I wake from fading dreams
of soft hymns
and summer skin

Perhaps this is what it’s like
to be at peace

I’m scratching my cheekbones
Gripping at cavities
And white noise

Apart in my lust
I separate
Disconnect
Break

There’s an infinite space where these fingers once entwined
I rise above my own flesh just to watch it die

Languorous apathy
I slept as death whispered
Through the murk of my self-inflicted
Desolation
Regressing until my heart withered from its bones

light a match
and
watch it
kiss me down.

You are making earthquakes
with your hands, destroying
mountains, building cities
from my spine and crushing
them with hurricanes that
fall from your mouth.
Your body is the tornado
whirling through my door
at 3am on a Thursday morning.

I've never had a home
that felt like one,
more than the home I
feel when you put your
arms around my waist,
when you kiss my neck
and when you whisper
my name into my ear.

I can hear a clock ticking somewhere in the back of my mind and I can't reach in far enough to take the batteries out, and that's when I realised it had stolen mine and I can't remember how to work, how to breathe, how to be and you're laying next to me but wait you're not or maybe I'm mistaking the fact that I'm mistaken or god I must be daydreaming of your lips against mine and it's only half past five in the afternoon and I'm sitting here in the middle of uni trying to think of how to say your name without it taking a hold of my throat and scraping down my lungs and choking me half to death and I'm wondering how to touch you or let you touch me without setting myself on fire and I'm trying to remember where all the stars have gone and then I looked into your eyes and found them and then you opened your mouth and more came spilling out and I'm trying to concentrate on what your hand feels like in mine but I'm also concentrating on how your bones feel underneath my fingertips, your collarbones, hipbones, your bones that I once only thought of as part of the human body but now it feels different when I'm touching yours and now I'm thinking about the way your fingernails dig into my back I guess you could say you use it as a canvas and as long as you're the only one making art on this strange substitute of a canvas then I'm okay with that, as long as your name stops choking me and my lungs stop being raw from your name and from trying to scrape out the taste of another's breath when he kissed me at a party you weren't at and I threw up afterwards because I only wanted your lips, not his and I hope you know that I love you and I hope you love me too, and I can hear footsteps coming and all I can think of is you and I hope they are yours but I know they aren't because you're not down today I don't think but I'm still hoping and I wish you had come today and I've lost myself in thoughts of you, and oh god I think I'm in far too deep.

How to act okay when I'm not,
how to smile like I mean it when I don't,
how to laugh like it isn't fake,
how to live when I want to die,
how to sleep and then still wake up.

Passion,

Woe that you should be my muse,
To have me painted and scarred so many hues

And oh to carry this poets heart,
Flooded by tides of feeling, floating world apart

In a flowing void of deepness,
The Self cast inward far,

Awesome gravity from all directions,

A black hole, holding ones brittle moon star.

With strained might it's forces burn the sea of mind,
Crashing thought-waves intoxicated on the outer worlds shore,

Breaking onto rough and rational sands,
Oft shadows of their true selves tender moon-star flaming,
Vagrants misunderstood and poor

And so ever the artist quests to rightly express,
pressurised creations they may yet release

Making room for the abstract storms atoms to saturate the waking,

Liberating its blooming centre of still, silent peace.