You’re soft like butter and the good kind,
melting slick thick like the way your mouth
curls words into petrichor soaked limbs;
aching to be wrapped about the corners
of the bed. Fitted , sheet white at the
prospect of an empty night. We raise
cats to keep the alone away, glass eyes
too curved to reflect the grey days.
Snatched conversations taken from the
designated sleep schedule, elated with
shared anxieties, weighted with a year of
expectancy. Lets meet between burnt shoulders
and our latent insecurities.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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I’m too sick to breathe without
choking on the love you left in my
bed, broken from the tip top of my head
to the map on my legs; seething
jealous of the dead. I think i read
once that all the fear and panic and dread
we accumulate, can root seeping into
the room when you’re late – to pre-announce
your arrival. I try to let it go and i’m sure you know,
i’m sure you knew, I’m sure that through
everything we do, you knew it was you.
I can feel the lack at night in the
weapons i keep on the headboard
where rope used to be. When hope
seems to mean memory. Pour your regrets
in the palms of my lost bets and i’ll use them
to sober up, i’ll fill my cup with ash and muck:
you’ve got blood between your teeth where you
forgot to brush and i can see bits of me
in the molars at the back of you screaming.
I can see when we were we. I keep dropping
breaths when i see in a sequence of photographs
jet hair in a sea of red. I don’t want the shame
of the blame you carry. I don’t want the pain
i don’t want your name besides my body
when people are asking why. I don’t want
reality and i don’t want to lie. Every time she
see’s me cry, she comforts me with the promise
of your apologies, and i look for their reflection
in wine. I tried.

You can’t hurt me anymore.

I suppose it was all you had
to hold onto, the way you left
the way you begged to speak
two days but it wasn’t it was
this many weeks. Go ahead –
tell yourself i’m a freak. You?
Can’t hurt me. Not anymore.

You can’t hurt me, it’s the law.

But do you know what it is
to love myself, steeped four inches in gin
and having let the night air in. For
all my talk of moon and stars and who
they belong to i always kind of knew that
we were wrong, through the dreams built
using sugar paste and crumbling clay through
the lie you told me about being able to
feel safe one day. And my biggest fault was
leaning on you, to make me feel that way.
Honey i love you, but the way you behave
– it isn’t okay.

Onlookers.

Cut my hair so short there’s
none left to comment on
and still i hear the parroted squawk about
‘what have you done’ and ‘where has it gone’.
Polly turn your fucking sound button one
more dial to the left. I kept
enough shards of hair in the
neckline of my clothes to itch when
i’m not around, for you to compose
eloquent pieces, a gender study thesis.
On why now i’ll be treated like i own a penis
except I could and you’d still be told to call me ‘she’.
See? This. Is how it works and the names
i carry are handwritten and mine to disperse
and that stands for anybody not brave enough
to tell you that their worth isn’t tied up in
hair or a lack of. In the wrong place, or
the colour pink. In the bigoted
way you think. The weight of my woman
is not carried in my tits, arbitrary bits
of fat that petty little shits like you
obsess about. Inclined to shout
from windows wound down in the
rush to snatch the happiness out of today
whilst you live in fear of being called
‘gay’ and I’ve got it written in a place
so revered, that you pay.  Asking:
hand on your cock,
if I’ve had a nice day.

And i don’t know
How to explain that i need more love
than can come from between
teeth worn smooth with the abrasion
of things you said and didn’t mean.
Lied clean. And i don’t know how
to explain that in spite of the fight
for you to treat me right ending
bitter and without a winner
i dream sometimes of feeding you
beige, for dinner.

I don’t know how to
undo you.