I unfold in the Summer.
I collapse, piece by piece
into myself
I stare at the ceiling for days,
else pace the floorboards
getting splinters in the soles
of my feet
I mix a drink over the plate filled sink, I don't take care of the basics.
Washing, cleaning...
I neglect it all. I stick to drinking gin from ***** mugs. I was drunk then and I don't think I've sobered up
a decade of paint striper and counting coppers, of wine soaked breath and flinching
sometimes I eat. Swelling my stomach with half baked bread. Too hungry to let it rise
I stand, stock still, under the moon. A whisper between man and man. A backfiring car. A memory...
it still hurts sometimes, when I move. So I wear cotton. Do fabrics have innocence? Do colours?
lemon and orange. No more siren red
(I spread)
He must have loved you, they say to me now. People only **** the ones they love
or the pretty ones
(and I am not a pretty one)
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 3:10 PM UTC
I unfold in the Summer.
I collapse, piece by piece
into myself
I stare at the ceiling for days,
else pace the floorboards
getting splinters in the soles
of my feet
I mix a drink over the plate filled sink, I don't take care of the basics.
Washing, cleaning...
I neglect it all. I stick to drinking gin from ***** mugs. I was drunk then and I don't think I've sobered up
a decade of paint striper and counting coppers, of wine soaked breath and flinching
sometimes I eat. Swelling my stomach with half baked bread. Too hungry to let it rise
I stand, stock still, under the moon. A whisper between man and man. A backfiring car. A memory...
it still hurts sometimes, when I move. So I wear cotton. Do fabrics have innocence? Do colours?
lemon and orange. No more siren red
(I spread)
He must have loved you, they say to me now. People only **** the ones they love
or the pretty ones
(and I am not a pretty one)
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