Wednesday 18th:
Should I be working?
University at 25 seems
so redundant when I stare
at the soft skinned babes,
who skirt the car park
in drunken bliss.

Should I quit?
Get a job? Maybe retail or
office work.
Some say I could seek stability
between the pages of spreadsheets,
sipping coffee with Susan on the
9-5.

Should I marry?
Set a date? They're all engaged.
Stones glaring back at me
like Polydectes eyes
from Facebook pages.
25 is the 'right age',
or so I've been told.

Should I?
I suppose I could.
Maybe I should. Or I could
perhaps
just do something else.

****** spittle drips from your lips
where once I tasted the proclivity
for hand rolled cigarettes and whiskey;
my saviour incarnate in a stranger’s fist.


I wear your words like welts upon my back,
five lashes, unseen by the eye yet palpable.
Lesions I pick, agape and weeping
like the feeble mouths of infants screaming. 


This was never mine to mourn.
I’m licking your wounds now, your finger in my own;
and back to you again I’m bourne.

They’re pinned to pages.

Their feelings have flown away
with the last flutter of their wings.

In the index we are all in content.

Filling the pages with our individual faces…

***** we’ve all felt before
make it until the pages fold.

Kissing her in the darkness,
as the binder finds pressure between its hinges.

My larva sits in sacks waiting to be hatched.

A protein batch asks for it’s usual back
and cares so much about when it cracks.

It doesn’t think at all about the beauty that's about to be had
more than the flower it rests it’s legs upon,
or the skin of a fruit in its ripened state,
or now the rigamortus that it stills in its deathened wait…

Wait?

The beauty in what?

The obsessed,
as the butterfly net settles gently on top of another victim.

A classic beige villain cups and cards,
jars,
and pokes holes to breath.

The winged beauty is re-confined
in a place of un-metamorphoses.

Crashing into the walls
like any caged animal would.

Settling on a leaf,
while a female flips free in front of the reflections of light that plays on the atmosphere and condensation.

I clip myself and wash chemicals on my figure,
so I’ll never decay.

Suffer the stage with a name
and play the same pose that impresses without rest.

My cloudy eyes would cry if they could,
but they can't.

And all that I hope for now
is that when my counterpart ends
she’s staple to the page across from me,

so when that book is finally closed
we’ll be face to face
and our soulless remains
can finally embrace.

Woven smiles collect
              euthanasia on the ones
who cant voice through
                           desperation.

She collects the ones death,
                     tears upon.
For he pauses where
she shows empathy upon silence.

I.
You walk through these streets
like you think you know what you want.
But tell me honestly,
inside the pockets of your coat
your fingers never uncross,
do they?

II.
I drown you in photographic film
and sometimes I wonder how time
stands still in a painting.
In the middle of the bazaar, you stood
like a painting
while people moved around you
like an overexposed reel of film
and time still stands still to this day

III.
You're coughing it all out; winter
on your lips and spring in your lungs.
Drink me.
I am a tincture of a daydream.
The sun is always brighter, my dear.

IV.
Our hands interlace in the darkness
and melt away with the consequences of time.
You are a bottle of something precious.
Put me to sleep, sing
me to sleep.

V.
Undo the buttons of your dress
and wear away with the night.
Shed this old layer of skin
and something about rebirth
we can tell beautiful lies
but how long before the bread soaks up the milk
and the blood on the carpet
seeps into
the wood.

VI.
The ice on the lake
can't hold up this dream anymore.
You're a hallucination
and all I needed.

Was it ever
about you?

It took me seven years
to realise
the words in my mind
were too deep for
my mouth to dig up
I thought it was easier
to open my skin
and let the truth
pour down my arms

It took me seven years
to realise
nobody should be allowed
to touch parts
of your home
or hold pieces  
of your heart
that you don't yet understand

It took me seven years
to realise
I will wear these scars
forever
I'll carry them
through every smile
every kiss
every concerned gaze
I'll carry them
to my grave

It took me seven years
to realise
the pain carved
into the walls
of my castle
etchings of
attempting to disappear
are not a story of weakness
but a tale of
how I survived