sometimes alcohol makes my
stomach churn with its lies.
the more i take, the less i feel.

maybe there are addictions worse
than addiction to skin.
i can't understand why you
make me feel so empty
so my glass is always full.

i'm scared of kissing you sober,
i've never kissed a man sober.
i tell you i love you,
hoping you'll blame my
***** veins.

i don't trust smiles that
hide the teeth,
but i'm here now,
cradled in his palms,
tasting his flesh.
i once thought his eyes
reminded me of oceans,
now i realize they remind me
of sharks.

he looks like someone that
could **** me,
that's just my type.
i forget to say no.
the last man i loved put his
fingers inside my mouth
and ripped my tongue out.
my body doesn't know
how to say no anymore.

last time,
this is the last time,
oh i said that last time.

i fell too deep into the rabbit hole,
like alice in wonderland,
except alice is the one
who fell in love with the mad hatter,
and alice is the one
who lost her head.

it's getting darker,
and i'm afraid.
i can't stay, my dear,
i can't stay.
the pen will only run out
and i'll be awake all night
if i don't empty
it of this ink.

never mix a poet and an artist.
he whispered to me, his words mix like
paint in his head to form a beautiful
sunrise.
"two pretentious people can never
get their way,
we're two busy expecting the other
person to make a move".
i'm too scared to let him get close,
i'll write about him,
i won't be able to forget about him,
and all i want to do is act reckless
at night and pretend
i'm good in the morning.
i wonder what games i'm playing this time.
maybe i wanted to kiss him,
maybe i didn't.
my brain can't make it's mind up.
i'm fickle.
all i know is an emotion in the moment,
and i tug on it,
i won't let it go.
if i can feel anything at all,
let me feel it.
so i'll play with his hands and he'll shake
his head and complain i never know
what i want,
and our heads lean in and i tell myself
i won't kiss him,
and something twists in my stomach,
and i tug, i tug.

now we're in the backseat,
and my stomachs turning.
maybe i just want people in my life
in an un-romantic way.
i like to get under their skin,
and steal their souls story.
i love how everyone is different,
and i can't hate a single thing,
because it makes them human;
the girls who steal bikes at midnight,
and the guys who offer their apartment
out at night.
i find myself in the wrong crowd,
i find myself in these situations,
in the backseat,
with someone who's speaks a
language far from consent
and it's all desperation.
his hands on my neck,
and there's no attraction,
physically.
mentally he has a way of making
my head spin faster than the
alchohol,
and i'm not sure if i'm
kissing him sober,
or if the night itself is drunk,
and i'm waiting for the sun to shine
a light on my mistakes,
as it always does.
i take their stories, they take mine,
but i'm not sure what part of it's true.
the girl in the backseat,
the girl shaking,
the rigid lips and bites.
maybe we won't speak,
maybe he'll lecture me again,
for using my body as a token
to pay my way.
love is an expensive thing.

the pains and the pleasures,
are deliciously melted into one.
it's so wild here,
i feel as though i have become one
who lives in the gutter,
i'm no better than the rats.

it's where the animal instinct kicks in,
and we all scream until we can't say
we're sorry for what we've done.

there's men and they don't care
who you are, who you've seen,
they only want to know the feel of you,
and it's okay
i can only love physically,
the rest of me is dead, i left her back home.
she spoils the fun.

they laugh like wolves,
at her, at us.
the poetry girl in this ***** place,
she doesn't fit in, poetry is a language
different to what they speak.

because everything is filth,
i spit it and i live it.
and if you hurt me,
you know when to stop.
i'm not afraid to pull you to me.
we're as different as
the drugs you take.
one things certain, if i hurt myself,
i won't know when to stop.

it's better it comes from you,
strangers in paradise,
in a land as foreign as my head.
i won't stop,
i won't stop,
i won't stop,
i won't know,
i won't
know,
no,
*stop

mother cried
because she was beautiful
her daughter,
the placid girl.

she cried,
because the men wanted her,
yet could not love her.

as millions plucked
flowers for their beauty,
then threw them to pavements.

they touched her,
because she was beautiful.
they defiled her.

they ripped the petals
from her throat,
and left her to wither,

a rose on the sidewalk.

hand reaching over
the phantom scars on her leg,
eyes profoundly broken as
flickering christmas lights,
a child weeping inside
the grown woman.
she smiles, she sighs.
there is grey where there
used to be sunshine,
there are desolate trees,
where the birds used to sing,
and crane their necks
like curious strangers,
at women who sit on lone benches
cradling palms,
stirring up memories of
touch so gentle it hurt.
until people float in and out
like a lifebuoy at sea,
until a wolfish man in scruffs
whistles and waves slowly,
as though time itself has broken.
she sinks deeper into herself,
into the womb of mothers;
into all the love
and all the heartache.

sometimes boys will whisper  
i love you's too quickly
and you, anon, will believe them
with your gentle heart, and
capacity to believe in miracles.

sometimes the first guy isn't
the only one,
sometimes you didn't like him
to begin with and that's okay.
i know you wish it was that easy.

people say to look for love
in all places, but love likes to hide
in the nooks of bookcases,
in cars parked under trees,
in his reflection in the rear mirror
as he glances to see you
walk past with your heels too high,
and smile too giddy.

but that wasn't love.
love is mutually shared.

sometimes you fall in love
and it will hurt worse than that time
you broke your wrist.
you will shake with tremors
of madness and you will
remember his name.

it's like hearing a song
you haven't listened to in years.
something jogs your memory
and you still remember the lyrics.
you will list his hobbies,
his favourite colour, with
perfect memory.

anon, you keep finding love,
and you keep losing it,

but be patient, please.
when you are ready
tell love to come another day.