not only are you my favorite love,
you are also my only love;
let me explain:

the only love that I want to participate in,
the only love that I want to share,
the only love that I can see and feel
and the only love I feel no absence in when you're not there

you're the only love who has taught me how...
your love thought me how to be,
who to be,
how to love others back,
how to feel confident,
and how to stay in the present.

your love is my beating heart
and I don't want it any other way,
my only love

The stress made me relapse.
the day after new years eve,
i relapsed.
i broke my four months streak.
It didn't feel bad, or disappointing.
i didn't even feel guilt.
now I feel guilty for not feeling guilt.
But it was so good.
I relapsed two days into 2025.
and I knew it was coming.
having never been clean for that long before,
i knew I would come back to it.
it's my safe place, the pain, the punishment.

I want to get worse and to f*ck myself up and I want people to not know about anything until it's too late, until I am done, until it's over.

I lay alone in my bed
fireworks over my head
secret wishes, quiet prayers
another year to be a surviver

the afters
scattered at ankle height.
bodies and turkeys and bottles
litter the 26th midday.
you’re still not here,
Saint Nick. Last year I drove you
to the north
but you said I couldn’t stay. duty called
& you wanted Christmas
with another loved one.

so I left my flat at midnight
with sweetness in my hands
raised;
to the sky watching
for a red light streaking unashamedly,
but the front of the doorstep
was not
darkened by a jolly frame.

the snow
withheld at cloud height.
maybe 8 billion people means
overtime.
maybe a no show means
it’s over time.
and writing a letter 9 hours after
you put the reins down
seems a bit desperate, don’t you think, Saint Nick?

the not days to new years
rupture at heart height.
the workshop’s shut, elves on annual leave. Loving like this means waiting
on an 11 month reprieve.
now the fireworks have started
Auld lang syne sung
but my arms hold the departed,
Saint Nick, perhaps is done.

so now im waiting
for another ** ** ***
and maybe
this one won’t love me enough
also.

If I state I’m going to do something
then don’t, as often happens,
then I’ve planted a ***** seed
that’ll grow into a choking vine,
not free, or wise

So dark January resolutions
might help Calvinists,
or masochists, or both,
but for the rest of us
comfort in our skins is better

I have no preach for you
to do this: just listen

Your own heart cries and sings
all day, every day
and you will beat yourself
far harder, over cheese and *****,
than anyone who loves you would

So go inward a while and think,
and even if your conclusions
don’t match the zeitgeist,
love you, as we do

First footing towards
what could be bridge or precipice,
hard to tell in the usual mists
of another spin round the sun

The groundhog sting
has left us wary of what’s to come:
with an alphabet begun
how many masks need to be worn
before omega calls?

But the sun is shining
and it’s abnormally warm,
so that’s good,
isn’t it?

call me darling one more time
and i will run right to you
throw myself into your arms
and betwixt our laced fingers
and flittering glances
shall give you a kiss so heavenly
you won’t be able to forget me

hr.

The wan light might be tired
but it tries to shine

In this kind of darkness,
this is fine