Potentially
it’s more than you realised
this coming from the girl pretty
sure she would die before she hit twenty five
two years to go and i mean,
you never know but i’d like to think
I can get my hopes up

At least five foot seven from the ground
only more cause i’m reaching
have you seen this outline it’s peachy
beach scene glass so fine it pours for you
saltwater and sunshine on a fresh carved tattoo
biter sweet and less heat than last Wednesday, who
decided i was the one that needed to
throw herself unavoidable at the fuck fest of ignorance
crumbling world, through thick blood crusted
inside of my thighs and words etched into the surface
for those who heard they weren’t worth
the space they grace with bodies
too no who you want them to be.

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Take Care

Bite me, fight me
take an eight hour flight to me:
I’m waiting with cotton sheets
and respite from the heat but take
your time. I don’t mind, honey –
but i won’t eat it.

Politically?
Correct. In; such a way
that i’m left breathless at
the thought of your mouth
and the weight it carries closing
about my neck. You’re more
than i can help myself and less
than too much to bear.
And jesus fuck,
your hair.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I miss you.
You’re so much, and I;
I’m not sure who’s coming home.
I’ve been ready to see you for
at least six months and the further away
the more I want you next to me and how
do I ache for the smell of a body
I haven’t met? Or is that strange
and why did it feel so real when you
threatened to marry me. I want
the curve of your spine in the space on my bed
we both know belongs to you.
I hope you’re whole and i’m sorry
they pulled you away but
I’m waiting for the day
I can kiss you.

 

 

 

 

Made In Marketing

Void of knowing,
fear growing and i’m
showing my weak side
just trying to hide the
small man behind the curtain
screaming  to drown out the hurt
and his eyes are too wide
like the gap between her thighs
buffet for the ignorance of men
you’ve labelled kind and they advance
with knives and sticky backed neon –
what an utterly fucked pedestal to be on.
Knees bleed from falling upon
the shards of the broken girls i came before
fat, not that, anything but that
what a pile of CRAP
and the shape we’ve come to know
as a heart, too far removed from the
pulsing flesh, reductionist art
reduced to a double tap
instant gratification a valid vocation
warping your body into
painful shapes and maybe that could
be OK if your smile wasn’t caked
with the absence of it, fake and
there isn’t the time or enough
“you’ll be fine” to change the way
we grew behind screens that knew
the potential for hidden clues
on what to buy, what to say,
what to do. Who really are you?
If given every option would you
Not Choose Blue?
That one hue like the sky flying
cerulean above you. If we
could control the messages
I wouldn’t be such a pessimist but
my love, sweetheart, my bliss,
the fact is this:
Nothing you do
Is  a choice Made By You.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My eyes are prised open
with the splinter’d hope that
you’re safe. And my chest:
swollen, infected with the
possibility
of us.

Do what you must.

If i’m in love with the moon
and she’s reflective of the light
we throw at her. Possibly, the love
I throw as hard as i can into a night
deeper than my capacity for self mutilation
will bounce back onto you.

Callum.

I have nightmares
about the beauty in the way
your voice snaked about my hips
and held me close. I wake up
crying, eyes like gritted roads
and my chest stinging with wishing
but I grab at sleep and hold the pain
close so I can dream it again even when
the neighbours ask If i’m okay
and i’m left aching the whole next day
empty and mourning. Eve tells me
she loves me and it’ll be alright,
without any warning she
catches the fear in my
breath, it’s a wonder
there’s any of me
left.