i want you to tell me i’m beautiful, every day until i believe it. the truth is i was never beautiful, not until you said it, until you lied about it. i felt something when you said those words, something i’ve never been before. i’m different after you and i don’t know how to go back to being who i was.

god, i forgot how much i loved you until i was with you again. until i felt your fingers drawing me closer to you, your breath on my lips, hot on my pale ghost skin, your voice whispering words in the language you made just for us to understand. there are galaxies hidden in the space behind your ribs, i can feel them with each inhale you exhale, taste them in the back of your throat. your thumb traces circles across my hand, like rings around saturn, and you know i revolve around you like that too. you are planet earth and i am the moon, you are beautiful and i will only ever shine for you.

i fall asleep in the a.m. hours with my necklace holding my veins together, tight enough to remind me of your fingers interlocking in the very same place.

good morning kisses
goodnight kisses
kisses to taste the cinnamon on your lips
happy kisses
middle of the night kisses
gentle kisses
kisses because i like you
sleepy kisses
movie theatre kisses
oh god we're in an elevator by ourselves kisses
the stolen kind of kisses
kisses because you're too cute
wake up and see you and think you're the best person ever kisses
kisses just because

i sit here in tomorrow,
as you lay there in yesterday.

my first
a lion inside a boy
a full moon (i thought you gave off light; you only reflected mine)
a breathless english winter, pale and icy
an explorer of collar bones and thighs and shoulder blades
my love, my life
the loveliest flower, or perhaps an entire garden
a time traveller (you showed me the world at 5.30am)
a stupid teenage boy
july 28th to november 4th
a semicolon - a story to be continued;

i wrote about last night's dream on a torn page from my notebook in the middle of spanish class, then you called me for 3 hours and i read it aloud for you, it was hilarious the crude rushed way i'd written about taking you in my hands and kissing your body parts, putting them in my mouth, how can i make it sound pretty, a ******* is always a *******
and your friend accidentally saw the ***** things i'd said to you in italian in the history of your google translate and
you and i we laughed about that for hours

i remember lying down with you on top of me and you pressed your palm in the space between my *******, pushing your weight on my breast bone, and i breathed deep and told you ‘don’t do that’ because you were too close to my heart.

"do you wanna do something?"
"of course."
"like what?"
"let's start walking and see where our feet take us."
"sounds good."
she slipped on her boots and planted a kiss on my forehead as i tied her laces with a double knot. her hand found it's way to mine and we waited for the click as she closed her apartment door behind us. she wiggled the ****: locked. the keys jingled as she tucked them inside her shoes, creating music with every step.
"come on feet," she said, as we ran down the stairs. we both looked to our shoes. "take us somewhere special."

i took a polaroid photo to give to you but it came out blank and i feel like that’s us; a shot taken and still nothing.

won’t you keep my photograph in the pocket of your ripped jeans, tucked in tight and close so you can always hold me?

subway
ed sheeran, especially give me love, our ******* wedding song
black and white photos
england, you wanted to show me everywhere
6"2'
the fault in our stars
always
italian, why did you even feel the need to say ti amo
*****, you were drunk when you said it the second time
5.30am
scars on people's wrists, don't be silly, you said it was an accident
collar bones
tumblr
dreams, the good ones were mine, the bad ones were yours
voice recordings
11.11 wishes, the ones you promised you'd help make come true
the word ****
succulents, like on your windowsill
bastille and cars, you would always sing along in the passenger seat
postcards
airport and train station reunions
all those songs i played just for you on my guitar
my sister's birthday, why did you have to choose that date
you're perfect for me, you swore you weren't a liar
***
the anne frank house, where you were ******* texting me from
february 26th
melbourne's federation square
your name was in a movie and i started to cry

each time you kiss me in unknown and untouched places, like the backs of my knees, the curve in my spine, the flesh behind my ear, the insides of my ankles; each time you run your fingernails down the expanse of my stomach, across my arms and the curves of my thighs; each time your tongue marks dates and times and places and memories onto my fingertips, and cheekbones, and *******; each time you drag a pen over my skin, drawing hearts and flowers and guitars, tattooing phrases and numbers counting down the days and hours to this and that; each time, you add a poem to my body.

i emptied myself of tears, ran my veins dry of blood, and etched mindless scribbles into my head in an ink so dark that your face disappeared. i reached out to touch you in the black but you were never in reach, separated by borders both invisible and tangible. wanting your lips on mine, i murmured, stay with me, and wondered why you wouldn't.
only after did i notice the horror on your face; the bruises in the shapes of my palms on your chest, the shadow of my fingers lacing a cage over your heart; the words i'd carved into my own skin, an endless taunt begging you to go away, but it wasn't you who i wanted to leave, it was the monster inside of me.

the day in the park when you told me you loved me i noticed things that i never noticed before. your hair looked darker than usual and i ran my fingers through it almost absent-mindedly, a quick action that happened before i could process it. my fingertips came back wet.
saturday morning and clearly straight from the shower you smelt of deodorant, that lovely boy smell, of something fresh and clean but with the hint of sweat already from the walk over here which made me wonder why you ever even bothered with showers, when i liked the ***** sweatiness of your skin more than anything.
spring was sprung, flowers everywhere, the council gardeners pruning and weeding every afternoon when i wandered this way after school, but blissfully absent this morning, you and i lone lovers on a lark.
i noticed the dandelions were swaying, how picturesque, us in that strange place between friends and more, and the grass wet and dewy beneath our feet, rose bushes lining the path. but we strayed from that path, we did. you stole my hand and we started running, you raucous and wild, a lion inside a boy, and me, following and cautious but laughing.
there was this lovely weeping willow, the branches dangling gorgeous leaves, sweeping the ground, a curtain of green which you parted and brushed aside like the way you sometimes brush my hair from my face. under that weeping willow things happened.
“i can’t deny it,” you said. you said, as you touched my hair and my face and no other part of me, so intimate and courageous with my heart beating faster than any other saturday morning. “i can’t deny the fact that i love you,” and you were pushing me back as you stepped forward, little nudges in the hip and the shoulder and then maybe just hard enough to leave a bruise you pushed me against the trunk of the tree. as steady as i was weak.
i checked later, at home, safe in my bedroom with the curtains closed, in the almost dark i pulled off my shirt and checked, and yes you did, you did leave a bruise, but it was not as painful nor as potent as when you finally finally finally kissed me, your lips air as i was drowning, against that weeping willow with your hands finally finally finally on my waist and stomach and *******, and the fire you started in my heart as stupid as it sounds that has not and will not burn out, the pain of having to leave you at my doorstep and waiting until the next time you could relinquish my need, and now after we’re broken up the pain of not knowing if i’ll ever feel those lips again.
the bruises on my skin do not even begin to rival the internal bruising of that first kiss.

it was the city we talked about in those long nights when we had nothing to say, lying in your bed and memorising the way the dark painted shadows across our cheekbones and jaws. melbourne, you would whisper.
a city far away and cultured and quaint and brimming with old buildings and trams and coffee houses and american things like seven-elevens and starbucks.
it was different being there with you. much more different being there without you.

with his breath on my neck, his brown italian eyes exploring my body, he whispered, "i want to educate you, physically and mentally," and i shivered, a whole body shudder, longing and lusting, wanting him to take me by the hand and show me the way.

in your backyard, a summer evening, daylight dropping low behind clouds and trees on the horizon, and light from the kitchen window illuminating a slanted square of freshly cut lawn. you and i, we drew as far back from your house with your parents and the rest of the world as we could, hidden in the far corners where we couldn’t be seen, leaning against the fence and smoking cigarettes amongst your mum’s rosebushes. this is where we liked it. this is where we filled fancy glasses and sipped stolen champagne - or you sipped and i quietly poured most of it into the garden, wondering how much wine it would take before it started killing the plants - and contemplated what we’d do with the rest of our days.
i had some ideas, and they all included you.

stay on the phone until i fall asleep to the sound of your voice
message me at 2am saying you miss me and can't sleep
bundle me in your arms to keep me warm and when that isn't enough,
hold me in your sweater and coat too
buy me cigarettes even though you hate the fact that i smoke
let me fall asleep in your lap
call me when we're both busy to say 'this reminded me of you'
take me on a date to a 24/7 mcdonald's when the place is empty at 3am
don't let go even when my hands are sweaty
keep your ******* promises

the sky over london
fingertips in a dark theatre
vintage clothing
november 19 - 22
a starbucks double-shot macchiato
the taste of toothpaste
canada
the sadness of missing the 7.30am snow
an empty hotel corridor
secret ***
a reflection (in a camera lens, the windows of the metro, the mirror opposite your bed)
old style rap
a hand to hold in an ice-skating rink
a sad boy
the only ******* thing i can think of

it's hard to find myself in the hours of the a.m. if i look in your arms i won't be there, my place already filled by a prettier girl with your british accent and my straight teeth. shadows in the doorway scare me back to sleep where i dream of our old text messages and how you wanted to kiss me and you were 'just saying' it but never actually got the chance to.

you were leaning against the frame of your back door, backlit and beautiful with the setting summer sun casting shadows on your face. i felt so alive in that moment, with the days stretching before us, and the countless days behind us, the ones we'd already blazed a trail through. i could remember the feel of your smile on mine from the night before and wondered if you would do it again. the stars were not on my mind at all; why would they be when you were looking at me like that and your jawline told stories of long nights past and i could smell strawberries in the air?

a week before my birthday i told you i was turning sixteen and i invited you to my party that saturday night but here we are a month later and i asked you 'why didn't you say happy birthday to me' and you were distraught and genuine when you asked 'what when was it?', the answer you should have known, you used to know because we found out this fact about each other at 5am last october, the answer 'the 14th of june' and your lame 'i didn't know!' and the coincidence is the clock just ticked 12am and now it's the 14th of july and you're apologising over and over for not making the worst birthday ever any better.

my best friend is ******* boys she’s never met before because i abandoned her to find myself in a country where i know nothing about anything

there's something in these long rainy afternoons, laying naked beneath the sheets alone with wandering hands   in an empty house that echoes with my moans and i love the excitement of leaving the windows open so my neighbours can hear that i'm not entirely joyless without you
i'm so lonely i would **** myself on the porch just for a little bit of attention , like a glance off the street from a stranger could ever equal the look of intensity in your eyes as you ****** between my thighs
my fingers taste how i remembered yours each night, a taste of skin and sweat and *** , i miss the way you felt on my tongue how you made me feel powerful and good as every drop rolled wet down my throat

those sour japanese lollies you mailed to me tore my mouth up with ulcers, but still they could never treat me as roughly as you

a song. “400 lux,” you said. “lorde.”
i nodded. i knew it. i loved it.
we’re never done with killing time, can i **** it with you?
first driving so slow, creeping through the dark suburban roads, the car’s headlights sweeping over front lawns and pale bitumen, breaking through the shadows from the trees on the nature strips.
then driving fast, on the highway, on the overtaking lane all the way to the city, where we wander aimlessly street by street for a long time but it’s really only an hour or so.
and then where we crash - a cosy little coffee shop with dim lighting and low seats - open twenty-four hours and the perfect place for you and me and other people like us, because there are others like us, i know it. i see them in the passing windows of crawling cars and across the cafe at two thirty am when i’m sipping my hot chocolate and holding your hand over the coffee table.
“do you ever yell at people ‘i want to *******’ but like in your head?” you asked.
i tilted my head and nodded a little.
you nodded too, leaning back in your seat relieved. “yeah. good. me too.”
and so it goes.

you don't understand.
the thought of your eyes on me is what keeps me up at night.
i want you to ask me on a date to mcdonald's.
it's okay, i know you don't really love me.
i'm terrified you'll leave when you realise how awful i am.
everything i've told you has been truth.
can i kiss you in the back row of the cinema?
nine months is a long time.
you only love me because you have to.
even though i ask, i don't want to hear you talk about her.
one day you'll see i'm not as perfect as you thought.
i know you will keep absolutely none of your promises.
i love you more than you can ever realise and that makes me so sad.
perhaps you are the reason i am still alive.

why am i taking song suggestions from a boy who doesn't play any instruments and thinks my favourite music sounds 'cheap'

you are so ******* attractive and it annoys the hell out of me.

i hate that we've been together so long without being able to call you my boyfriend
i hate how you never smile in photos, and the way you wear blue shirts that bring out the colour of your eyes
i hate the fact you think i'm beautiful when you've never really seen me
i hate how you call me at 3am and insist you're not drunk, and pretend it was an accident when you call me sober
i hate that you don't ask how my day was or what my favourite season is or if i like your hair like that
i hate when we don't talk for weeks and suddenly you miss me
i hate how you forget the name of my favourite song but remember the day we met
i hate that you promised your grandma you wouldn't smoke anymore but brag about your drugs to me
i hate how much i hate you, but that i have to, because the dumb truth is i love you, and
i hate how after all this time you still don't love me

i’m seeing the 1975 tonight without you and i am thinking of all the times we talked about this, how i’d buy you a concert ticket if you bought a plane ticket and you said ‘you don’t understand how perfect that would be’ but i do i ******* do and now i have to trust myself not to get lost in the cheering crowd of the mosh pit without your arms there to pull me to safety.

flowers
daisies in particular
really colourful nice-smelling flower shops
hot jam doughnuts
licking cinnamon off of your lips and skin and fingertips
going on adventures
the feeling when you are so afraid but honestly don't give a ****
driving in the early morning
driving at night
watching you drive
kissing you at the stoplights
kissing you
kissing
you

i can see it, a small town on the west coast, not a far drive out of perth, and a tiny little house that’s plenty enough room for the two of us . a wide open verandah and the big windows always open , the salt smell of the ocean drifting on the breeze and all the floral scents of the garden - which is messy but well loved; tall sunflowers ***** between patches of strawberries, endless carrot stalks, iceberg lettuce in the winter, little bushes of tommy toe tomatoes and thyme all year round, an accidental pumpkin patch thriving from a few random seeds left in the compost. a bed like the one we first made love in, memories of that pretty white queen mattress, but it didn’t stay stainless for long -  modest jobs for the both of us, i’d happily spend my days waiting tables by the beach and making coffee for the locals , eclectic and friendly aussies - that spirit can’t be found overseas, that accent will always sound like home - and then to come home to that cosy little bungalow by the beach and cook new foods every night, mostly a disaster but always fun, a mix of all the vegetables from the garden , whatever is in season and we can eat it outside while the sun sets on the day and you compare my eyes to the water of the coast while yours are more like the sky on a cloudy day and i remember how you always said our kids would have ‘the ocean in their eyes’  and  our hunger left unfulfilled after dinner we’ll make a meal out of each other  let’s make love all night  every night  until one day nine months later we may find ourselves blessed with a third pair of eyes to observe the blissful life we’ve created for ourselves in this town  far away from everything we’ve known just comfortable and safe and happy with something physical now to hold us together for a year and 18 more and the rest of forever

we made a resolution with our heads bent close together in the fading dusk and danger zone of parked cars on a highway. a pact and a promise we'd keep. we put our pinkies together as a shake that meant yes, always. always. silly and stupid is who we were, leaning past the steering wheel and the straps of our seat belts to find that spot in my neck.

i keep my window open at night to feel the breeze blow my hair across the pillow and tilt my head back to look at the stars. it always starts me crying because the night sky is so big and beautiful and because somewhere across the world your time catches up with mine while i am sleeping and because you may be looking at the same patch of stars as i am and that is crazy beautiful. i wonder if you look at them and think of me or if you can't even see them in your suburban block and you don't care anyway because you're too busy looking at the sparkle in her eyes to notice those distant specks of light.

i'm not even pretty but my voice reeks of *** and my fingertips leave stains on everyone i touch
they can't forget me
can't live without me

'can you hear me?'
'yeah, can you hear me?'
'yeah.'
'okay.'
'okay.'
-giggling-
'okay.'
'oh my god, stop flirting with me!'
-more giggling-
'are you there?'
'yeah.'
'okay'.
'okay.'
etc.

i had a dream where a girl ate me out and then we smoked **** - or maybe it was the other way around - and it was almost good enough to convince myself to catch a train to see a boy living 3 hours away so we could finish what we started

the night he told me he loved me, he held me in his arms and said, "are you crying?" as he surrounded my shaky body, and i told him, "no, i just really do ******* love you, too."

dew drops and sprinkler smells flood the streets, and us here, in your backyard, naked together and hidden from view, laughing and trying hard not to, keep it down, ssh, ssh, be quiet, do you want them to find us? no, god, no. if they found us touching each other like this, wet against the morning grass… it’s okay, that lawnmower is louder than us, they won’t find us. my head dizzy with your mum’s roses and daffodils and gardenias and tulips and chrysanthemums and the odd sunflower or too, lost in all that colour, dizzy with being so close, so intimate like this, and even though we’re in all this colour, all i want to see is the translucent touch of your pale skin on mine.

I love him  I do  just not in a true love sort of way  in a way where I understand I will love other people and he is my first and therefore precious but I’m terrified of one day not loving him because there is so much doubt when you’re 18 and leaving home for the big city with a heart that’s always been treated nicely  and there’s a sort of fear in the way boys tend to step on young girls and laugh over the harsh crunching sound underfoot  like a crisp leaf in the autumn  tender until the cold front  I love him and I’m terrified of never finding someone who will love me the  way  he  has  even despite the flaws and lacks and losses  where can I find a boy so genuine and innocent  who’s never tasted the skin of another girl under his tongue and looks into my eyes with the passion and lust and  overwhelming beauty in which he fastens his cloudy sky coloured irises onto my two oceans
where can I find a heart so willing to wait  with patience  for his to beat in sync with mine

drunk text me. text me when the music is loud and there are girls dancing around you and you’re not quite coherent and you’re not quite yourself. drunk text me that you love me or that you miss me or that i’m on your mind. let the alcohol tell me all the things you won’t say sober.

“goodnight,” your kiss says, our skin pale and lips red.
“don’t,” i say. “don’t go.”
you smile into my mouth because you don’t want to.
our night-time habits are ******* with our heads. it’s hard to tell now, when we’re still trying to impress each other with magic tricks and hidden knowledge and by tattooing flowers and words onto each other’s skin, but in the morning, when we’re squinting in the too-bright light of the school hallways and sarcasm can only be emitted through minuscule sighs and shakes of the head, it comes creeping back.
we exist only in the night.

out in the lobby, standing around, breathing in that familiar smell of cinema popcorn, different to the kind you put in the microwave for two minutes and watch spin around in the heat. we were watching people coming and going, the nighttime inhabitants streaming in for the late-movie - even later than ours - and me just wanting to turn around, disappear with you and go back into that dark and quiet space of cinema four where your hands couldn’t keep off my skin and nothing else existed. it seemed better, then, better than walking out from our date-that-wasn’t-really-a-date and facing the cold, facing our inevitable goodbye where i didn’t know if you were going to kiss me or even if i wanted you to kiss me, facing my friends with all their probing questions, facing my parents when i get home, and then, of course, the long and lonely wait until tomorrow when you’ll pick me up in your car in the morning and i’ll struggle, not knowing if it’s okay to call you my boyfriend and if i myself am now a girlfriend.

i have a a cd of my favourite songs ('thinking of you' the very first on the album) wrapped in christmas paper, a present i never ended up mailing. a burned dvd of my dance concert (do you have any videos of you? you had asked) buried beneath a pile of books in my bedroom, patiently waiting to be given to you. there's a succulent on my windowsill, basking in the sunlight, facing towards the road, seeking your presence, your nurturing touch (you will never hold it's soil between your fingertips). i wrote a letter a month ago and never addressed it.
a plane ticket lies in my waste basket, ripped in a thousand pieces (much like my heart) in a moment of bitter rage. you don't know that, though. i bet you're waiting in england, kicking yourself for giving me such a hopeful present when i never gave you a thing (i never got the chance to).

"i'm so bored with it all," winston churchill said, before slipping into a coma and dying nine days later.

how much is it okay to sacrifice to be with the one you love?

i can't find prettiness in his face anymore,
my phone storage is full so i deleted your saved selfies from my camera roll. i wish that one photo of us had never been taken at that party, where our heads rest on each other and i'm smiling like an idiot because everything was so simple with you
i hate you for trusting me. you're a ******* fool if you think people change, i haven't, i won't. 'i trust you not to touch,' you said when i told you about an ex-lover of mine i wanted to see. i don't even trust myself, what is wrong with you
there's nothing comforting in the sound of your voice, don't trust myself on the phone with you (i can't tell you what i did, i need you to learn to hate me without ever finding out). every murmur of 'i love you', the lyrics to my favourite song, after being on repeat for 4 months i need to burn that cd, get the sound out of my ******* head. i'm sick of it, sick of him, utterly sickened by myself. look at me - writing about 'him' and 'you', both the same person but i can't ******* tell anymore. you're not mine anymore
i lost more at that airport than just my make-up and shampoo

i had a dream, and you were kissing me. and to be quite honest, if you kissed me like that every time i fell asleep i would never want to wake up.

the small bumps and hiccups of the rattling carriage startled you awake. the green seats of the train were lined with cheap vinyl and stained with coffee. they held us in the glow of early morning and the glare of midday and the grimness of night. i looked up from my book and locked eyes with you. i wanted to whisper poems of e. e. cummings into your ear but you were so peaceful as you closed your eyes again, sinking into that place where you are both awake and asleep yet neither.
words of poetry could not bring to mind the softness of your skin as you sunk low into your seat, nor could they rival the prettiness of your closed eyelids and the way you curled your hands into paws using the sleeves of your sweater. i wanted to stay like that with you forever.