nest’s feathers we don’t have the means to craft wings to fly us home.
In an attempt to cry out, lacking in belonging we are too far gone to even find our voice.

I won’t let myself cry. I’ll scratch away at my tear ducts so I’ll never know the pain of a tear again. I’ll snap my eyes shut and won’t open them up again until everything of you has gone.

When was the last time I felt an itch?
What should I be thinking about?
I feel blank, dumb, calm?
I wonder if this still counts as feeling?
Is this what they mean when they talk of blissful death?
Soul searching, soul soiled, sailed away.
Bitter taste burns the sides of my tongue.
So I can still taste.
Getting there slowly.

Heaven is on fire.
I watch my handy work alongside eyes that inspire.
The sparks light the end of my cigarette.
I want to incinerate very last regret.
Take my indifference, I don’t feel to ****
Give me your sins
Heaven is on fire
Heaven is in flames.

Fight the monster dragon girl.
You are fuelled by a powerful inner fire, use it.
Stand high on your strong posture.
Raise your sinewy chin in superiority
Roar.
Steam the bastardry
incinerate them.
Bye bye.

Fight the monster dragon girl.
You are fuelled by a powerful inner fire, use it.
Stand high on your strong posture.
Raise your sinewy chin in superiority
Roar.
Steam the bastardry
incinerate them.
Bye bye.

Let the creative process consume you.
I am drunk.
My rings are sick.
I can’t write while intoxicated.
Heaven is on fire.

Her not-so-distant wish was to preform. She wished she had the dedication to practise. She wished she had the confidence to get up. But she can’t move, she can’t sit up, she can’t feel her fingers, she can’t control her mouth, she just can’t ok.

I want but I feel I have nothing new to contribute, nothing of substance or worth. But, it is how I am, how I react, how I move, what I create on occasion that no one else can do. I want to do what no one else can do but I’m too lazy to work towards it. My self-esteem is in shreds and it is because I have become dependent. Dependant on drugs, alcohol, approval, men - superficial momentary highs that end in zombied depressive comedowns.

I’m too lazy to try. I hate myself too much, I’m too lazy and yet my ego is too big to work on myself. A wise woman once said: ‘U can never be loved deeply if you don’t love yourself’.

Crooked nose meets a saddening smile. Eyes dart from one blackhead to the next. Pores overflowing, oily skin peeling. Focused back onto untamed brows. Bizarre ears stick out of limp cheekbones. Hairy double-chin pokes out in an acne-ridden frenzy. Look too hard at a mirror and you’ll go blind.