Dear Past Self,
We're in the same boat.
You worked hard
To keep us afloat.
What if I
Put your work to waste?
My blood is
All that I can taste.

Dear Past Me,
We're in the same boat.
You rowed far.
You kept us afloat.
I won't fail,
Won't bow to the knife.
I owe you
The rest of my life.

You've heard of a 'heart of glass'.
Well, mine is made of soap.
Careless hands can gut it.
Your fingernails will cut it.
You lay upon me all your grimy guilt,
Then leave me here, unrinsed, with all your filth.
I numb 99% of my own pain,
So the 1% can come eat me up again.
I'll cover you, My Dear, in soft, safe bubbles;
Neglect my own, but listen to your troubles.

I dare not scratch the surface Plato itched,
For fear I'd break my fingers on the stone.
My faculties in circles whirl around,
Which metaphor Aristotle would bemoan.

My femininity is undenied
And thus my musings, when they first began,
Would be utterly rejected, undeniably rebuked,
By one featherless bipedal man.

The History that gulped Atlantis down
Into its sunken depths, has made a grave
For all free thinkers, locked by secret PINs.
Philosophy, no more, these souls can save.

I carry naught but spades in both my hands,
Seeking to unearth artful thought's tomb.
Labor-sweat pours down, yet I am left to merely mourn
The heartbeat ne'er since heard from Athen's womb.

Hello, I suffer from a rare disease.
This malady brings me to my knees.
It isn't commonly viewed as a curse,
But right now I couldn't possibly feel worse.
I hear a line in my head and then
My body is filled with adrenaline.
I have to sit up and write it out
Or else it'll rip my soul from without.
I'm spitting rhymes like it's out of style.
I think I'm gonna be here for a while.
It's 3:33 and I'm still awake.
Inspiration, please, give me a break!

Tell me five things you can see.

I can see the glimmering flame of a scented candle. It's spiced gingerbread, or pumpkin spice sugar cookies, or something. The flame dances above the wick, swirling hypnotically in my vision.

I can see my cat, curled up and sleeping soundly beside me. His little chest is rising and falling slowly, and his ears flick every now and then. His paws are embedded into the fabric of my dressing gown.

I can see my lamp, shining a warm yellow light across the room. The body is a dull chestnut brown, but the shade is silvery and glinting with spilled glitter from when I was young and played with fairy dust.

I can see my ring, golden and inscribed with some Hobbit language on both the inside and the outside. I wear it everywhere. It's a bit wet. I just washed my hands.

I see the moth sitting in the corner of the room. It's waiting for me to turn the big lamp on, I think. It's very small, with its wings all tucked in into a little rectangle. I haven't named it.

Tell me four things you can feel.

I can feel the soft cotton fabric of my duvet, running slightly coarse under my fingers as I rub it absently. It's rippling slightly from my fan.

I can feel the air from my fan gently lifting my hair off my pillow, blowing cool winds over my hot neck and chilling my exposed hands.

I can feel my wall and the paint chips flaking off it down the side of my bed. I can feel a small hole in the wall, creaking slightly when I push it.

I can feel my glasses resting on my nose, slightly slipping each second. There's a wisp of hair stuck in the hinge, and I gently pull it out.

Tell me three things you can hear.

I can hear the quiet buzzing of my laptop, humming monotone beside me, its heat slightly warming my ankles.

I can hear my fan whirring, singing out its little tune as it rotates around the room, occasionally clicking as it knocks against a bottle of body spray or cologne.

I can hear my cat purring softly as he sleeps. He sneezes every once in a while, and he burrows into his paws with a small squeak as I watch.

Tell me two things you can smell.

I can smell my candle burning away, a Christmassy scent that reminds me of watching old Netflix shows with a mug of mulled wine or gingerbread latte.

I can smell my cologne, a Diesel scent that's intoxicating. It's calming, and reminds me of sitting around a picnic table with my friends, rolling dice and leaning on each other too close.

Tell me one thing you can taste.

I can ******* toothpaste, gritty and sweet mint flavoured. If I lick my lips, I can still taste a bit of the ice cream I was eating - chocolate caramel.

Please relax, and go to sleep. You're too tired. I love you. Goodnight. I'll talk to you tomorrow.

imagine if we had a small flat
buried in the middle of the city
like i know you want
away from the sky.

living together and dancing
drinking mocktails and laughing
i want to see you happy
just once. just once.

we could have a dog or a cat, because
we'd be in a penthouse suite looking
over the rainy cityscape
up high in the thin air.

there would be dreams experienced
side by side in the night
and when you say my name
i won't miss a beat.

it's just a fantasy, a novelty
afforded by imagination
so that when i hear your voice
i see our flat in the city
and not what you wish
you
had said
to me.

carefully reaching for your hand
it's the first day I've seen you in person.

I've known you for long enough
that I'm surprised when you grab my hand back.

when I look into your eyes, I see fear, and trepidation, and sadness, but also hope and happiness and love.

I will do everything I can
to keep holding your hand.

you hold mine so gently
so carefully. so kindly.

Oh, sweetheart.
You're every star in the sky.
You remind me of a snowdrop encased in dark, cracked resin. Maybe frozen into the ice, then, deep beneath where the sun ever reached. The pride of the leviathan of the deep.
God, you're breathtaking.
Your eyes convey a thousand wishes, hope still glinting deep in there. You cultivate it like a small ember, a glowing shard of coal in the rain. It never goes out, not all the way. You can always blow it back to life.
You absolutely astound me.
Your bravery, your courage, your presence, it envelops me like the rumble of a thunderstorm deep within my chest. Your existence shines so bright it could light a path through Victorian London smog, your machinations a delightful enigma.
I cannot imagine not knowing you now.
Alabaster and deep azure, soot and iridescent verdant. I could get lost in your soul. Gazing into your mind feels like ****** of a secret, absolute ******. You make my blood boil. My veins are blue, bluest blue, thinking about you.
You're every book on the shelf.
You're every smile from a stranger.
You're every star in the sky.
Oh, sweetheart.

What I feel for you is akin to how the floorboards hug the wall at the corner of the ballroom.
Smothered in gleaming tile, I lie beneath, fighting to breathe at the very seams, so close to you.
I am worn, and old, and my nails are ripped to shreds as I claw my way through the throng of porcelain pink people to you.
The touch of me against the very smallest part of you is enough for me to fall still and gaze not at the dancers in their gowns but the unassuming dark corner towards which I endlessly reach.