"Your father and I almost had an affair. I thought it was so…romantic!"

My food lingers inside my intestines, attempting to slither back through my throat and wade on my tongue.

The only time I remember my parents sleeping in the same bed was when I was six, and that memory is fuzzy, like fumbling to the bathroom in the dark. I hit corners and trip over my own feet. I remember crawling between the two of them.

And the next memory is my mom in her bed, my father in his. They are not happy with each other.

They are not in love.

The memory after that is both of them yelling. Screaming. Words that are acid filled and burn my flesh.

The memory after is my father being drunk and my mother throwing objects at already stained walls.

The memory after that is me attempting to escape a house I could not find a home in. My mother tearing through my ribs until my plasma trickled down my arms. My father is sober, but sad.

My mother touches my father’s hand,

And I must excuse myself so I can run to the bathroom and punch the mirror until I see the shards poking through my knuckles and feel nothing but pain.

*Lovesinotrealloveisnotrealloveisnotreal.

going to war to prevent war

they say every man will defend
when in fact it's a means to an end
something egocentric
a valour
a glory
a small gain for uncountable loss

a crusade ethos of the government
when the governor's meant
to be a guardian of interests
yet to guard his own interests
he'd rather tear a hole
in the only things some people know

a hero, a death
a medal, a death
an honour, a death
a victory, a death
or is it the other way around? i forget

a strong-hearted media
which will only feed to you
a story to spin an election.

and I can wholeheartedly say
the only state
which I possess the mind to believe in
is that state in which you've left this crater

devil's land once called home

I fall in love with words.

Words written by a pen
or a pencil
or by fingertips on frosted glass.

The soft curve of an 'a' is
Almost as enticing as naked hips.
The smell of ink on aged paper
Is almost as ****** as a
Hard body in my sheets.

Spoken words could never be
As alluring as the ones that
Have been whispered into a heart
By a spread of fingers on skin.

Give me your words and I'll
Give you my heart.

Write them down for me.

I drew anxiety on recycled paper
It leaked through the page
There's red ink running through my veins
And I feel like dying

Grey marks the shivers and stutters that
Stop your throat from loosening,
Coughing out apology after apology.

The thin maroon excuse for warmth
Cuts into your arms and
A polo neck button placed too high
Helps the nervous cut into your
Throat, choking off words and
Well-wishes.

Look at this brand new, overpriced
And itchy navy blanket to
Wrap around your shoulders while
I bleach out your windcheater
See now, it's red.
Not quite the same as you remember
The little figures on your breast
Changed into a quill and some
Other absurdity you're not sure of
Yet.

Sit between these two red girls,
They're your angels so stop trying to
Hate them.
Give them all a chance, 9 weeks
At least because no one hates you,
You just hate this
System.

I almost fell in love when I
Was sad but I stopped myself
Because I thought that no one
Could ever love me back since
I wasn't going to be around for
Much longer anyway.

That was 436 days ago and I still
Can't love anyone or have them
Love me back even when I'm
Happy.

Sometimes I look at you and think
That I could love you and you
Could love my empty shell, too

But then I realised when I held
My heart in my cupped palms,
About to toss it like a bomb to
You that it would grow tacky
Over time and you wouldn't
Want it anymore.

It's cold outside but I'm
Sweating under the sun and I
Wish you were here to tell me
That my love was fine and
To hold onto my heart because
You don't need it.

My last love compared me to the devil
                 said that I was just as dark and foreboding and that
             I'd pull out the hearts of men and keep them for my own victory.

He called himself to be the honest definition of human since

                         his last love was the kind of angel that kept her wings closed
                                                          ­                                  and to her heart.

                               And with her golden fringe and paper white skin
                                        she had a laugh like the echoing of a wind chime
                                               a body like a goddess
                                                    and when her hips stuttered-

He'd danced with the devil and handed his heart to it

And so I've kept it to myself now
And given the rest of him away for the world to have.