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.

She's taken your body wash, and used it without permission.
She's used it twice before and
presumed it would be fine to take it again.

You never gave consent.
You even said No.

She's used it twice before so what's a third time,
or a fourth or even a fifth,
she's just hoping you won't snitch and tell someone
she stole something from you...
Your confidence or your peach shampoo?

She lied about the temperature of the bath water,
you were supposed to drown
before you felt the heat,
but you didn't and now you're
tearing your skin to shreds,
Self-destruction on the first date,
how sweet.

She wants you to wash your mouth out,
you said something you shouldn't and now she's mad,
feeling sorry for you is in the past,
the new thing is drowning you in the bath.

Your heads now under water,
feet kicking the floor.
She's doused you with her perfume,
just to see you choke against the wooden frame of the door.

We sat on your bed. It wilted under our weight.
Old and frail- stale to a fault, we always said.
Side by side. Knees touching knees. Hands
in packets of sweets from the corner shop.
How many can you fit in your mouth? I got
eight. You beat me every time.
We laugh until we ache. Funny pictures.
We jump in slow motion, I catch your eye and
we smile.  My best friend.

I sit in my bed. It's strong under my weight.
New and durable- Squeaky to a fault, I always say.
Cushion to a body. Covers suffocating hard. Hands
on a face, smudged with mascara from Asda.
I can fit four hours worth of crying into one if
I think hard enough. I beat my record every time.
I sob until I ache. Funny picture, that is.
I lay in slow motion, my phone rings in my ear and
I smile. My best friend.

The call isn't from you.

Night attacks,
they sit in my eyes,
forcing me to the bed and covering my cries.

My Night attacks,
cowering in the corner,
faced with the fear of their mourners.

Night attacks,
visit me every night,
minutes are hours, and I roll in their plights.

My Night attacks,
allowed to roam free,
after having their way with me.

Swing until the world stops.
You could eat the moon like a piece of cheese
on a *******; although it's dry and choking
you munch through and smile,
hurriedly knotting shoes and off.

Friends in long socks, pink dresses
and school shorts on hot days. Passing
around carrots and milk like kisses.
I kicked the ball into Millie's legs,
she laughed after crying a bit.

We found a magic cave under a rock
where an Ant Queen ruled and subjects
were sent to prison for telling a
best friends secret; (she fancied
Jasper because he had nice eyes- don't tell him)

Shrill ringing of the bell. Moans of anguish;
math and religion next. "Quick!
Sneak under the fence and into the
field next to the school!" Loves me, loves
me not falls onto deaf ears.

Float, float, floating away....

I don't know how to tell my parents I'm struggling.
Because one minute I'm a giggling
12 year old,
sleeping over at friends houses,
laughing at nothing,
eating junk food
and watching horror movies,
the next minute I'm a bumbling
17 year old,
and someone has pulled the plug out of my bath,
I'm cold and shaking,
alone in a cylinder cube that's spinning and spinning
and spinning out of control,
I can't move my arms because of the speed,
it's throwing me in directions I never knew existed
until now,
as I'm cascading down a waterfall,
plummeting to the ends of the earth,
I scream for mercy at a God I don't know,
and wish I attended church once a week,
prayed to a religion I don't believe,
just to feel comfort wrap their arms around me,
but still, amidst the wreckage
and the bendy, broken bones
and my calloused feet from running around in my head all day,
I pull myself up,
shake my head and watch as my tears fall
from my face, just like the dust from my hair,
and I take a bath,
and I continue.
Even though I ache and I cry,
and I feel I could die,
I soldier on throughout the wind and the rain,
and as the hail falls forth from the skies,
and pandora's box opens
I scream:
"Yes! I made it!"
because I had gotten up that morning and attended my morning classes,
even though I have shapes and welts where the hail had hit,
I still laugh like I'm
12 years old again.
I bandage my wounds,
and watch as they scar,
and although I hide them,
and slander and name call them,
I kiss them now and again to
make sure they heal.
Because I can't be sure when someone will
kiss me to make me recover,
so I kiss myself to sleep every night,
and tell myself I'm worthy of it.
Just so I can wake up and smile.

To a world that's spinning out of my control.

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.

Beatings. Cries. Shells raining down like
tears from his mothers face! Another coffin
to pay for in all this madness. Who cares if
she's lost everything she held dear to her?
She's screaming;
"He's too small for all this space!
He's too small for this place! His boots
don't even fit him right!"
Limping up and down up and down towards
the end and even then his eyes won't stay open;
all this fighting for what? Another war?
Another scream? Another ten million voices silenced at
the hands of word like bullets.
With the rampaging, and the madness,
the air becomes too much.
Things like to implode and combust like silence does...

is that...it?

is that what silence sounds like?

If you can't think of it one way;
think of another.
You wouldn't let your car run from place to place
consistently for a week
without checking it's oil,
the tyres
or under the bonnet.

Why should we do any different?

Tears are water to the soul,
and yet I seem to overwater it.
I must have misread the info booklet
on how to keep it thriving,
and instead burnt it along
with the pictures of us.

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.

The moon in the middle of the day,
dogs when they look at you with feeling,
too many coffee granules to keep in balance
the harmony between coffee *** and grain.

Finding Atlantis in your bath tub,
or solace in enemy arms,
the image of flightless birds that
are waxed too close to the sun to stay afloat.

Having a sleepover on Saturn,
or laughing through stomach cramps under water.
The feeling of salt burning your nostrils
to get back at your own humility.

Teachers living at home with their parents,
teddy's with one eye and patchwork smiles.
Wearing a pink dress to a funeral,
watching a loved one slip, slip, slipping away.

The idea of my human worthlessness is dragging me down.

I think about it for the best part of an hour,
only managing to read three pages of my book in that time,

I'm sorry.

I'm just simply being swallowed up by the lack of water surrounding me.
I'm sick of the endless stream of chatter that isn't coming out of my ******* mouth.
I'm sick of the looks no one is giving me because they don't actually see me.

They see a figure,
hunched over,
reading a book.

The book has no words.

sit and think. very still in that chair.
your feeble hands can almost touch the
memory- if you tried.
that freckled hand. the white bed sheets.
you can almost see her awake in your head.
well after all she is still there.
in memory.
and ash.
in love.
and dreams.
that drop of blood. her white lips.
in the night it's harder. you can see her
in your room- just for a minute.
wrapped in those bed sheets. hospital room.
you can still smell the flowers she held.
those pink lilies. her small hands clutched.
stiff and unloving.
that rigor mortis. those closed eyes.
you can smell her perfume.
it wafts towards you in your dreams.
that vanilla scent. that hint of dirt.
you can almost touch her- if you tried.
sitting still on that chair. thinking hard.
in love she never dies. not even a little bit.
not even at all.

Swept away to distant lands,
but still, I call out your name.
I whisper them in my sleep,
but still, you do not call.

Mama, Papa.

it's me,
your son.

Reply to me.
Set me asleep.

The tide and her wave of emotion.
The hands that once held me now goes for
the jugular, to cut.
The swift, rough swipe of the
razor causes an outpour of unstoppable feelings,
fleeting forth from my face,
It lands upon an infant that lay
crying in my right hand,
screaming, it yearns for the breast of
knowledge and safety,
The craving for intimacy and affection,

The Insuppressible,

Indistinguishable,

Need for Want,
And Want for Need, all the same.

He sits next to you on the train.
Your heart flushes as he smiles your way.
There's something about him that draws you in,
maybe it's his dreamy hair,
that seems to shine in the morning sun,
or maybe it's the book he was reading,
or maybe it was his hollow eyes,
the ones with the rings under them that makes him
look like he's three weeks past bedtime.
His four patches on his blue, denim jacket,
each with sassy comments on them, stating his hatred for Trump,
or his place as a Feminist?

The colourless rainbow tattoo on his wrist,
next to a heart.

It has her name on it.
And you sit and wonder...

Am I her?

You aren't.

You're not his tattoo,
the one that sits on his wrist.
A name that is passed carelessly throughout the carriages,
The name that stops at the platform.

You are a gentle thought,
unravelled in the minds of others,
growing and nurturing,
exuberating kindness as you do so.

You are not his tattoo,
but a garden,
soon to flourish and grow stronger,
toughening through harsh winters.

You are not his.

You are an evergreen mass,
you were born to live
and you thrive as you do so.

Am I in love with you,
or the things that you do?

Because when I look at the sky
and see stars,
I see them fold and collapse,
melting into each other like
drunken bodies,
like moths to the light.

I see them dance across the aqua,
like kids to mothers,
or lover to lover.

I see them die,
fade out,
standing on the edge
of a platform,
screaming for a final chance at love  
before their plummet to
the depths.

I see you.
I know that we exist.

But how can I feel scared
at all,
when I look and see your eyes,

-Are they crying?

As we us fall to the ground,
our bodies becoming weightless,
we are tumbling to our deaths,
We look at each other,
kiss and hug until our
arrival
in our coffin
made for two,

soon to burn up.

Don’t worry if it is the end.
Even if it is the last time we
ever see each other.
I promise I’ll meet you
at the gates when you get
dropped off.
I’ll pick you up.
Spin you around.
Kiss you until my lips
ache.
My love,
my life is ending,
but I promise that
in the end
Your smile
Is all I need.

As I breathe my last breath,
and the water fills my lungs,
I turn and see a boy;

He is drowning
and no one can see him

except me.

Woke up in a rush of light, piercing
my eyes today. Too bright to keep
them closed or open.
I can't find my slippers, eyes rubbed,
yesterdays mascara under eyes
like bruises from lack of sleep;
evidence of my lost mentality.
The Supremes sang Baby Love in the kitchen
on the radio- he never turned it off.
Three balloons;
Happy Birthday!
Eighteen!
Drink up!
Hot pinks and purples next to orange walls.
Cards in hues of turquoise and blushes of red;

none are from you,
my dearest friend.

I'm finding it hard to be
anything but myself,
I feel the waves of water lap at my wrists,
the ones where I carve out your name,
I'm sending you a letter,
a resignation of my life.
I want for it to end, but I long for it to live,
I want to sleep and forget you
and everything you do
but the more I wish to sleep,
the more I hear your voice,
and the more I wish to wake,
is the more I wish to drown.
To tumble down below the waves,
and choke to the sound of your voice,
it's muffled.

Another year without you,
Seventeen years of no kisses at midnight
and counting.

I am standing on a staircase, on the seventeenth step,
but the eighteenth onwards has no bannister,
up until now, I've had a safety net,
something to lean on when
the steps aren't lit properly.

'Now', I tell myself,
'I've seen people who have fallen
and manage to grip to the edge
and pull up...towards the next'.
'But I've seen people fall
and never get up'.

I say;
'Am I another statistic?
Am I another failure?
Am I another mangled corpse for the cleaners?
Or...
Am I going to lift my leg and take that step?
Am I to ignore the thoughts?
Am I stronger than I let myself think?'

I lift my leg.

Upwards and onwards, I guess.

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.

The sun peaks through my
window, and hits
your face.
I feel the heat on my arm,
my leg and neck.
The pure, slumber of summer.

How can I be down when the
world feeds me such
beautiful scenes?
How can I leave when your
face lights up when you
hear my voice?

How could I be sad when I can
make it through all of the hail of spring,
to see the rays of
summer, the beautiful
repose of my birthday?

In the midst of the wreckage,
amongst the embers and the pain,
my signal broken,
my life draining,
the Electric voices,
a message lost in the channels.
'Zero, are you there Zero?'
and I lay.
Lay within the mess, and listen for your voice once more,
my beautiful sacrifice,
my partner in red.

You're crying.

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?

Loving you was the best
choice.
It's a shame I'm not the
one for you,
but you're at one
with me.
The stars up above blind
us with smiles,
but your eyes are twisted,
with the hopes of yesterday.

I haven't been so sad recently,
which is rare. I had the bad five months last year-
to the point I nearly killed myself.
And now I'm okay, but then it makes me think;
I'm not acting how I should act.
I don't feel like me anymore.
I'm bored,
I don't cry so often,
I feel like I'm wearing new shoes
that are slightly too small, to the point they
rub but don't leave a mark.
I think it's because I got so used to
being let down, that my body automatically
drops me a few stories every couple of weeks.
My eighteenth birthday was bad.
I think I just gave up on birthdays
and to think they used to be my favourite.
Now, I spend my time doing what is asked of me;
go to classes, smile, do work, go home, do homework,
sleep and not dream.
It feels weird.
I don't feel like me;
I want to feel like I'm dying again,
like the world itself is crumbling beneath my feet,
that, if I smile or move a muscle,
my whole being would explode;
shattering thousands with reminders that I was here,
because now I feel empty.
I'd rather feel like death personified
than nothing at all.

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 can't concentrate because of your words,
the ones I can't help but listen too.
You say people are selfish
for loving two kinds of people, not one.
You say that it's confusing,
to like both sexes the same.

Like we need you to understand,
like we need your permission to like who we want to like

I never asked you at all.