We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.

I could fall asleep on his shoulder but I wouldn't want to miss hearing him whisper sweet nothings into my ear. I could hold onto his hands forever but I fear our sweat will turn into oceans and drown him. I could hug him forever but I wouldn't want to break the very ribs that protect his heart from getting hurt.
I haven't kissed him yet for fear that I won't stop until our lips hurt
So many things to fear in this world but I only fear for *his safety

I want to know your mother's maiden name and
The feel of my palms on your skin
And the taste of you
And know what your breaths against the back of my neck are.
I want your hand in my hand and to know the length that you prefer your fingernails at
I want
I want
I want.
I want to know what your eyelids feel like against your eyeballs and
How the blood in your heart works, feel it through your skin
I want to know every person you have ever touched
And their faces,
And the way your skin feels on their skin,
That friend of a friend that you shook hands with ten years ago in a Tuesday morning in September an it was cold out, so you were wearing fingerless gloves, and they'd forgotten their gloves on a bus three days ago and so their hands were bare and your fingertips just brushed their wrist -
I want that.
I want you in the morning, at the kitchen table, sleep-missed an bleary-eyed
And I want to know what you eat for breakfast and if you love bacon
Or if you're not that bothered
And I want to know
Who you were with last New Years
And the New Years before that
And every present you've ever received for Christmas
And every person you've kissed.
I want you to know my thoughts
And I want to know yours
And I want you.

Don't be sad,
Don't be pathetic;
I can't bear to see a woman cry;
It makes me want to thump her one.
Don't mope about your lost love;
I never did and I'm none the worse for it.

Better to get your gladrags on;
Go down to the city centre;
Pick yourself a decent bar;
Waggle your sweet little *** at someone;
Drag him home (or go off to his pad,
but that's risky as it may stink of old socks)
And enjoy what you have before it withers,
And you become as dry as a prune on Boxing Day.
That's what I told my sister anyway;
And she's as happy as Larry now with a bun in the oven
Even though she's on the ******* dole
(mind you, she's uglier than a fairground mule
and the ******* baby is no raving beauty
what with his withered arm and Pistorian stumps).

Let them swim through your mind,
while you contemplate life.
If they ask what your thinking,
you won't really know.
It went from ground zero,
to somewhere past space.
And so, you have become quite distraught.
Now I know that it's tough,
keeping eyes on the prize,
and keeping your head in the game.

A sexmad young girl with dementia
****** a dynamite stick for adventure
They found her ******
In South Carolina
And her ******* landed in New Hampshire.