The sky presses down on
us, this town, this
dump, this place where down
is up. Where up is out, where
swinging at night is
the only way to doubt
you’re dying.

And it’s carried me this far-
I wear this town like an
old scar- It’s been hard.
But I’m not dying
anymore, I’m flying out this
door- I’m moving,
I’m living,
I’m out.

You’re kind of a
mess girl. All jumbled up, all
pulling at your hair, can
you remember
Sun anymore?

And you’re kind of a
wreck the way you
shake from side to side like
someone’s rocking your
insides, like something’s
scared behind your eyes-
I know you’re hurting,
I know the signs,
but smoke before
fire every time

Just let me save you.

Everything’s lost it’s
color, Mands, everything’s
going grey. I don’t know
where all the pigment
went- It’s all just
faded away.
And I don’t know why
I can’t picture the
Sky- I’ve forgotten the
shape of clouds.
Please help me, friend,
please show me the way.
Coz I just
don’t know how.

veins like cracks
crawl up your arms.
ironic that they house the
glue that keeps you
held together.

I’ve reread my life and burnt it
in a trashcan. I’ve made a
real man a boy and back again.
I’ve taught myself to forget better
than I remember.
I remember everything.

I’ve made myself someone, lost her,
re-begun. I’ve written my dreams on a
napkin and stuffed them in a toy gun.
Shot it and lost a loved one.
I’ve lost everyone
at one point.

Sighs curl out her mouth like smoke- tendrils beckoning as so many fingers. It’s crass and brutal and he can’t help it. People talk about it the next day. How raw, how savage. Nobody does things like that. What are they?

And they fold themselves into each other like ghost stories ‘round a fire. So different, so vogue. Spilling secrets out of shaky teacups, giggling through tears they blend and have something we can never have. So on the surface.

Who are they? Their hearts pinned on their sleeves with needles- bleeding ink in blossoms over shoulders, arms, hips, hairy shins. They’ve forgotten need in their world of want- it’s all over them in points. So tragic, so couture.

They used to be us.

Alright, alright so I’ll
write something
down. I’ll try to turn
this into paper, try to
turn this **** around.
Alright so I’ll
write something slightly
profound, I can’t deal with
all this ******* without
marking it down.