Every time I let the bottle
graze my lips,
my entire body
rocks with an unnerving feeling
of melancholy.
Nostalgia rattles my brain;
yearning wraps its icy fingers
around my heart.
Every inch of my body tingles with a
sensation that is begging for you.
I can feel you on my skin;
I can remember vividly
the way your fingers graze my arms,
neck, and stomach and…
I’m getting off track.
I’m drunk again—no surprise there, huh?
It’s about now, when I’m too many bottles down,
that you would try to grasp it from my hands,
or text me in concern.
But your message was only transience;
I never listened to you.
And now, as I’m too many bottles down,
I find myself missing your exasperating
complaints.
I wish you were here to tell me I’ve had too much
to drink.
And in return I would cry,
and cry, and cry,
and oh god, I would cry.
And I would tell you how much I miss you.
But too much has changed;
time is constantly against me;
my happiness has always been fleeting.
we’ve both grown and matured,
and our time together has expired.
I know if we tried
again,
we’d be as bitter as out of date milk.
And yet,
for some insane reason,
I still want us to try again.
I like to have someone to fall back
to when I’m indecisive and alone,
and alcohol pumps through my veins.
I miss you,
and I shouldn’t.
We’re done;
we have been for so long.
So why can’t I stop writing about you?

I
The way cigarette smoke
curls around our heads,
in the brisk night air,
is the way I want your arms
to wrap around my body
when it’s 3am
and I’m crying
because we’ve had too much to drink.
But instead,
I’m left with an empty cigarette pack
and a burning sensation on my back
where your hands should be.

II
People say that the more you say a word
the less it sounds real.
It’s 3am again,
and I’m struggling to sleep,
because every night I wake up
by mumbling your name repeatedly.
And the more I say it,
the more real it seems.
And sometimes it seems so real,
that I start to believe
if I open my eyes
you’ll be here.

III**
There are so many things I want to say to you
but I never do,
because it’s better this way.
For you to not know
about these poems I write about you,
or how I can’t listen to that song
you showed me
without thinking of you,
or how my fingers yearn
for you delicate skin.
I’ll never mention how many beats
my heart skipped
when I saw you with someone else.
Because I’ve learnt by now
that some things are better kept a secret.
But maybe
I’ll reach for my phone
to tell you
that I’m on my sixth glass of whisky,
and it tastes like you.

My back shouldn’t ache at this age;
neither should my wrists or
neck or knees.
Or heart.
Nothing should ache.
Life should be blissful
and all pain should be transient.
But it’s not.
And I can’t complain because someone
will point out that something is wrong with me
and the only thing worse than the
crippling pain in my body
is my crippling fear of anyone in the medical profession.
So I push it to the back of my mind;
forget the pain—
melt it with a pill,
distract myself,
forget that I’m more broken than I should be.

Thinking, thinking,

thinking.

How do I switch my brain off?

How do I find a single, solitary

moment of tranquillity?

I’m always thinking, thinking,

thinking.

I want to stop thinking.

But I’m lost in it,

addicted to the routine.

I think until I feel;

my thoughts become

my love, my hate,

my passion,

my jealously.

I’m condemned to a life without

feeling; there’s no time for emotion,

when you’re locked inside your brain.

Peace is fleeting;

happiness is transience.

I would like to sever the chord

between my being and my

brain.

I need a moment alone,

before the bombardment of

thoughts rip and chew at me

until I deflate into myself,

becoming merely a shadow of

my worries.

I need to feel something,

not just think of the words in my head.

You need to shut down your brain;
find the switch and press it.
Once you’re alone with your thoughts,
they’ll whisper things to you and
drag you deeper into the darkness.
Don’t let them.
2. Stop waiting;
stop waiting for that person to text you—
text them if you really want to talk;
stop waiting for the bus—
take the day off, walk, breathe in the air,
and just remember you’re alive;
stop living the same day over and over—
change something,
find what you’re yearning for.
3. Get drunk;
do and say everything you
never had the courage to do.
Kiss a boy, kiss a girl,
break into an abandoned swimming pool,
skinny dip, or tell someone what’s hurting you.
If you regret it later,
pin the blame on the poor *****.
4. Watch the sun set and the sun rise;
let it teach you that if a blazing
sphere of gas can fall and rise again,
so can you.
5. Ask people what they think;
it doesn’t matter what the subject is—
just ask.
You’ll begin to see everything in different ways.
6. Sadness can be inspiring;
write about it. Write a poem, a song, a story.
Create a character loosely based on the pain you feel.
It’s relieving to take your suffering and put it onto a screen.
7. Little things can be amazing;
buy yourself your favourite food,
stop and admire the flowers,
watch the unspoken love between a dog and their owner,
be happy that your skin looks good today,
or be excited to wear your new shoes.
8. People are also amazing;
spend time with them.
Talking online or texting is fine,
but go see someone,
too.
Spend time with your friends,
tell them about your day and listen to theirs.
Hug and hold hands. Comfort is bliss.
Go to a party and talk to a stranger—
listen to their stories.
People can do the most incredible things.
Laugh with people and love with people—
just be around people.
9. Allow yourself to be free;
clear your schedule and don’t worry
about the mediocrities of life.
If something is bothering you then get rid of it.
If someone is making you upset,
erase them from your life.
You don’t have to surround yourself with anything
that doesn’t make you happy.
10. When your sadness creeps up to you,
know its okay to feel like this;
you’re not the first to experience this,
and you won’t be the last.
You’re like the sun—
you can fall and rise again.

Be quiet, be gentle,

be kind.

Everything is delicate —

anything can be broken.

An arm, a petal, a chair,

a life.

Anything can be destroyed.

But not everything can be

repaired.

The world is like a broken bone;

the pain we inflict upon it

can be fixed,

but it will never be the same again.

Look after yourself, look after each other,

look after the ground beneath your feet.

Everything is fragile,

and its in your hands.

Light a match;
light a cigarette;
light a fire;
light a room.
When it becomes too much
you can ***** the flame
and light it again
another day.
But do not light me up
just to ***** my flame.
Because once my light is
out,
I will not let you
relight me.