i am ignited,
flames of fear lapping at my feet.
i try to cry out, to ask for help
but ash fills my mouth.
bitter,
much like my regard for myself.
mind made of matches, i am my own arsonist.

like a boiling lobster,
i don't feel it coming,
i dont see it
before it
hits

Bitten blooded flesh;
Proof of the demon in her head
that gnawed away,
Stealing days like takeaway cups
filled to the brim with saucy sin,
seven layers of deceit.

I imagine
our bodies breathing,
sun streaming,
crickets screaming
(as they do).

You play with my hair
as we breathe in the humid air,
watch shadows of birds that
wallow and dip, and
my forehead meets your lips.

Laughter in my ear
chests pulled near
and you mutter sleepily,
“I wish we could just stay here,”
(forever).

Wash me clean of this feeling,
left over from a frost, half thawed.
I am slow and clunky
tension and heavy
my head is empty, but

there’s so much pressure.
Building up, holding itself up.
Let the pressure break,
water me into serenity.

You’re going back,
stumbling into the day you said good-bye.
Tears, thick and fast
with soupy air to drag you down and no way out.

Fall is tumbling
into the rabbit hole you peeked into,
a gentle, knowing push…
a push nonetheless, sealed with a kiss.

Then winter seeps in,
brittle and thin, the unforgiving ticking
of a broken clock sleeping.
So you freeze, and time sleeps with you.

But winter breaks,
with sweet air filling my lungs.
Those traitorous sacks,
why didn’t you let me breathe in before?

it’s a cinch, really

just yanking the duvet
back over yourself

shunning
the what-could-be-fun

or actually-might-not-be
best-to-stay-in

and that mist
how it loves to slither up

silver venom
sour headache

eyeless demon
eyeing you up

for a laugh
a ripple of giggles

in your ears
a squall of cymbals

ugly vowel-less
torrent of speech

a red light
****** iris

blinks across the shore
enough for you to bathe

in blue
confused puppet

lists of missed-outs
and the trash

you opted for instead

I am a slave to change.
Eager to finish self construction.
The cobs of familiarity tighten
As I long to breathe fresh air.
Nervousness invites itself.
What part of me will die, transform?
And which part of me will hunger and be born?

Slowly I am becoming
the woman with the same name.
The one who is sung to endlessly
in different melodies and languages.
Loved passionately and missed dearly.

‘Incorporate music’
But how when there’s no structure to the cacophony you’ve conceived?
No cadence,
imperfect or otherwise,
to resolve the constant clashing,
the bashing,
of keys in your head that won’t silence.

Is this violent dissonance tuneful to those who aren’t the instrument?