I wish I lived in Wayne’s World,
where Wayne and Garth are real.
I wish I had Cassandra’s curls,
and her *** appeal.

I wish I dated Jason Dean,
and coloured him impressed.
I wish I had the killer gene,
but never ever confess.

I wish I went to Ashfield Hospital,
and looked a little on edge.
Explored shutter island in the spittle,
and made the Marshall pledge.

I wish I lived with Yeats,
or in the lonely moated grange,
I wish I danced on table tops,
my body for money,  fair exchange.

I wish reality didn’t exist,
or better yet just me,
all those opportunities would be missed,
and at peace I’d finally be.

When I left him, I felt my void intimately. Learnt my way through its darkness with only my bare hands to guide me. It's unworldly creatures sought comfort in my throat but I was never created to be a shelter for the devils that reside in me.

I vowed never to be the darkness without realising that I too could be swallowed whole.

(TW ****** abuse, suicide)

My body comes with a trigger warning,
to see me naked no longer
means the same thing.
I'm ugly. Scarred,
Both emotionally and physically.
I need help,
but I don't know how to reach out.
My voice has been silenced
by one too many men,
controlling, abusing, ruining.


Recently, the emotional pain I had been
rejecting when I remembered my ****
hit me all at once.
I couldn't breath, I couldn't see, I couldn't feel
anything except, well,
suddenly, the knot that never disappears from my chest
grew. Minutely at first, then it became more confident.
It knew it was taking over my body: my arms and legs and feet and fingers went paralytic, all I could hear was a ringing noise, raging in my ears.


Sometimes, I mix *** with death. Both seem like the ending to me. I'll fantasise about being dressed up for ***, I'll slide downstairs and seductively choose my lover. I'll debate over men, women and everyone else in between and outside, but I know from the beginning which I'll choose. I'll slink over to the knives and select the biggest and baddest I own. I won't shake, I won't back down. I can feel it sliding between the layers of my skin as we speak now, I can feel my body weakening.

I'm so tired, my friends. I've spent so many years fighting back and now all I want to do is sleep, forever.

I think I'm falling in love.
Not the cute and pretty kind,
but the mean and gritty type that
you worry is going to last too long.
Will I end up missing your face?
Watch it fade as those memories dim.
There's a reason it's called falling
and not floating nor gliding.

God, I hate falling in love.
Isn't it so peculiarly terrifying?

When you ask about one,
people tend to answer with another.

For example:
When you ask somebody
about love,
they tell you about
heart break.
Of physical pain
released through cathartic tears
and
the thumping pitter in your chest whenever you next see
their face.

And when they ask about
my boyfriend
I speak loudly and proudly
of my girlfriend's soft lips
and her love that echoes
as though she had brought light
unto my very essence.

When they ask about
the feel of the earth,
they talk not of the
touch and feel and gritty
texture
but the damp, rotting
smell discretely placed
for you to oppose.

So tell me, friend,
if I were to ask:
Have you had a good day?
Would you answer with the
time your dearest made you
cry
with laughter,
or would you answer with
the void that ***** the
laughter away?

Dear David,

You tore your way through my life, leaving a devastation known only to a few. When you were done, you picked at my intimacies until I had nobody left. But I'm no longer afraid of the big bad wolf. This is my revenge.

1. I'd balance a gas light above your head and set it alight. When you go running to your friends about my torture they'd smell an unconfrontable unease that would turn them away.
2. I'd cut out your tongue and push my fist down your throat, my fingers indulging in the gushing scarlet, invading your warm insides until your breathing is cut off and I reach your voice box.
3. I'd yank it out, celebrating in your juices that run down my arm. Now, when you turn to your dearest, they will only see the fear in your eyes when they mention my name.
4. I'd carve lost trenches into your arms so that the reminder of our war could never be forgotten. There's a rare kind of memory that makes you ache for it to leave.
5. I'd etch the word 'love' onto the back of your throat and watch you choke on it. I'd hope that every time this happened, you would be reminded of me and the quirky ways I showed my affection.
6. I'd leave you squirming in pain for days on end, my back turned in silence as the shackles slowly embrace your body.
7. I'd decide that you had been punished enough and nurse you back into health, stitching your tongue back on in zig zagged attempts to apologise.
8. The next day, I'd slowly unpick the shallow stitches and start the whole process again.
9. I'd blame you for my actions. 'Baby it's your fault you make me do these things, you're just too irresistible ' I'd whisper seductively to you as my knife slips down to your groin.
10. I'd render you useless to the rest of the world, steal your thoughts with my kiss and blow them into the wind. The altered version of them would reach our friends before your voice did. The silence that echoed only added to the rumours.
11. I'd slip my knife sexily between your skin, opening up a hole so that your entire vulnerability would be glowing.
12. I'd empty the entirety of your guts onto the floor and smile as the gas light falls on to your slumpened body.  A fire will erupt over it, burning the last shreds of hope as your lips will begin to melt. Gone are the mechanisms that may have led them to believe.
13. That night, I'd bathe in your guts, ******* over the feeling of power as your burnt corpse smoked nearby.

Words will betray your mouth,
gather clumsily behind your lower
lip before walking away, stumbling on a flat surface.

Words will betray your mouth,
your tongue will trip as it attempts to curl around many syllables and shapes that are hard to form.

Words will betray your mouth,
teeth chattering in anxious continuum, individuality being sworn away

Words will betray your mouth,
even when your thoughts are the burning lava at the mount of the volcano come to known as your throat.

Words will betray your mouth
when you are not using it to convey them.
Mindless scatterings of useless words pushed together into a form or a silent mouth opening and closing around another.

I want to bleed like beautiful poetry,
Drown in a sinister Scarlett and fall asleep forever.
Instead, I filled my body with poisonous healings and watched them ooze from my precious wounds.

Death is a dark beauty, and I'm a mere animal. I am
lucky to have touched it.
To scrape my fingernails across its surface and wonder how I'd feel if I were engulfed.

Since death was around the corner
my body has been wracked with disappointment.
I'm still sad and I'm still alive.

You turn me on sometimes.
My heart beats fast, I'm already off the tracks but your hand is there to guide me
As it crawls up my thighs, up my sides, I'm not faking those cries
because you turn me on sometimes.

The way you hold my waist as you press me into your face,
it makes me tremble prematurely.
It makes me shiver in delight for the rest of the night.
You turn me on sometimes.

At 7am, when you wake me up
with an elbow to the face and my pulse starts to race.
Then it's whispered nothings about how hard you want to **** makes my hips start to Buck and just when I think I'm out of luck, you reply to my text:
"do you want to meet up?"
And my fingers will twitch because
you turn me on sometimes.

Feeling safe with you turns me on sometimes.
Your face against mine, checking if I'm fine even if just dropping me a line turns me on sometimes.
Sitting in class hoping for time to pass whilst all I think about is your hands on my *** whilst I'm
Biting my lip, clasping the water that I sip, try not to blush, your words do not rush,
I think to myself as you sit silently beside me.
You turn me on sometimes.

Lonely? Or just alone,
Confusion is built into my skin
As I let my mind be consumed by the details.
Escape? Or just retreating
To the two items of clothing on my bed.
One so white it hurts my eyes, its angelic nature reflecting you.
The other so dark it echoes his scent that lingers.

I will find the coarsest brush and use it to scrub off the skin he touched as a punishment for returning.
I’ll whisper words of cruelty as my mind is no defender,
merely a perpetrator in building this wall around me.
A wall designed to suffocate,
To rip the breath from my lungs despite it possibly being the last.
There is no escape from this so I'm retreating, I suppose,
wall fully in tow.
To obsess over things I could have, should have and would have done
Had this wall not been a prevention.

I once asked you to spill your deepest secrets
At a time when fatigue was about to take hold.
If only I had known then that I was your surreptitious troubling.
I could have fixed it with my should have dones and would have dones
The same ones that I obsess over to this very day, this very night,
A whispered apology in the only medium I know how:
Pretty words, coming from within that ground me to you
When the space around me doesn’t feel real
And I’m hell bent on self-destruction.
When I wish to wrench the skin from my bones and I’m forced to acknowledge that
It is my fault; I am the one who acted this way.
So next time, I’ll remind myself not to project onto others
For I am the one to blame.