i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body.  i like what it does,
i like its hows.  i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones,and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz
of your electric furr,and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new

Funny how a photograph can pump blood
I only have one of you, it isn't mine
it sits here backlit
shared with all that would gladly drown in those mischief eyes.
Your smile, a moment of calm, a second of perfection caught, always brings my own.
There is no beauty like yours, no work of art has ever made me want to overflow with passion the way you do. I could write countless poems, a thousand odes to your dimples, a million sonnets to your curls, a billion lovesongs to your eyes to no avail. So I'll laugh at your jokes, and be a sturdy shoulder, a friend.  I'll wish the best for you always, while your heart keeps my secret safe. Poets shouldn't fall in love with the unloved, there aren't enough words to describe the agony.

the first step to recovery
is not admitting you have a problem
**it's admitting you need help

I know alcohol is the downfall. I know he doesn't love me. And I'm unhealthy and relationships are toxic but oh god, I'm lonely, and I'm tired of having no one to hold.

Yes, my father is a bad man but when I look in the mirror all i see is his face
And I have spent too too long hating him.

My heart has been broken by people who never even asked for my middle name, and every day I face the world alone my lungs blacken. It is hard for me to smile.

Every kiss I have ever been given has been tainted. I have never been kissed with love.

I do not want to let you down, but it is in my nature. And I can't get it out.

My lipstick is too bright? But I want the men to think about the things my lips could do if only we were alone. I'm sorry.

I never intended for you to waste so many nights holding me whilst i was bleeding.

I starve myself because I want to be beautiful.

When you come home from 12 hour shifts and your eyes are tired and your legs waver, I go to my room and cry because I want to make life better.
But i am ill.

It’s one year later now
And all your pictures are gone
It’s two girls later and yet you’re still the one
That I’m writing about and I don’t understand
Why I can’t let you go
There was little to nothing that was so special
About the week and a half we shared
You’re not the only one I’ve stayed awake until
3 A.M. for and you’re not the only girl who has ever made me smile
I’ve had more empty promises than the one you made
To me concerning backpacks and hospital beds
Maybe it’s because you’re the only one who has used me the way you did
I guess I was like medication for your anxiety
You insisted I didn’t have to be here and I told you
I knew what I was doing
When I took the class the next semester it almost killed me
Because I had to do it alone
And I felt so lost
When the doctor asked me if I was on any medication
It was all I could do not to scream your name
*~W.C.

at 4 years old, she rode a horse for the first time and
felt this sensation  she thought only a book could give her.
at 7 years old, she caught her dad coming in the house
with someone else’s lips on his neck and all she
could remember was how red they were, similar to the roses he
brought home on valentines day every year
(he only brought home seven, the other five were hidden).
at 15 years old, she told a boy she loved him,
but she was talking to someone else.
at 16 years old, she chose me.
at 16 years old, she gave me herself for the first time.
at 16 years old, we got caught by the cops.
at 16 years old, i told her i loved her.
at 18 years old, she cried her eyes out because i didn’t love her
anymore (or so she thought).
at 19 years old, she chose someone else.
at 25 years old, i think she married him.
at 32 years old, i think she was looking for me in the deepest parts of her
mind, but she forced herself to forget how my voice sounded
at 6am when i woke up from her shoulders fourteen years ago.

i think she wanted to me to write this,
but its become a prayer to me how i’ve said her name
under my breath when a priest passes me by.
i think my lips are the same color as the women your
father cheated with, but they’ve been stained with blood
because i don’t want to lose the way you said i love you.
i think too much, and i lost perception on what’s a dream anymore.
god doesn’t wake up in time at 4am to answer my prayers anymore.

They don't tell you about the truly tragic parts of these disorders.
About how I haven't showered for 4 days because my life has lost its meaning.
Or how I have been wearing this shirt for 2 weeks now
because I see no point in changing.
They tell you about pretty symmetrical cuts and tears that flow like rain,
But not about the rock you get in your throat because you can no longer cry,
or how your arms are so burnt and cut up that you can no longer sleep because the pain is so excruciating.
They tell you about how near and beautiful recovery is,
but there is no recovery. There is only here and now. And here and now hurts.
They don't tell you about the amount of men you have *** with just to replace the love you've lost,
yet you end up emptier.
They tell you about poetic sadness, but not about the numbness. Where sadness has festered for so long, it has moulded and lost its taste.
They don't tell you about the 2 year waiting lists just to be rejected,
or about the 3am visits to A+E, because life has gotten so painful that you feel like your chest will explode.
They don't tell you about the physical strains of these illnesses; the jitters in your legs, the shortness of breath, the constant nausea...
They don't tell you about the disappointment your family feels.
They don't tell you how weak you feel, because you can't get out of bed for the 7th day running, and the fainting because you haven't drank for 4 days because keeping yourself alive is more effort than its worth.
They will never tell you about the intrusive thoughts, about ******, ****, babies (I just want them to stop)
They don't tell you about the racist, sexist, critical man that lives in your head.
Or about how when your psychiatrist asks you ''how do you feel?'' You can't answer,
Because you do not feel.
And have not felt for 2 and a half years now.
They don't tell you how difficult it is to find help in a society where self harm is artistic and psychosis is tragically beautiful, and we are all expected to be our own hero.
To ''Save yourself''.
I need help because living like this is not beautiful, it is deblilating and sad. I need help because I am ill, and I can not be my own hero.

my neighbours have had their pool up since summer last year
I wonder if they stole my lost strands from the shower and threw a voodoo doll into the pool
or captured my soul in a bottle as I lazily blew cigarette smoke by their window
                         a bottle
                                         a doll

that now sits, sunken, at the bottom
of their pool and, perhaps, that's why I've spent the entire time
feeling as if I am drowning.