The doors slide open
and I am reminded of how
he sweeps his fingers through his hair.
I sigh. I hesitate.

A man with a blank face watches
as I contemplate lifting my feet
from earth that is trying to swallow me.

"one, please." I say,
only to learn that there is no fare.
I don't even know my destination -
let alone what I'll do when I get there.

I carry a box under my arm.
It holds a weight I am used to, but
one I don't want to hurl around with me
all day, every day.

My eyes meet a seat at the back of the bus,
and they do not travel elsewhere
until I meet the safety it provides.

Lying on the surface,
of the box filled with my messy thoughts,
is last night's diary entry.
The poem I keep rewriting.
A list of things I'm likely to forget,
and another of things I wish I could.

There seems to be nothing outside of my window.
Like we are the only survivors of a sinking ship.

There is a young caffeine addict,
who sits next to his box.
He doesn't face it, he pretends it isn't there.
He just jitters and sips from his coffee cup.

There is an erratic woman of thirty,
who keeps reading and rereading the contents
of her box - letters from an ex lover.
She obsessively turns over the paper,
studies his every word, tries to figure it all out.

The hopeless romantic is writing a poem
for the girl who left him.
He keeps scrunching up his drafts,
discards them in his cardboard box.

The caffeine addict has opened a window.
Paper pages flutter like insect wings.

A rosy cheeked ten year old
is next to join the voyage of the misfits.
Her box is too big for her to carry,
too heavy -

She trips.

The burden, flying from her grasp,
like doves released from a cage.
She tries to collect each piece of paper,
each doodle, each sticky note.
She is frantic.

Someone taught this girl
to be ashamed of the inner workings of her mind,
and if I have learnt anything from school,
it is that not every lesson is meant to be revised.

I glance at my box,
like a book I've read a thousand times,
I only need to skim read to get the story.

I open a window.
The caffeine addict gets the same idea.

Then, simultaneously, we throw our problems
into the air. We let them breathe something fresh.
We let them kiss the night sky.

Suddenly, our destination is bliss.
We think about the postcards
we are bound to send, from forests
and meadows and mountains.

The only constant is the self.
We can build up our walls, but sometimes,
we need to leave the door open.

My mind is a kingdom.
I am learning to roam free.

i am just a glitch in the system,
a name
on a waiting list which is too long.
i am just a name, one you can't get rid of.
so you tell me i'll wait six months,
it has been eight.

you call yourself professionals,
yet you don't seem to realise that teenagers are –
impatient.
so my mother leaves endless voicemails,
and my doctor sends a string of letters your way,
all in a feeble attempt
to hurry along the mind numbing process.

i don't expect to beat the system,
and there are countless others like me –
but isn't that the thing that scares you?

you know, there is this fashion craze,
where we tie lengths of black cord around our necks,
and call them "chokers".
i wear mine every day, and i tie it a tad too tightly,
because i can't breathe
and i've ran out of excuses as to why.

you take your morning coffee black,
and i cannot see the appeal in the bitter taste.
you start the day with nicotine, whether that be
cigarettes or cherry-flavored vapor.
you are a bad influence on me, you made me
addicted to the stuff. your eyes are
an ocean. they have seen so, so much.
your face, your body, your mind, all sharp angles -
i have learned how to safety proof myself
from your jagged edges. you, my love, are
a rose. your thorns make my limbs bleed,
and your beauty works as a band aid.
i have learned which places our bodies can
interlock comfortably. the crook of your neck,
my head against your chest, i wish i could melt
our bones together, into one perfect structure.
you were sculpted from dystopian stories, yet
you are alive, you are a tangible utopia.
tangled in the darkness, we mumble sweet promises
and careful secrets. these bed sheets safe keep
us from a world where i love yous can
never last. dear God, let this last.

The cloudy streets of Edinburgh
Provided me with something
To help pass the time, empty promises.

I began to care for a boy, a stranger,
After a mere five minutes of conversation.
I laughed when I was supposed to,

And our arms brushed in the process.
I had forgotten that warmth could be
Supplied simply from sharing space.

I had been numbed, under-oxygenated,
Without human contact, in that way,
Since 2012. I guess it was all my doing,

Constantly catering myself with opportunities
That would account for nothing. And
Knowing deep down so. Yet, the naive,

Still childish part of me, thought it would be
Okay to allow myself this one fantasy.
I allowed myself to study his features,

Thinking that they may one day be described
In my poetry. I spoke to him on another
Two occasions, and allowed him the third,

But he never grasped it. I stood there,
On the Edinburgh streets, watching as he
Didn't watch me. Attempting to

Look approachable. Attempting to look happy.
Because I had promised myself that I wouldn't
Be the one to chase, each and every time.

The sun rises daily, without exception.
*We should learn from the sun.

your eyelids flutter like an insect's wings,
yet you reject the concept of delicacy.
your thoughts may be harsh, but
don't forget that you are capable of caressing
another. allow your lips one secret kiss,
let your foggy mind rest. think not
of your troubles, only of how it feels to
skim the surface of my mouth.
rest your head upon my lap, lose your
inhibitions - let me sing you to sleep.
forget about your nicotine habit, (and the
fact that you cannot afford your ways)
deny yourself of that cigarette. i too, am
an addiction, and there will be days
where you will have to go without.