i have words inside of me
and i can’t say
any of them.
i don’t even know
what they are.
what happened to my voice?
it feels like it’s been a while
since i had something to say.
living underwater, living like a corpse.
i wake up and then go back to sleep
because “awake” is not “autopilot”.

why am i so tired?

I spill over my skin
So messy, so messy
I am a puddle
You are a stone.

As you 𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒉
Into me,
It ripples my entire
𝒇𝒂𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒄 𝖔𝖋 𝕓𝕖𝕚𝕟𝕘
All while you can’t
𝓕𝓮𝓮𝓵 𝓪 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰

I'm but a scattered pigment
On the wall, on the ceiling, on the floor
I stained everything I touch or hold
Neither you nor them could easily get a grasp
'Cause I'll just slip through your fingers' gap

I'm but a messy art
A masterpiece by a frustrated god.

her hair was messy in an artfully, mesmerising way
she had an accidental class that she was not aware of possessing
she would answer your questions in a way that kept you guessing
when she would speak
she would make you believe
that she created language in the time that she had free
her hair was messy in an artfully, mesmerising way

Hindsight, hallowed be thy name.

All I've got is luggage... luggage!
My God! Turn around; find my comrades slumped under the weights strapped to their spine!
Limping, bearing, burdened by non-negotiables while the High Court of Good Karma takes collective sabbatical —
and this knapsack of shame, I've partial credit in filling.

Grey handkerchief, original sin:
one. single. suckerpunch. and my fists are raised forever,
begging for the chance to swing and prove my own strength
— supposing the opportunity never fell into my lap — I'd said "**** it," packed a

hundred grams of bushy brushed-out curls, stop-sign red
fifty grams of lips to match (uniform too, now I think about it)
fifty grams of raccoon eyelids and coloured-in brows
hundred grams of halls of mirrors, circus-attraction Alice
lose a hundred/gain a hundred/repeat til dizzy
hundred grams of ******-in stomach, eyes averted in changing rooms
wigs by the armful — that's three — nom-de-plumes thrown in gratis
(it's only a journey to the rest of my life anyway, I'll need them,
alternative being cinematic debut as Myself)
hundred performances to imaginary audiences, less-than-stellar reviews
hundred grams of overwhelming then underwhelming "on purpose"
hundred grams of laughing off any belief in potential
hundred grams of scratch-marks and verbal fountains of venom
hundred grams of giving almostneverquite as good as I got
hundred grams of group-work alone thank ****(?)
hundred biro-holes stabbed in martyred pencil cases
feral in broad daylight spoiling for a fight
kilo of aiming for 'scary' and landing on 'strange'
kilo of being third to make good company a crowd
kilo of taking sixteen years to find Her
— Shadowboxer Fiona, rhythms invisible, catharsis in art —
hundred doodled superstitious evil-eyes in the ruled margins
hundred laments over the inability to provide a better future

(removed one by one whenever I think the future's mutable)

that one glimpse of white lightning in a violet storm
one single minute's pause to look over my shoulder
scarce-to-zero progress made
endless miles to go
breathless body soaked to the bone
and this useless! *******! bag! of Everything and nothing of value!!
mansions worth of loathing yet there's nothing to lose
did I decide that because I can't change the world, I can change nothing at all
(instead throwing darts at reflections/emotional *****/kicking stray dogs as a full-time hobby)?

O clarity so saccharine that I cannot be angered by the wasted years
only because THERE ARE MORE TO COME
I take it
   off my shoulder,
the first kind action I have spared myself in time unguessable
empty
     the
        contents...
   really
    air it out...
and trudge on
    unaccompanied.
The world's enough of an uphill climb.