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.

clumsily, I fall -
whether it be in or
out of love with you.
similar to how
I bring accidental pain
upon myself, simply
from knocking
my knee on something
solid. clumsily,
I trip over my own
footsteps. I know not
my destination, or
what I'll do upon arrival.

clumsily, I allow
myself to create pathetic
fancies. stupidly,
I give you the power
to inflict
bitter pain upon me.
me, the clumsiest girl
you'll ever know,
who'd be
glad for whichever marks
etched upon her skin,
by you.

Smoke inhabits my throat. My friends,
Intoxicated, are complimentary –
They say they wish their aesthetic was mine.
My lips, painted baby blue,
Hold loosely onto the Marlboro cigarettes.
I think of a boy, who I don't truly
Know, and I wish he'd attended tonight,
Although he was not invited.

I think in depth of social circles,
And of how circles are impenetrable –
They go continuously round with no edges
To break. I begin to realise that
That is the reason you aren't mine,
And never will be. However, can't
Circles overlap? Why should we not be
The arcs that meet? You are not here,
And I wish you were. What would you
Think about me taking a draw,
****, more than one? I said to you
Once that I would not become another
Teenager, another statistic, who inhales.

I guess I lied.

I think of all this –
As they take ***** shots,
And I distract myself from you
For a moment, by asking why
They'd drink it straight.

I am one day older. July 17
My mother has another year
To her name. The sun has risen,
But time is setting – I am
Getting further away from the
Closest thing I had to bliss.

There is something beautiful
And desirable about ignorance,
Something I possessed only as an
Infant, yet I would ****
To hold it once more. **** –
That proves it. Just how far
Am I from those illusive years?

When I was little, nature's
Corpses would be buried with care,
And we would whisper words
To the Earth about who we had lost.
Now, pests are killed by my will,
And handled with disgust.

Yet, I envy them. Their lives,
So easy to dispose of, and mine,
Neverending. But I am the same
As a common moth.
Crush me.

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.

I push those in my life to breaking point –
The personification of a supernova.
Exploding – shedding light on every possible flaw,
Leaving only swirls of debris in my wake.

you're the type of boy
my mother warned me about, and
I worry that you don't love me
when you're sober. in westernized culture,
blue represents sadness, so when
I looked into your eyes for the first time,
I should have foresaw a broken heart.
but, you can mend broken things
with glue - **** it, glue reminds me
of how often you get high.

why do you get delirium,
when you only ever bring me down?

I am the inexperienced poet
Who has loved only a handful of times.

Some would say that I am naive,
But ignorance is bliss, and my life is anything

But blissful. I am the inexperienced poet,
Who knows only of unrequited love.

I am the dark haired girl, who has been
Kissed too few and far apart

To count having been kissed at all.
She loves too quick and falls too hard,

For this she has broken bones and fading scars.
I am the inexperienced poet.

you planted her
in fresh soil, and gave her
water every day.

you cared for her,
you even sang to her, songs
with haunting melodies.

her fingertips were leaves,
and her eyelashes flowered.
her limbs grew branches and
vines grew from her scalp.
she was alive, and it was all
thanks to you. a green haven,
a paradise, of shrubbery and life.

she fought through the seasons,
and continued to grow.
flourishing after the harshest winter,
blooming after a marvelous summer.

you started to forget her water - and
over time, her heart grew weeds,
which she could not sustain.

she was a garden and you were
the water, although, you ceased to rain.

An attack, a swarm
of winged insects against my chest.
A blur, a rush
of colours and defence mechanisms.
Fluttering across my vital organs,
and as sudden as a heart attack.
This inconsistent breathing
is waves crashing at cliffs.
No, not the rock at ground level, but
the sky high stuff.
A paradox.
A person, a girl
who craves human contact, yet
when granted, “fight or flight”
she soars.

I find that the poems I write about you
lack the impressive metaphors and stanzas.
They are less raw, less ******, less bleak,
than the lines I wrote previously.

I find that the poems I write about you
are half empty, or half full. There is a void
in my brain, because I'm not sure
if your eyes are more of a cerulean or a sapphire.

I used to have another "blue eyed wonder,"
although now, in hindsight, I see that
he was not wondrous, he was unexceptional,
and you are more worthy of that title.  

But, my poems are suffering at your ubiquity,
as I cannot find the suitable analogies. And it
makes me question how true we could be.

If I can tell you my innermost feelings in a heartbeat,
is this a sincere, an unfeigned, a dependable love?
Or just another opportunity for me to get hurt?

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.

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.

I used to enjoy being alone,
But then it became loneliness,
And it is somehow suffocating
To lie here personless.

My bedsheets crave your touch,
As I crave your presence,
We are both isolated, but
I am unsure in which sense.

I promised myself months ago that
This pencil would not touch paper,
And write words about you,
(but it's 00:26 and) I can't think of anything better.

you and your
sharp limbs
are somehow
inviting &
all i can say
is that
i really want
to kiss you
kiss you
*******
kiss you
****

you are
stronger
than caffeine
than alcohol
than nicotine
but you run
through my veins
all the same
& i need you
need you i
******* need you

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.

Maybe* Saturn and Jupiter
had a feud, and that is why
Jupiter has the majority
of moons. Maybe Saturn was
misunderstood, with her icy
rings, a difference too great,
causing the moons to tremble
in her presence, spin, rotate.
But, Jupiter could have been
teased, for being too big,
clumsily turning over words.
And Pluto, the spectator,
invisible — for being so small,
short-sighted, but watcher of all.

The solar system reminds us
mere mortals, of how small
our planet is. Yet, we remind
our galaxy that we have
the loudest voices, for our race
could populate the largest
of comets, the smallest suns.
We burn brighter than Venus'
lava, we scream to the velvet sky.

We, the human race,
*own the universe.

She looked at his hands. They were almost translucent, and his blue veins were prominent. It's not that they were grotesque - far from it, in fact. She found them aesthetically pleasing. She wanted to draw them. She wanted to touch them. But she knew she lacked the ability to paint him in all his beauty, protruding bones and all. She knew that no matter how hard she tried, she would never recreate the creases in his skin with the brush. Whichever paint she used, whether it be watercolour or acrylic, she could never do his limbs justice.

He was too far away. He sat on the other side of the maths classroom from her, and it didn't help that she was shortsighted. She could only imagine the details, and join the list of artists who cover white lies in coloured paint.

I think of you in every conscious moment,
so when I lay my head upon my feathered pillow,
I hope not to see you 'til morning.

But you haunt my dreams,
with words you'll never say to me
and kisses I'll never receive.

I long for the affection you give me in my slumber.
I wish I could hate you, you blue eyed wonder.
And how corny but I cannot help it;

I cannot help but wish for the taste of
your chapped lips. And I'll look at you from
the corner of my eye and I'll want to fix your hair,

and shake you 'til you understand
that you send me trundling
into despair.

And why ever have I fallen for you?
Who thought this would be a good idea?

You're an idiot,
(a ridiculously intelligent idiot)

and I hate you  (I love you)
I hate you (I love you).
-- a.c

He doesn't think about you
Before he falls asleep, and
You do not play the starring role
In his dreams. You are dreaming
Of his lips; his eyes; his laugh –
Really, you have only
Seen them through a screen, or
For mere seconds in reality.

He will not notice you,
He will not think about you,
Or love you –

In anywhere but your head.
You are being childish;
You must grow up.
This is not a fairy tale, Cinderella,
You will not go to the ball.
He is Prince Charming, after all.

I shiver in a cape of black
as the sad piano fills my heart,
the empty space that you
created with an artist's hand.

A hand so blue and bony
that holds her every dark morning.
the mist, the fog, the rain,
when did it all get so gloomy?

I cease to remember myself
before you enclosed me
in fantastical fancies,

and I swear to God,
I wish, I wish -
that you ceased to exist.

He always knew how to swim,
was naïve enough to believe
that he could save her from drowning.
He dived a little deeper,
explored terrain that no one
had previously dared to venture.

He became her float –
breathing air from the surface,
yes, but still,
half immersed in water.

He taught her how to swim;
he taught her how to glide;
but in doing so, he sacrificed
the air in his lungs.

She taught him how to sink.

i fall in love with the way your lips form words,
how your tongue dampens your lips so that
your voice doesn’t come through dry.
i fall in love with the way your veins have
spilled across your hands, your warm blood
ebbing towards the surface, oxygenating
your numb structure. your upper lip curls,
and there is a careless trail of stubble,
indicating that you didn’t want to wake today.
your accent isn’t from here, but i find it familiar
all the same. your lullaby-like voice
speaks something funny, and i can feel
a smile tug on the corner of my lips. you could
cease my demons, hush me into a slumber.
you could graze my skin in careless movements,
skimming the surface like a stone on water.
i would welcome you into my humble embrace,
and plant precise kisses on your skin, like
seeds into soil. let them grow, let them bloom,
let us alienate our favored circumstances, and
welcome the possibility of broken bones.
scars tell the best stories,
let us see how this one ends.

I cannot dance -
so, as I watch you play,
I rock from side to side,
in an awkward sway.

I am little -
the smallest girl, in
the sea of people who
contentedly sing.

I am clumsy -
no doubt, you will see
stumbles, close calls,
a graceless girl is she.

holding my hands high,
humming your melodies,
a mind elsewhere
as you sing about jealousy.

I cannot dance -
I have shaky hands,
but I do have
a roll of film, and you
can call the shots.

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

the bitter silky stuff
runs down my throat

caresses the crevices
of my mouth

in a way that feels
both fleeting
and concrete

and i am almost certain
that is how it is to kiss

you

only you

perhaps

all of my previous embraces
have felt transitory
and unimportant
and clumsy

sometimes

i forget that there’s tea
that’s been left
brewing
and cooling
for the last twenty minutes

and yesterday

i saw them together
and almost shouted a greeting
but again
they were fleeting

one of my classes
once revolved
around the concept
of impermanence

it is the only lesson
that’s held importance

perhaps

because
he sat perpendicular
to the wall

and the pain
my neck felt from craning

evaporated

when i’d worried
it never would

i want to run away
from these thoughts
of you, these dreams
of you, away from you

I wake
from a dream of you
with blood streaming
down my face, I can smell
the metal, I can taste it,
and I'm not sure what it means,
I dreamt in scarlet, not rose -
things did not appear
better, they were truthful, if not
a little worse.

My biggest fear
remains the same, I am scared to
lose you, or to even gain you at all,
I have spent every waking minute
daydreaming
and every unconscious one
in the same, untruthful manner,
you are the ripped pages
from my journal,
you are the reason I write
with blue ink instead of black,
you are everything I love
and despise about the human race -
*you are everything.

They said your face lit up
When you saw me in our village today.
Apparently you smiled, and
Your blue eyes illuminated.

They said, the other day,
You looked to the sand, and smiled
When you saw that
I was sitting watching the sea.

They said some things
That I hope to be true, however,
I must be realistic, and avoid
Falling for you.

I am just a metaphor
for everything you're afraid of.

Reaching for your arm in the dark,
My shoes too clumsy for uneven ground,
And me testing your touch.
It was a year ago, now, and I have since
Forgotten the words spoken, unable
To recollect those thoughts, or to
Decipher the look in your eyes.
I will never know if it were deception
Or my own delirium. Misfortune,
I guess, our paths ever did cross.
Here's to us, to what we weren't,
Wouldn't and couldn't have been.
Here's to us, for everything felt anew
I traded blue for green when I met you.