I'm not your first sweet lover.
I'm not the darling that you wed.
I'm not that perfect housewife.
I'm not your ecstasy in bed.
I'm the last chance motel, full of cobwebs and of pain.
I've seen a lot of sad love and I'm broken and I'm tame.
I'm nobody's dream
as I once might have been.
I'm the last chance motel.

i pour my soul
into him
but he's so broken
that it seeps out
the other  side
and we're both
left completely
empty.

They don't tell you about the truly tragic parts of these disorders.
About how I haven't showered for 4 days because my life has lost its meaning.
Or how I have been wearing this shirt for 2 weeks now
because I see no point in changing.
They tell you about pretty symmetrical cuts and tears that flow like rain,
But not about the rock you get in your throat because you can no longer cry,
or how your arms are so burnt and cut up that you can no longer sleep because the pain is so excruciating.
They tell you about how near and beautiful recovery is,
but there is no recovery. There is only here and now. And here and now hurts.
They don't tell you about the amount of men you have *** with just to replace the love you've lost,
yet you end up emptier.
They tell you about poetic sadness, but not about the numbness. Where sadness has festered for so long, it has moulded and lost its taste.
They don't tell you about the 2 year waiting lists just to be rejected,
or about the 3am visits to A+E, because life has gotten so painful that you feel like your chest will explode.
They don't tell you about the physical strains of these illnesses; the jitters in your legs, the shortness of breath, the constant nausea...
They don't tell you about the disappointment your family feels.
They don't tell you how weak you feel, because you can't get out of bed for the 7th day running, and the fainting because you haven't drank for 4 days because keeping yourself alive is more effort than its worth.
They will never tell you about the intrusive thoughts, about ******, ****, babies (I just want them to stop)
They don't tell you about the racist, sexist, critical man that lives in your head.
Or about how when your psychiatrist asks you ''how do you feel?'' You can't answer,
Because you do not feel.
And have not felt for 2 and a half years now.
They don't tell you how difficult it is to find help in a society where self harm is artistic and psychosis is tragically beautiful, and we are all expected to be our own hero.
To ''Save yourself''.
I need help because living like this is not beautiful, it is deblilating and sad. I need help because I am ill, and I can not be my own hero.

Her back arched with insecurities
hips full of eve's sin.
Carved into her ******* are all the planets she has slept with: three.
Flesh purple
Lips puckered.
She was taught about the things that rotate solely around her,
About her power
About holding her mothers feet in her lap and listening to stories about home.
A home she knows only from yellowing photographs and broken proverbs and tales of freedom.
She has spent too long dancing with the heavy absence of hands on her waist;
With the bitter taste of men sitting on her tongue.
With the eyes that follow her like moths to light.
Every word she speaks is fire from her teeth,
Lighting her face
Burning the men who get so close she can smell the eager sweat from their backs.
She was taught to howl when the men tell her she is beautiful,
She is better than poor adjectives
She is endearing, dazzling, fulgurous.
but
she is not her mother,
no matter how hard she tries to be.
She is her father; dark, and cold, and drunk, drunk, drunk.

My neighbours have a half empty bottle of ***** sitting on their windowsill
If I close my eyes hard enough, I swear I can smell you.
I can taste the names of the pretty girls you kissed when you were high and I was alone,

And sometimes the voice in my head repeats your name over and over until it is nothing more than an unrecognisable sound. That's how I like it. Unrecognisable.

I have been very lonely since you told me she was pregnant
sometimes I can't sleep cos my mattress feels cold,
and I stay up all night talking to the men who live under my bed. They comfort me.

I text you the same message 18 times "please don't leave me. I will die."
("Leave me alone. There is nothing more for me to say to you" )

Mum tells me that all men will leave you when you need them most.
I think you left me long after I became dependant on you.
It is hard for me to breathe under all this soil

My room smells of unrequited love and stale promises.

You are still kissing other girls when you are high.
There are still bite marks on my thigh.

You must tell him that you are miserable,
That your addictions and your fists drove your family away
You must tell him that you haven't been touched for years
That whenever you look down at your hands all you can hear are the cries of the only woman who cared for you.
Tell him about the loneliness that eats away at your flesh daily
That without a woman your wounds are gaping more each day. You are ******.
You must teach him to cradle his woman, so she will cradle him back.
The touch of a woman who loves you is the most important thing in the world.
So, you must tell him to love his mother.
You never loved her, and look at you now.
You must tell him that you go weeks without opening your mouth, and the silence in your house is stale and bitter.
You must tell him that, you are stale. And bitter.

Your god injected poison into me,
Beat my mother to the floor
Spat venom on her whilst she lay shaking and bleeding.

Your god beat the backs of my knees until I was constantly bowing to men who uttered '****', '*****', as if a '*****' had not birthed them.
My legs were bent for so long I didn't even realise my pain until I pulled myself back up again.

-31st to the 4th

this was emptiness. coldness I was unsure about. coldness that hadn't touched me for months.
this was me. fallen. in. love.
for the first time.
this was half naked pictures and beautiful promises I clung to.
(a week ago I was clung to you.)
this was the consequences of the lectures I missed so I could stay in your bed.
this was angry emails.
this was empty poems. like this one.

-5th
this was me working hard to be beautiful.
this was you ignoring me. me clinging to others.
this was my need for love and attention.
this was absence.

-6th
more sadness. more emptiness.
more flirty messages from numbers that aren't yours.

-8th to the 9th
this was me being stupid. this was another boys jealously. another boys eyes and hands.

-4:30am - 9am
this was my number 2. this was someone new.
this was intimacy at 6am. raw intimacy.
this was us, face to face, smiles like the old romantic movies i hate.
this was him telling me I am 'daunting'. 'unreadable'.
this was honesty.
this was my secrets hung out in the cold air like wet clothes. all of my secrets.
most of my secrets.
this was body heat.
this was what they mean when they talk about intimacy without ***.
this was his hand on my cheek. in my hair. on my thigh.

this is the price of my loneliness.

He tells me, "i think you are sad."
But i don't know him well enough to whisper my secrets to him, about the waves that crash in my skull for hours on end. And that sometimes i cry because my mothers country is so far away, and i don't feel like home here, but i don't feel home there either and I'm very lost. And maybe that's why i always look confused and hurt. Because my own country does not feed me. And my mother works 52 hours a week and i hear her bones creak from my bedroom but there's only so much i can do with her feet in my lap. So i ignore it and think about my bruises instead.
I could tell him that I'm so so in love with about 7 people at any given time and if you ask me to name them all and tell you their 2am habits i could, but my own secrets are secrets even to myself.
I said 'my skin is so horribly pale im worried people will see how brittle my bones are.' and he looked confused so i left it.
I wanted to write about my father but apparently having 'daddy issues' is a new trend and i don't want to be part of anything that glamourises my mothers scars.
I am both fascinated and terrified of the sea and i think that's why I'm bound to drown one day, because sometimes i truly believe i am a mermaid and its ironic because my swimming is horrendus. But im also interested in knowing what it feels like for my lungs to fill with something other than smoke for once. So i guess im excited about that.
I think when i die they'll say 'she had good intentions'. And leave me to decompose, which i think is the saddest way to go because 'at least she tried' is almost as bad as 'she was pointless'.  And i dont think i want them to say either. I think i want them to be quiet.
I think about the word pointless a lot because its the word that comes to mind when im asked to describe anything.
Mondays are pointless.
Sundays are also pointless.
Saturdays hold so much hope though which I think is why i survived this week.