i’m wearing a dress that
smells like you and all it
is doing is making me
blue.
i want to cloak myself in
your entire scent but all
you want is to throw me
to the side.
perhaps tonight i shall
burn this dress.
i bought a book from a market stall
on 77, next to belle’s bakery. the
book held no sunshine, or candy
or cuteness; imprinted inside
where the tales of bonnie and
clyde and jack the god darn
ripper.
every night i turn off my light
and attempt to read it in the
dark.
i pretend i am bonnie;
fair hair, blue eyed-
helplessly in love with a mad man.
but i reverse the tale,
i fall for another male,
jack the ripper;
killer with a cause.
i wonder now, had bonnie chosen
a different man than clyde,
would she have ended so badly
or helped jack with his doings?
i wonder now,
oh how i wish she had,
i crave for her to have had
the best of time.
she told me i was an idiot,
she was right to do so.
carved from the womb
i was half hers, and now
she emptied my backpack
sewn with buttons and
hair clips to retrieve
32 packets of a killer drug.
i wouldn’t even let her have a hug,
i think she’s hated me since.
my father too, disappointed
and blue, lovingly told me
this hospital bed was not
where i belonged.
it’s been a while,
i haven’t told anyone
but i want to visit there again.
this time make a new friend,
run through the open doors,
eat sandwiches made the night
before.
my parents don’t see me much,
they won’t miss me much,
i just want to go back to that
week again.
drip
february on my thoughts
with november skin regrowing.
it’s a
harrowing thought
this all repeating again.
this is all repeating again.
he’s tugging on my restless nights,
my sheets are stained with his scent
and i’ve leant her all my
fashion dresses and
weaved scarfs,
will i ever see them again?
this is all repeating again.
in june i was reborn,
but i’m thinking of april now,
5 nights i slept for.
the last time i slept
beside his bed
where he screamed in agony,
his screams were comforting.
i haven’t been able to sleep since then,
i miss him, terribly so,
we didn’t speak, not even once
he couldn’t speak,
i was too ashamed
to meet his gaze directly.
i almost met up with her,
she almost held my hand,
but she was told to remand
me and send me back to
him,
when can i visit dorset again?
i don’t want to live beside the sea anymore;
in a building where the wood adores
the floor and doors creak harshly
at 2 in the morn’.
i don’t want to live beside that couple anymore;
they throw rocks at my window to
remind me i’m alone, kiss under
the streetlight outside my house
because i don’t have her anymore.
i don’t want to sleep in my bed anymore;
all four i find uncomfortable, they
create in me a restless mind that
inclines me a tired ache all over
my body everyday i wake up.
i don’t want to live here anymore;
if i had money i’d buy a mortgage,
or a train ticket,
or a plane ticket
and leave all these sorry ass fuckers behind.
i don’t want to love jack anymore;
he is in my bed, by the couple,
in my house
he scrapes along my every thought
and i want to die
as he is no longer
mine.
i walked past a girl with her parents
and i heard her say
i’m really comfortable with this guy,
i’m really happy with this guy,
i’d rather die
than date a guy
who isn’t my guy
and i found it awfully sweet,
sort of sickly, sort of neat,
she found a guy,
and i’ve found mine.
so i watched from afar this
brown headed boy who drank
his father’s wine in the back of
dusty old trucks,
and with all the luck i’d conjured
up from picked up pennies and
blown out candles
he said hello,
i am your guy.
i kissed my guy,
i held my guy,
she kissed her guy,
she held her guy,
and it all felt good enough to die.
i hope you find
an exquisite boy
who makes you skip through cracks on the ground
and makes you twirl in silk,
i hope you find a boy
to make you as happy
as he has to me.
sick and tired, sick and tired
of being hired out on saturday
nights for a few smokes i can’t
even live by
and pursuing the great love of
day time kissing, when in reality
i’m met with drunken night time
romances
and oh, he is handsome
oh, i am sick and tired
sick and tired
of being a pathetic, bumbling
ugly old, whiney mess
withering about in a silly old
dress she doesn’t even have
the legs to wear
i’m sick and tired
of this sickly tiring bullshit
august, maybe
There’s a bird by the window pressing
its existence into the room,
it roams between the gap and the handle,
pecking its way in.
I leave for a minute and come back in
five with a cup of Claire’s coffee and
a pen to annotate the letter you left
for me. The bird is still there;
agitating,
aggravating
me.
I resume to sit and grab the sheet
handwritten with a load of bullshit
(because if you ever once cared for
any second throughout our thirty
days you would have taken blame)
(but you didn’t).
So I smirk and scoff, smudge each
vowel with a pizza crust found on
my floor
and pull your tie out from between
my door hinges and wrap it around
my neck
while the bird continues to peck
pathetically in anticipation of
ever entering my dissolute
room.
12 months later with only february to spare
what are you running from
darling boy?
are you embarrassed at the
punishment you treated me
with?
little boy, you’re a silly boy;
if you’d asked for a little
kiss i’d probably have
murmured yes.
are you upset that
you had to force an answer?
it’s not the nicest feeling, is it
not getting how you please.
is that why, beautiful boy,
you went ahead with how
you pleased?
on my hand you engraved
welshman
with a knife
and then you left me for dead
