if i were to turn and say
hey dude i ******* hate you, kay?
(well no, of course it isn't true-)
but what d'you reckon you would do?
i'm only wondering because
you act like it'd be no loss
and insecurely, i don't know-
because you sometimes seem as though
either you think i'll never leave
or just don't care what i believe?
i'd like to say i have a line
but no, i'll just sit here and whine
while you sit there, knowing quite well
that i would never ever tell
you that i'm giving up, you see
i think that this means more to me
than you, perhaps, and **** that stings
especially recently, when things
have led your life away from mine
i know it's not your fault; it's fine-
except it's not, because i never
thought that i would have to weather
all my ugly parts alone,
you used to be just down the phone.
i never used to hide from you
and now it seems you want me to-
but i've spent years with my gun down
it's hard to pick it off the ground.

*-maybe i'll close my eyes instead
and un-remember what you said.

it's come again,
just in time for christmas-
bitter weight that makes you want to scream
(you feel strangled by violin chords,
the sun burns but clouds stick in you
throat and choke you- you are
safest in the dark).

block out the stars, God please don't
let them in- they're acid on your eyelids
and they hurt

oh- this nameless monster.
they say it doesn't exist but then what
is this within you, all blunt fangs and
hoovering up your insides
(you're a walking vacuum,
about to collapse in on yourself,
and nobody can see).

She sits on the bottom step but
one with water-wrinkled fingers and
a ring clutched in her hand. Her eyes
spill silently, noiseless rivers down the
seams of her face (she's coming undone, now,
he's gone and she's coming undone).

Faux-smiles in the crush of
Urban escapes through cans of
Cider,
Kings and queens-

You left me behind, and I know you
Owe me nothing, but that doesn't
Undo this hurt.

sometimes I am
overwhelmed by words-
the countless human voices
shouting to be heard. and then they
ask you what you love, and
what you read- and you must
scrabble for the words they
want and need. but all the
great ideas are blurry in your
mind - what really sticks are
those old friends you left behind
amongst the cushions and the
trees you knew when smaller-
the battered books familiar:
easy smiling caller
who knows the way into
your mind so very well, that you
don't have to put your thoughts to
show-and-tell. and all the places
in those stories feel like
home- they are the sea, and
all these new books seem just foam.