you’re just a pair of hands.
old now, but soft; gently creased
with nails stained
by the cigarettes that are killing you.


you smelt like smoke.
you wore your past lives around you
like a coat.
like your beauty, they lingered out of reach.


you beautiful bag of bones.
at least your eyes glisten. at least
they look like stars.
like a child, you still believe in magic.


i can see you fading.
burning out. you’ve got nothing left
to see here.
your eyes close as the sun explodes.

he takes photographs of forgotten things.
an umbrella left, still dripping, on a train seat.
a toy rabbit, well-loved, with one ear chewed off.
it was on the side of the road.
a christmas card from somebody’s mother,
still in its envelope.
and now, he points the camera my way.
it flashes.
i forget to smile.

she was red with love,
full of it; the feeling oozed from her skin
and dripped from her laughter like honey.
love stuck to the walls of her home
and she painted with it;
her life was a canvas and red was the colour
and your hands were her paintbrush.
i guess you didn’t realise
that her colour stained other people.
(his lips used to be blue but they’re purple now.
they probably taste different too but
you never asked her if they tasted sweeter than yours)
your own skin was the colour of moss.
dirt was under your fingernails.
your hair was full of splinters.
her hair was always so soft
even when you ripped it out of her.
she’s all red now.
even her throat is smiling.
she still laughs in technicolour.

two bodies; once one.
fumbling hands are now still,
clasped on separate knees,
separately shaking
with separate lives.
some words are best left unspoken
and best left to speaking in bodies
and tongues
and without understanding
as non-sensical as the birthmark
shaped like a boat
that she claimed was never on her
back before.

it wasn't there anymore.

everything was removed.

rent asunder.
torn apart.

promises locked onto a small hand
became broken fingernails
that were sharp as the needles
that littered your bedroom floor.
you never told me secrets anymore.

pink lemonade was mixed with
other things. stronger than the bleach
you used to dye your hair. sickly summers
in your throat reminded me of palma violets.
i’d hate to know what went inside it.

the people you loved became
people you’d forgotten.
i like to think you loved me once.
but now i live in your memories
and our childhood shines faintly like dreams.

does it hurt when you die?
i hope not.
i hope you don’t feel it
when your cells fade out
like a star that stopped burning
that you still see.
i hope i never cling on like that.
i hope the end is fast
and drifting
like waves maybe, or
tumbling clouds in the wind.

does it hurt when you die?
does your body still feel
from beyond the grave?
please don’t cremate me.
please don’t subject my bones
to the flames.
please don’t bury me.
i hope i will never feel my skin decay.
i hope i will never feel again.
nothing is worse than the numb
apart from the feeling.

does it hurt when you die?
even growing old
do you feel pain as wrinkled skin
and once-beautiful eyes
change?
i can see your body lying there.
you look so peaceful.
are you sleeping?
or does everything hurt too much?
i hope i never know.
rest in peace.

i’m all i see.
i’m all i have.
i’m all i’ve ever known-
living in this fragile shell
filled with broken fragments
is all i’ll ever know.
it’s no wonder that i’m so lonely.