***** it all
I have my own mind
My own self to take care of.

So ***** you
I don't need you
I am not anything
That's buy one get one free
Just turn your *** around before I kick it
I don't want you, I have poetry.

Freckles on your face,
Sunshine in your smile,
Promises made on your pinkie,
Memories in your mind,
Steps taken with your soles,
Hands are being held,
Adoration gleaming in your eyes.

You taught me more than just how to dance...
You showed me cruelty.
Peeled off the cover of reality and showed me meaning.
You wore a mask to blend with the crowd
And hid your vulnerability.
But alone, I saw piece by piece who you were.
A child, negative and unsure.
Your passion burned over your regrets.
You were a man of ignorance and understanding
And joked on things that were immature.
You made me feel special and not.
You confused me and gave me butterflies.
For that I hate you...
And until now, I still try to convince myself that I do.
How could I forget when every aspect of this world repeatedly reminds me of you?
Chills runs through my spine when your name reaches my ears.
And even in silence I still hear your voice.
If only I could just forget.
If only we had of never met.

They become names
Like the rims of baked-bean tins
That have to be handled with care

They are a bunch of flowers
Tied to a lamppost
Or a bench with words carved in

They are a Wikipedia page
Or a library shelf
Or a nothing
A nobody

They swell into memories
Wilted and swimming like wax
They seem to be stood there
When the sunlight blusters
Over dust
Because dust is just dead cells
That we all inhale
Exhale
Like we’ll choke them back into existence

They reside in half-empty
Boxes of tissues
Cigarette packets
The bubbles in lemonade

They become a mantelpiece of photographs
And sympathy cards
Broken toys
Empty T-shirts that you’ll try to turn into puppets
Sat in their wardrobe

They fall into certain songs
Certain car journeys
Occasionally they borrow your tongue
To continue voicing certain phrases
Certain people
Certain places
Certain rooms
Certain tastes
Certain seasons
Certain sunsets

Or maybe they just toss and turn
Beneath the church built of handkerchiefs
Like commuters coffined into underground trains
Wondering whether they can still believe
In tunnels
And golden lights.