the subtle difference
between
holding a hand
and
chaining a soul

between
burying a self
and
heading from the dead things piled up behind you

leaning
(isn't love)

a transaction
integrity for security
(isn't love either)

kisses are not contracts
presents are not promises

defeat comes into the bar —
—familiar squabbles dizz out the bartender
drunk—young love
burning down onto the dance floor
holding on tightly to that known

O' Captain, my Captain!

treacherous are the roads of the morrow
—its grounds, too unstable for plans
futures have a tendency of falling flat—.

a dulcy dandy melody
that of feet walking past—.

i endure
with the grace of a woman
not the grief of a child

i learn
to take in warm loving arms
my sunken ship
back to shore—

(in love)
The curves of her body
Glisten in the moonlight
As she lies still
Fallen

by the pond
I want to trace them
with my lips
I tell her
she is
exquisite

and her giggle
rings in my ears
little bells
signalling spring

The curves of her body
Glisten
As the first rays of sun

Greet her
she whispers
She is broken
I want to

caress
her wounds
they are deep
dark
unhealed

And as I touch them
We can pretend
She is cured

My words drip like honey
They form a ribbon
With which I wrap her

I insist
She is perfect
How can she not be?

The halo shines iridescent
Above my head
Once gleaming purple
Once pink
Then silver

Through the translucent green
I can see
How it incarcerates me

My skin of porcelain
is wrapped in silk
pastel
pink, ironed
it mustn’t have a crease

I twirl gently,
Gracefully,
Round the pole
Past the
Cumulus

Neon
Lights reflecting
Off my manicured nails

They scream privilege.

T all grapevines entwine with the
O verhead wires and lead to
U nwilling leaves now home to a
G iant green guest with the
H olographic horrifying eyes.

T roubled dreams the bug is dreaming.
I mpossible luck keeps it away from
N earby spider webs and
Y ellow giant villains.

T angled in untangled thoughts of
H orrid dreams of hope
I t sits on its green leaf and is
N ow watching flowers bloom.
G ratefullness swells its tiny heart.

I sit in silence with my mother because how am I meant to say the roots of everything I despise about myself lie at her feet?
That I've learnt to refuse to let her make me feel shame and guilt for eating?
That to this day I look at my body and hear the echos of insults she hurled at eight year old me about the
fat on my hips,
their dips and dimples?
That my partners hands caress that same flesh
and she kisses away my hatred?

I sit in silence with my mother because she doesn't talk, she shouts
out of anger at the cage she's in.
And in her volume I hear the echos of everything she's been unable to achieve,
all her hopes and dreams cruches by pre-conceived ideas of femininity and society's prying eye?
Can never ask why she allowed herself to be chained, and silenced.
Why her present is only half the shadow of her past.

I sit in silence with my mother because how can I say everything I take pride in is what she hates most about me?
That my sexuality is not a choice, but I've chosen that label and I treasure it?
That femininity to me is hair where I can see it,
swearing when people can hear,
and unapoligetically taking up space others would rather I vacate?
That my rejection of faith isn't a reflection of her,
but rather proof she raised someone who learnt to challenge before they accept?
That I'm strong and resiliant

but still soft around the edge?

As his limbs stroked along the bottom
with all the power he held, in slow motion,
there was a case to be made
for the existence of the magical and the occult.
Kaleidoscope webs covered his back
in what looked like infinite rainbow nets
each brushing against a bone or muscle
unseen in the plain light before.
His hair was softened by the absence of air,
each strand fainting at a different angle
begging to be touched
right before being pulled in one direction
of precise yet strenuous motion.
All neglected now was illuminated.
Rarely things burn their way into memory
the way a face can be filtered through transparency,
distorted by liquid out of proportion
yet still so charmingly calm and surreal
all you can do is look away
and then stare again.
And what bottomless greed it is indeed
to wish to posses a moment like this for eternity.

I could swear I felt the sting,
as you injected yourself in my bloodstream.
In my defence,
I was high for the most of it.
I was drunk on all of that
your sparkly wings offered back.
And your melancholic gaze
I've only seen in fiction since.
I'll admit to my arrogance
to assume parasites were mostly worms,
when I know there are still songs
about pretty, magic, folk.
And I can feel myself both host and feast,
and all you see is just a treat.
And if I had soul, it's now ablaze,
and now all I do is waste my days.
And at this point in space and time,
your words occupy my mind.