Opening scenes and
raging arguments bitter with
Bare faced, stubborn refusal
to back down when I believe in something:
because that is not who I am.
The pictures. My face every way
and some of the rest of me too
if i’m nude do you see more or
less of the truth.
And the way my mind plays between
the dark heights, light fights,
and the tooth third from the center
of my filthy mouth,
biting at the edges of me raw can you see it
You can SEE it.
The apologies. Acknowledgements,
mine to you too. The way
that you see the broken me who
needs more than what the world
has given before
and know it doesn’t mean that
I NEED it from you.
I am not the only thing
keeping you sane, but by choice
i’m sherbet fizz on the edge of your brain
mildly corrosive but what’s love
without pain. Without
imminent threat of the loss
of a life or that dare about Wives,
And becoming one. Not
entirely fictitious. It’s vicious
the things that decent people do
and that’s why i’m glad that decent people
doesn’t apply to Me and You.
But i’m here and I could be home,
(though my foundations are few)
at least the picture of it painted,
and I’ll throw away the blue.
If you must;
Leave. But do it at dawn
when the air bites reality back and
I can sleep through the homesickness.
Crunching beneath fingernails like
gritted remains of seeds sown
by maybe, and one day
and could we.
I’m rare; be nice to me.
Paint me with honey tones –
acrylic paint thick and peeling, second skin.
Paint me whilst you’ve got me on my knee’s,
i’ll drink as though you were cough syrup
and my lungs riddled with homesick.
I should start a tally
for the infinitesimal heart attacks
(like splinters in my hips) each time
my phone reminds me you aren’t here.
“Active”. A fucking ghost.
I feel you like strings tied about
the loop of your belt, and sewn through
the skin on my inner thighs.
Deep enough to anchor.
Each time I see myself reflected
I am caught unaware, but at times
I can pour cement to my spine and stand tall
with “you’re welcome” to those who get the chance
to be around me.
Love yourself like a Norse God
steeped in possibility and strong enough
to hold hopes high for years to come.
Love yourself like a three year old
on fire with self celebration the absolute second
a mirror is introduced.
Love yourself the way
you know that you deserve. Like half
a tub of ice cream and candlelit baths.
Like eating on time. Letting yourself sleep.
Avoiding the abuse and touching
I lace my food with love
and if, once it’s all laid out
and steaming pleasantly delicious
I realise : I made dinner for two.
Laid a place for a stranger who
hasn’t come into my life yet or maybe
the half of my heart that left me in debt
and aching for the past. But there’s drink
for two, too. And it’ll saturate the vacuum
more than any human could, would, has.
And after years of recycling the possibility of
‘the one’, I swear to god : I’m fucking done.
For the past month I’ve been looking for some
reason you left, but rule of thumb
seems to be : the mirage will leave just
as soon as it comes.
I know I’m not sleeping tonight
I know I’m not sleeping because of
the shit. And the six cups of coffee.
But most of all it is the shit which is keeping me
wide eyed, though not surprised. Imagine
a papier Mache soup of faeces and torn tissue
floating about the bowl and garnished with
the skins of two entire punnets of cherry tomatos.
The good ones, which cost three times as much
as those watery pricks and even better when you bake them;
except of course you didn’t get to. Direct
from the delivery van to tiny grubby hands
and swallowed almost whole, the filthy addict.
Popping little red sphere’s like she
can’t get enough. And oh I have the evidence.
I’m elbow deep in it with a binbag wrapped
around my submerged arm as it disappears
fuck knows where. Will I get it back? Who knows.
Will I become one with this bowl of piss
and used food all done and oh I’m ‘SO GLAD
I made her go vegan too’ –
all the fibre super visible down the loo.
But she’s sleeping with cheeks candyfloss rouge
and, even in her sleep, she murmers
‘mumma: I love you’ and
there’s not one single chance I’ll ever
stop breaking in two with happiness
even through a, fucking,
hurricane of poo.
I consider the summer
a personal attack on my body.
Pink swells rise to the surface like
scum at the edge of polluted seas
before caking crisp and peeling
around my shoulders and across
the bridge of my nose.
Freckles group in conspiracy circles
beneath eyes red with allergies to the air;
thick with flying specks of vehemence
and dusted heavy with a lack of moisture.
Everything condensed into the huge,
deceptive, marshmallow clouds of movie scenes and
cinematic dreams but not quite the same when
your eyes close half blind in protest and
you need to sign a peace treaty to convince them