I don’t always wash my hand when I ***. I am stubborn to the point of the ridiculous. I can’t understand people who don’t need their own space but at the same time I get lonely very easily. I narrate my own life like some kind of second rate soap opera. Sometimes I ******* out of sheer boredom but never *** because no matter how good it feels I am not really that interested. I get bored of people I am sleeping with very quickly. Even though I don’t like being in them I sometimes create ruts. I have very unhealthy relation ships with men and only ever fancy emotionally distant ******* with huge laundry lists of emotional problems because I am not wholly comfortable with being loved. I post pictures of my self semi naked on the internet because I like being desired without intimacy. I am terrified I am mentally defective like my great aunt Doris.  I hate my mother’s first name. I have always wanted to come from aristocratic stock and attend private school. I eat in bed. I use my size as an excuse so I don’t have to try to find love because then I would have to let someone in. I am scared of my manipulative side. I lie to well. I leave fresh flowers in their vase till they wilt and die because there is something morbidly beautiful about the sad crinkled mass it reminds me how closely linked we as humans are to our own mortality, I tell people I do it because they dry better that way. Sometimes I tell people things to appear more interesting than I am but when I tell the truth it is always more interesting, I still do it though. I am desperately afraid that if I do seek a psychological test I will be perfectly normal. I practise jokes in my head before I say them sometimes. I get scared when people expect me to share my own feelings or opinions and often make up ******* so I don’t have to divulge things. The shyer I am the louder I get. I once tried to jump off a bridge because of a boy. My parents ***** about each other to me, I just like the attention. My father has never directly told me he loves me. I hate sharing but because my mom instilled it in me as a child I find it ridiculously hard to say no. The more trivial something is about me the less likely I am to share it. I hate the feeling of puckering fingers after they have been in water and I always get angry doing the washing up. I got my first tattoo because I wanted to lay the artist. I eat with chopsticks because I don’t like getting food on my hands. I can be incredibly competitive and I hate myself for it. I like having beautiful friends. I google people I like (whether that be in a romantic or non romantic way). I am scared of never being a mother.

I bake.
When the answers slip my hand.
When I can't understand.
When I can't sit around.
When I am joyful or profound.
When I am renound.
I bake. I bake. I bake.

I cook.
When the world seems too scray.
When I can't sleep soundly.
When I can't speak loudly.
When I am sad or lonely.
When I am hungry.
I cook. I cook. I cook.

And when I don't know what I want there is always the recipe book.

These scars that
I wear across my
face deeper down
then you can see like invisible
little pin ****** hold
the secrets to a life
spent living through love every
bad choice or
sadnesses
is compounded by a million
happinesses they hang
together
like the stars in the skies some
twinkle
and some some implode
succking half my life
with them huge black spiralling abyss’
made from the
need to exist in my own right away from
the impression
I
made wether good or bad was
made
because you chose
to believe I was one or the other
but why can’t I be
both
I THINK I AM DROWNING IN MY OWN EYES REFLECTED IN YOURS
as you look at and process what you see but what do you see….

a pause then silence .

Leaning on the floor as if supported in its love by the grey green tile.
The table barely caressing its darling with a wood chipped smile.
Both fall upon the stone to strengthen their desire
like the hearth that holds a roaring fire.
Surrounded by tables and chairs all parted
the empty pair do not seem disheartened.
The lumionous lights shine on their union
and inside their hollow legs grows the yerning for conclusion.
Pulled apart and put upon
the dance they dance does continue on.

It was a crisp November afternoon
and the sun was dancing across the hills,
at the other side of the valley making them glow
-like golden mounds.

The wind was fresh
as it whipped the grasses carrying the salty scent of the sea.

I sat back and closed my eyes,
running my fingers through
the grass beside me and taking in
the sweet scent of the rotting vegetation coming from the forest to my left.

I opened my eyes
just as the sun began to disappear behind a huge grey cloud and suddenly the air was heavy
with the moisture of the impending down pour.


Instantly the hills seemed grey and cold.