I read you the children's storybooks that your parents sold
and buy you marbles like your old collection
(that one day was no longer there) and
we will sit craning our necks, healing our hearts

we can do arts and crafts projects
(and this time they will be hung up on the fridge)
and I'll double check your room for monsters
and your music box for pills

you have been compressed, ashamedly
for far too long
scoffed at and eyes rolled
if heads do

you are free now, protected and proud
you are safe and sound
join hands, and know that
these new planes of vulnerability keep you strong.

I wonder when it was that we really met
was it when he first lied to me
or the time I tried to jump out the two story window at 5 years old

was it when I first felt the bugs crawl beneath my skin as you touched me
no longer sparks flying but an electrocution without the quick death

perhaps when my dad spat that he was ashamed of me
and my mum said he wanted me out of his sight
off of his site
“get off of those sites”

when I locked myself in the shed at 6
I screamed and cried
not wolf, but Rapunzel
climb up my hair, rip it out of my head and

now it is 12 years later and I don’t cry to be let out
I cry to be let gogh
and drink paint and drink paint andrink p ain’t
it silly?

if only you were looked after

grin penetrating my mind and your touch - your grab - sewn into my side
sinking as a summer without fin(n)s drowning in your baby blues,
boy
and fooling myself into early christmas hollyboughs? go-lightly on me, oh please!
A ****** bisou beneath mistletoe
with curled toes and auroral, idolising eyes
fantasising eyes
overall, decriminalising eyes
Annie excuse at (H)all to see you and
re
-vive (mes soins, votre sécurité)
-kindle (the ignition to my inspiration)
-pair (poles apart)
a pair in the most offensive of ways
my only vice is cleansing yours
but your sins or psyche?
am i wounded or warming?
my truly fatal frailty

it rained today
the thunder reminded me of when i lay next to you and listened to the sound of your heartbeat in the ironic dead-silence
the flash of lightning reminded me of the spark that once glistened in your soft, brown orbs
the damp but comforting smell reminded me of your taste
the rain trailing down my window mimicked the tears that once stained my cheeks

it rained today
the rain reminds me so much of you
probably since when you left me I was as if debris ruins after a storm

i have loved you in dirt
in bathroom stalls
bathroom stalls
their tainted toilets overflowing
clogged like our throats choking on our sinful words

words? thoughts

thoughts behind iron snags
but in the wake of your mind it nagged
rusted as the levels rise, but tough as my once adamantine heart
brass bound, you left me molten, explosive and fiery
vibrant with passion

for you

in mirrors
mirrors
wide eyes and nose bleeds
to finally feel comfortable enough to BREATHE
each others air
venom in our veins
to know the other even cares
once breathless over you, now blowbacks in the damp
mud-stained jeans, lipstick stained necks
i have loved you in dirt

the greens
the forests
the difference of twelve months
the difference of a year, three months and a day
39,657,600
or 9420 seconds
11 or
6525 miles apart
two year anni-void-sary
‘skin to skin bonding’
but not how you’d think

loving you in dirt-
y, ***** girl

Papier-mâché skin held up by toothpick bones.
Composed of dainty flowers,
Paired with eggshell tiptoes

Used for skipping and prancing –
Prim, proper, polished
And petite, satin-gloved hands

To scrub the dishes with
Till unblemished to mirror you back, from inside out –
Purged, chaste, elegant.

Fragile.

But papier-mâché has layers of depth and
Skin thicker than at surface it seems.
Toothpicks can pick up the pieces

Of each hiccup or calamity,
Regardless of how small
And despite their size they’re not weak at all,

But, piercing.
Those eggshells shield and yield
The precious prosper of young.

Who’s to say you’re no cactus,
And not just some flimsy petal –
But you can bet you’re just as sweet.

We are composed of the iron
That presses your clothes.
Nip

Like the scorching tea served
On china platters.
Our rosé lips are pursed

Not to kiss, or gloss for backwards fairytales
‘Prince Charming’ turned frogs
But in revolt.

And revolt we will.

Before I met you, I was a sapling -
But since then, I've grown.
And now that my branches have grown,
I'm closer to you than ever before.
And sometimes, my leaves,
Like fingertips,
Graze your matured bark in the breeze,
The same as when I timidly brushed against your thigh,

But, you are blooming with intimidating velocity
And I am wishfully thinking.

Because, to you,
I will always be that sapling,
And even though our branches may be at reach
They will always have to stretch to be together.
For our roots are anchored
Ever so deep in the ground
And there will always be that inescapable, heartbreaking space
Between our hopeless, tree trunk bodies.

My rusty chains yelp and squawk
Shrill, yet somehow on the verge of becoming monotonous
So far, weary from humdrum-ly swaying
Presently induced alone by Nature’s bitter, raw sighs
Bound to this
Bastille of a rotting exterior
Eventually decrepit, at first, from use
Now merely deteriorating as of neglect

Once-stimulating summers fade
Into seemingly sempiternal November evenings
Dejected and funereal
Echoing the nostalgic meandering trumpets that once coiled
The lengths of my now cadaverous frame—
Their blue blossoms left timid and etiolated
Reflecting the ghostly, lilac hues of an insomniacs raccoon-like eyes
And brittle, wispy veins begin to dilapidate

I yearn
For a sudden rekindling
Reminiscing
About memories only I can keep alive
For the exploiters I was dependent on,
Like the withered azure trumpets used upon a time, have bloomed
Yet I still stoically anticipate their return

I pine for their sun-kissed skin graced in airy cottons
Their thrilled shrieks drowning those of my (less electric) fraying chains
Recollections of their highs juxtaposed with my low
My faith, my only zeal