This is an ode to my friends.
For the ones I've loved since day one
the ones I have learnt to love
and for the ones I hate to love.

This is for my friend,
for the one, I got drunk with first.
We stole a litre bottle of cider and four beers then drank them in the park at midnight.
This is an ode to my friend who cries at parties,
who swears he will die alone.
This is for my friend who laughs at every joke,
the **** and comedian but shakes when no one is looking.

This is an ode to my friends,
for the one who's grandma is dying but they
still, manage to draw on a smile and present a joke.
This is for my friend who has depression,
Or the friend who has anxiety,
and asks me to speak for her at restaurants,

This is an ode to my friends,
who is finally taking control of her body
after being trapped in the wrong one.
For the friend who is scared to leave the house
when it's icy because he might slip and hurt his ***.
For the friend, I fancied till I was sixteen,
and even though it's been years my lips still burn when
I look at her.

This is an ode to my friends who leave me out of conversations.
who have inside jokes they sprout when I'm around
This is for the ones that went to the movies to see the film they knew I was dying to see.
This is an ode to my friend,
who broke her leg whilst dancing in her favourite musical,
and the part was given to someone else.
This is for the friend whose mother died when she was 12
but she remains the strongest person ever.

This is an ode to those who
forget I'm their friend,
who ignore me when they're upset,
who  tell me daily that they love me,
who cry at Disney movies,
who laugh at videos of past times,
who  I hate that I adore,
who  I cry over,
because I can't make them happy anymore.

This is an ode to my friends,
for the one who is so self-conscious, he wears baggy jumpers to hide his stomach.
This is an ode to my friend who has scary parents,
for the friends who made a pyramid out of stones and raised a nation,
for the friends who try their hardest and still achieve nothing,
for my friends the world has seemingly forgotten,

This is an Ode to my friends,
the ones I know I will die loving,
they give me cups of tea with two sugars when I'm having a bad episode,
for the ones that cry when they hear a certain song, because it reminds them of when I tried to off myself in the toilet,
for the one that has never had a kiss,
for the one who refuses to get married.

This is an ode to my friends,
the family I chose,
the ones that send me stupid messages at four am,
then question why I'm awake so late.
For the friend that gets blackout drunk,
for the one with weak knees,
who, when she laughs, falls to the ground in a fit of giggles,
for the friends, I will marry, loving.
Speak now or forever hold your peace,

An ode to my friends,
who I love more than anything,
as we collapse through the stars,

I'll hear them laughing at a joke.

I am a child,
wrapped in cheap paper.
I'm tearing
at every edge.
I tape myself back together,
but I rip in a different place,
and I stare at it.
I feel my body scream in pain as I grin at a
stranger.
The wound is festering,
it's puce with grime.
It's growing and expanding forth from torn scars
that I've tried to heal with butterfly bandages.
But, every time the butterflies bite my skin,
after using their wings to keep
my laceration
from ripping further,
I use the bird that is my fingernail to pick at the scab,
and watch as the butterfly tumbles to the ground,
joining a thousand carcasses laid strewn next to me.

They're shrivelled and crisp,
scattered in disarray.

I hear them apologise,
for not staying so long.

You forget what it feels like to see an old friend.
Like the one
you keep hidden behind picture frames.
The small, cutouts of their faces,
detached from their bodies
make you respond a certain way.

You remember how they made you feel,

(hopeless, desperate)

How they felt against your skin,

(sharp, sudden, like a knife to the soul)

How they made you weep,

(you were useless under their control)

You forget how much you need them,

(You depend on them for your every move)

You think about them day and night,
they could creep into bed with you,

kiss you,

make you snap awake.

You wear them on your sleeve,
and you hide them under heavy coats,
and thick jumpers.

You forget how the bad you feel,
when you see the marks they leave on your skin,

(the violent, puce lines that tore at your paper)

And yet, you leave their head behind the frame,
because you're not sure you're ready to quit them
just yet...
So you count the days since you last saw them.
Watch as their grips loosen.
Even though you relapse into their arms now and again,
you believe you can become sober in the future.

To my lover,
the one I crave the most.
My core winces to see you weep,
but with the state of your home,
I don't wonder why you're sad.

If my empire was torn to shreds I would tear also,
but my place is within you.
You are the one I'm invested in.

You are the one for me,
so, just text me when you read this
...because I'll be your home.

I'll keep you warm.

It's at times like these...
when your hair lies in shreds on the ground,
that I have to tell myself that I am useless in this situation
and that there is nothing wrong with being so.
Because
I can't force myself to check in on you every minute,
because I simply cannot trust myself.
How can I save you if every time I see a tear fall down from the heavens,
I stick my neck out onto the tracks,
so I slice in half?
How can I save you, if I would force myself into the blistering heat of an oven,
just to cool down my thoughts?
And yet, even though I scream this at you,
you still expect me to pick up that needle and that thread,
and the outdated burn cream from the cupboard
and fix myself so I can soothe you instead,
ignoring my gashes, my revolting, rotting, diseased mind,
and lie in bed with you,
like lovers in a coffin,
just so you can fill my head with tales of YOUR woe,
like flowers on a deathbed?

And yet, as angry and as frustrated as I get,
I would still unravel my bandages and use as them as a makeshift pillow
for your weary head,
and I smile as you
You to grab the knife you aim at your own heart,
twist it around and stab me,
and even though we fight, and we scratch and I
curse our love,
I still want to save your soul,
even though mine is lighter.
And yet, once again, here I am,
sleeping outside your bedroom door,
in case I hear the thud of a stool being knocked over,
and the silence that follows the hollow dread,
in case I hear the wallpaper peel at the horror it see's,
the scene of my lover,
hanging from a fan by their own hair,
And I know you know that I'm there,
I can feel your presence on the other side of the wood,
I see your shadow under the door,
and as I see you walk away from under the crack,
I, myself, stand up.
Grab a dustpan and brush, and sweep up your broken heart,
and slide it under the door with the plaster that I just used to heal my own throbbing head,
holding the shattered pieces together.

And, after that, I walk away.
Because I'm allowed to rest.
I'm allowed to love myself more than I love you.

I can't change what you believe,
but if you could just see me in a different light,
and love girls like me I'd be thankful,
because you give me that look,

the look that makes my heart stutter.