I feel like you want to bleed on me.

Bind my frame to a ball and chain.
Handcuff me to the bed and break my legs.
I’m convinced you’re going to ****** me.
With bone and body alone, you will be my killer and I will be your meal.

I feel like I want you to bleed on me.

I want to take every flood of serotonin you’ve ever felt and stretch it. Seep inside and make bedfellows with everything. I want to rewind your head-space, explore your dark-place.
I want to clean your clock. Study your tick and your tock, watch your gears shift and synapses shock.
I want to know exactly how to take you apart and adore you enough to never try.
Let me rest between your eyes. I will give you my body if you give me your mind.
This is how I will love you

I watched you fall in love with the blue bird.

When the weight of whatever you shouldered left you feeling like a cracked sidewalk. When the contents of your head look like a dirt patch with no Flora.
I watched you sink your hope in its wings. I watched you open your beak and tweet out a plea that someone would make sense of your puzzle pieces

Do you know that feeling, when you love someone who hates themselves. Like trying to paint a picture in the rain. Watching whatever you have to give dilute in the depreciation, your affection can't **** depression. But you had to try.

To me being absolutely powerless wasn't enough to stop trying so I tried.

I fashioned cannonballs out of phone calls Fired at any wall that seem to cage your smile.
I'm more difficult Days you’d dance between dejection and distress. I'd watch you waltz between the lines of every conversation you had that day and you overthink entities into the world around you. Demons that would pull at your eyelids as you tried to rest. Clawing abysses that sat in your stomach. You thought if you consumed nothing you could starve them before yourself.  You built an army of opponents all born from the belief that your calm sat beyond your own two hands. That the long drawn and difficult sighs you choked through was just how breathing worked.

You believed it was meant to hurt this much...and it did, and it does, but it's not supposed to.

Your graces hung in my sky like a star, and what would dim your shine would in turn dim mine
So I tried..

I’d say… talk to me.
A quiet plea, hoping you'd articulate the things I hadn’t seen.
But you existed behind a phone screen
You were swept away by the blue birds.
You slept in its nest hoping it would always return your quick fix.
You were one with the roost and your song was only audible through an application.

I lost a piece of you to twitter.

You slept in my bed.. we’d skip between oxytocin dreams of lustful energy or blissful lethargy and if the slumber was harmed we’d make enemies of snooze alarms. I knew frequency of your finger tips. I was in tune with the cacophony of your head space I curated the museum your beauty sat it. But you didn’t care. The bars between us looked more and more like hastags every day. Slowly I became just another follower... In 140 characters or less.. “My concern was the only thing you didn’t think was worth retweeting”

It was funny that she would be born in January.

When the Frostbitten fingers of British Winters outstretched themselves hoping to grasp a springtime that we won't whine about. It's funny that our sunshine was born in winter.

It's funny that I once slept inside her.

How at one point, everything that was me was just as much you.
It's funny how even today that still holds true.
It's funny that I can't love someone without thinking about what you do.

I've opened my arms to labours and abuses because in love you have to try. Or at least that's what she did.

It's funny that someone who's been through three marriages is still my best image of what love looks like.

Cracked skin, tired eyes, minced words with hope and struggle more times than I know. But no regrets.

It's funny that she acts like we were all meant to be, like the breaths we've breathed we're always an eventuality, like we weren't all the longest labour in her entire history. Like the whole universe crashing down on one woman didn't stop her raising a family.

It's funny that we act as though we have one day a year to celebrate her.

As if not a day goes by that our still beating hearts don't sing the song of an angel with no feathers.

When I’m struggling to write…
I like to think about what I’d say to a crush.

I only recently caught a disease called a break up, and there’s no cure for a love cut short.
Only Pain killers, symptom minimizers, synthesizers for all the oxytocin you’ve been short on…
And the still sodden service receipts for all the shoulders you’ve had to lean on.

But crushes don’t wanna hear that, so let me try something a little sweeter.

So… I think you’re so pretty, like really, really pretty. Like so pretty I would never say it to your face!
Like I imagine your line is long and your time is short, I imagine you’re busy being pretty and stuff…

I imagine... sunshine compliments your character…
I imagine watching you listen to music. Seeing the corners of your mouth dimple and dance and the sound of passion striking the vocal chords of the lyrical legends we dreamt of one day overtaking.
I imagine getting to sing with you… I imagine disturbing the floor boards. Heart beats like hi-hats, the ground beneath a dance mat, we’d toe the gap between us. Every inebriated motion, a mishap waiting to be laughed at. I wanna laugh with you.

I wanna watch elation escape your frame. An exaltation so insane you feel it kicking at your walls. Laughter like squalls, like wind, like fire, like… all the **** I wanna say.
It’s all just hot air, it floats away… and the problem still remains, I’d never say all this to your face.
The problem still remains that every sweet nothing is a paper crane hung from ceilings hoping one day to soar in your skies…
So, I’ll sit here… and polish your shine from a distance far enough to sustain a steady heart.

This is not a hope… or a plea, more just catharsis for those tired from shouldering the apprehensive affections that the best years of your life will present to you.

It’s okay not be flower picking. There will be times better spent watching them bloom.

If you could do anything.
I'd catch you plucking at the twilight.
Dipping you contour brush in nebulae, you'd paint your eyeline with a skyline...  You'd bejewel your accessories with quasars spinning in quartz's and supernova sapphires and... your eyes would shine with star light...

If you could do anything, You'd sequin your extremities with snowflakes. Pattern your skin with the shine from the sunrise and you'd refract yourself into the world around you. You'd dye you hair like the northern lights... Stand still in squalls just so you could emulate its animated shimmer. Against the back drop of the night you'd glimmer. But that wouldn't be enough... You'd go to any length drown your frame in beauty.

If you could do anything, You'd steal the sensation of rain drops disturbing roof tops and overdose on an feeling of shelter from the storm. All attempts to subdue your high would met with scorn.  You'd break off the part of you that caused concern. You'd burn the
service receipts of ever shoulder you'd had to cry on. You'd outsource your own insecurity. Any obscurity to your character would be shot dead on discovery. You'd invade your own humanity and pillage it of difficulty.

If you could do anything you'd bargain with calendar just for a couple more days to avoid doing something. You'd fashion your words into hurdles and litter the ground with more and more reasons to fall. You'd talk yourself out breathing because the threat of suffocation is less intimidating than the thought of persisting.

You are swallowed by your own ideals. You're drowning in the hope that you can live like a statue, staying ever beautiful as time crumbles away at your stone. You're begging for someone to save you from yourself.

If I could do anything. I'd pay you a token of gratitude for every imperfection you're still convinced I don't treasure. I'd write sick notes to your anxieties to inform them that you need time to get better, and in that time we'd strategize. Make a battle plans for a better life and show you how to fight.

This is your battle, Not mine. But it hurts to see you struggle, hurts to watch heartache eat away at your smile. Hurts to watch demons blow raspberries in the reflection of every tear drop.

It hurts to ask if you're okay...

Gamble -a risky action undertaken with the hope of success.

Derived from the 18th century English word gamel, meaning to pay games.


Remember the players we left behind…
The strangers who you held one night friendships with on evenings where the sun refused to shine.
Remember the fairy lights. Remember the benches outside of Bodega and the smuggled bottles of wine. People seem so much more friendly when they drink.
But hey, if it takes a glass of poison to make us all less toxic then we can pass out happy…
We’ll creep out of sobrieties bed knowing it’ll be the angriest alarm we wake to as the sun tries to steal 5 of our 40 winks the next morning.
But you know.. Gotta risk it for a chocolate biscuit.
I’ll trade in sleep at the chance I’ll be dealt a more interesting night. Break ice with strangers at hope we both share a bit of over lives.
Trying to to create a story worth telling is a gamble.

And I feel sorry for people who fall asleep at half 11. Seems like such a wasted day.
Like if life composed of options and outcomes there must be a better way. I slay the idea that each night we have 8 hours of sleep debt to pay. Because in those wee hours of the morning, those are when demons make music videos, those are when normally vacant balconies play host to the half drunk couples finding comfort in each others bodies. That’s when the parties get quiet. When the humans have intoxicated themselves into lullabys and start softly singing their lives into the ears of a friend willing to listen and I will bet you have something I wanna hear, and I bet I'll have soemthing to give back, and while you and I are here we'll keep betting. Each syllable is a chip on the table. Each sentace is an opportunity to double down. The bar will not close, the roullette will keep spinning and we'll grow a little ritcher with every new story we share.

I make bets with time and breath.
And if you spend time with me then you will to. You the few who have paid you admission fee into my conciousness. You who throw dice with me on the empty streets where street lamps themselves begin to sleep. You who I will one day come to love.
It's risky. Risky like petting stray dogs. Risky like telling your loved ones that you've been seeing demons in the mirror. Risky like getting one knee and offering your life to someone. It is risky.... but that's fine.
I will teach you how to gamble.

I told her, "I wanna write a song with you."

Her immediate reaction didn't seem very musical. But she managed to wash down her reluctance with a glass of my enthusiasm. It looked a little too hard to swallow though.


Between you and me... I think she just didn't want to hurt my feelings...

Knew that anything musical we might share in this space would come at a price. Having played piano in the past, she knows…. that every…  key... requires effort. Every chord requires contact, every verse must be attacked every note ... needs impact.

Channeling all that we are and hearing the universe equally and oppositely react. Like science ... She knows there's chemistry in this musical contract.

And between you and me... I think she's scared to do that.

She houses pipes that were silenced a while back. Now all noise is mute, all lyrics refute, and the tones are all flat.

She is a little mermaid.
A villain stole her voice at the promise of companionship… and nower days what a bargain that is. String up your vocal chords and I'll meet each pained utterance with a kiss. Make a hostage of your own tongue and I will grant you bliss. I'll be the hiccup in your throat, the stutter in your sentence my sweet nothings will be the only sound you hear. The only tune you’ll dance to. The only lyrics you know.

She ... was choked, by an individual who was  more shark than he was man, more predator that he was person, and after all that submersion she can’t look at love without feeling like she’s downing.

Between you and me, I think when her fin was torn into a pair of feet she found it difficult to find any other fish in the sea. Violence is nobodies natural habitat. But like I said was silenced a while back. She made to believe that like every note, each future affection would require impact. And between you and me… I really wanna change that.

I told her “I wanna write a song with you”. Not to test whether she is musically faceted but rather to see if she is still passionate. I wanted to see if my prayers had reached you yet… I wanted you to be okay. Little mermaid who was washed  away. I wanted to is you fire stayed, to see  you recuperate. In your time at sea you overcome bigger waves.  So… sing.
Understand that are the most wonderful lyricist and  your pitch and tone are not a akin heartache and woe, you can be loud. Be proud in knowledge that any music you make is only the overture, only the beginning to a symphony called “done with this ****”. I will hear no requiem, you’ll play no finale. The stage is not a battleground. Let there be no more tears in which to drown, sing! Sing and make sea sirens jealous of how mermaids sound