Our hearts are too loud to hear the music,
but we dance to our own beat.

I've been winding up the walls of the music hall,
watching the couples dance to La Vie En Rose,
the song is stuck on repeat and
to silence it I need to hear the end note,
but it never comes.

I weave my roots into the ground. They
kiss softly. Romance is making love to them,
And yet my love has not arrived,
crashed in the parking lot,
and she never comes.

I see then that I was never meant to love,
a lover like you,
my heart stutters when your machine beeps,
in case it prolongs longer than I want.
The day seems to be coming.

Our wedding song is on vinyl, unplayed
and dusty. I watch it spin as the couples leave,
their scents taking yours with them,
I am alone again.

You left,
just when I thought the stars had come out for
us.

It's a shame that we aren't soul mates,
because we used to be.
But now we're one-seventeenth of a whole teenager;
hormonal,
angry,
depressed.
But all I can say is,
when you think I'm overbearing,
instead,
think of how heavy it is to carry
a whole friendship on one back;
it's dead, lulling weight
digging into your spine,
slowing you down,
hoping you feel better
when it tells you, drunk,
how much you're worth.

I can't do this alone,
I need you to tell me sober that you love me,
or leave my life for a better one.

I'm going to die alone,
but that's okay.
I've been warned.

And if the stars have given me that
fate,

what God am I to disagree?

I love you,
and I hope that you can tell
by the way, my eyes stare too
long into yours.
If I was to speak I wouldn't know what to say;
as all, I can think of is how pretty you are.
Pretty in a dark chocolate sense,
the kind that lingers on your tongue,
the bitter, harshness of beautiful boys,
the type you know you don't belong with.

You smile and I hear old dancehalls,
haunted with melodies of yesterday night.
Put your head on my shoulder, darling.
Come lay in the sun,

and watch the shadows of our grandchildren
play.

I am a simulation rebelling against my natural coding.
I refuse to believe what others think, just because it's written in the pages of an old book,
that, if you flip over too quickly,
could cut you.

I am an alien, lost on a planet unknown,
trying to speak English to its inhabitants,
and all they speak is in tongues.
I see their mouths moving
and yet I hear nothing a gabble of words
that string like rope out of their mouths
to strangle.

I am the scissors,
cutting the Moira between me and you.
I left you a note on the nightstand
with the wedding ring I wore
at first, it acted like a buoy, kept me afloat,
now it is made of lead,
and, with permission, it'd to drag me to the depths.

I am the looped flowers growing
out of my grandmothers piano,
my fingers play melodies that
the birds can sing,
so the children of the future can hear my voice.

I am the scent of your dead mother's perfume.
The one that haunts you whilst you sleep,
and kisses your cheek to make sure you
still think of me.

I am the treehouse set alight,
without a match in my hands,
or gasoline as my lotion,
I sink further and further into the grounds
as the flame rises,
choking you with my scent,
you cry out for mercy at Maria up above.

People have aesthetic childhoods.
With parents that understand and cuddle them when lightning strikes.
I remember the teddy bears in my bed,
and how they smelt of mum and dad,
how I would hold Odettes ear with my finger and thumb,
my head ducked under cover in fear of an alien tickling my toes.
But now the teddies are placed high up on a shelf
away from me, out of reach.

When I realise the ear isn't in my hands,
I look around and see the dust at my feet,l like I'm down at the bottom,
I look up,
my family are at the top
and the red cord of family love bounding us together is thin, and I fear we are soon to have a disconnect again,
When I make it to the third or fourth level
I see their faces grinning with pride
at their daughter succeeding and waking up before noon,
and I say something funny to lighten the mood,
but I tumble lower by one or two
depending on how fake the laugh I hear was.

I sit in the gravel and wonder.
I don't understand why I can't touch them anymore because I'm like my mum,
we're both alike,
and I'm like my dad,
we're also alike,
but I feel lost on a planet when I meet their eyes,
like I'm somewhere I shouldn't be,
I wallow in the dust for days, until I feel
them prodding me with a stick from the top shelf,
asking me when I'll finally reach the top.
Telling me that I'm seventeen now and that I used to be on the sixth shelf when I was sixteen.
How I used to do so well with my homework,
and I would get great grades,
but now I get dark stains around my eyes,
and a tearstained face,
but from their great  height, they can't see my shoulders shaking,
they just see me carrying my baggage,
too heavy for my small frame to handle.

I force my way up the mountain,
until I see their faces,
they smile and I tumble right back down.
I feel like screaming;
LOOK AT ME!
I AM HERE!
I EXIST!
I AM ON MY PLANE,
AND YOU ARE ON YOURS!
but however hard I do scream,
the wind picks it up and carries it away,
and all they hear is;
'Look at me, I'm on your plane!"

They smile.
I tumble three.