No excuses.

I tore up all our moments

and waited for that gust of hot wind to

blow them away.

Far away from me.

I wrote the lyrics of our wars

in chalk on the streets and waited

for the storm to

wash it off of me.

I set fire to all your reasons,

warmed my hands against the flames,

burning your words

that used to burn me.

I've buried my brittle bones
beneath the ruins of this city of ours,
six feet under exactly,
in the deep dark dirt.

There are no excuses this time round,
just what you did to me.

3.

You.
You smiled at me with wolves teeth.
And I,
I fell down to my knees,
cursing my promises made in this night.

We had one chance too make it mine,
one night to turn these grapes into wine.

We.
We walked the long way round again.
And you,
you just got here too late,
became just an echo in my empty mind.

There is too much left in me of you,
the tail end of a demon I never knew.

You.
You were the wrong kind of crime.
And I,
I was pulling you through,
picking glass out of wounds you did to you.

Now my eyes want to see someone new,
I'm tired of wasting my moments on you.

Driven.

How many whisky neats' did he linger over
whilst deciding how to
shatter that girl?
With her chest exposed he left her crying
in his bed,
tangled in someone elses dirty underwear.
Maybe it was that crash that
killed her,
because she definitely died that morning.
He played the same old broken record
again,
as she finally took her heart off her sleeve.

Rocks.

If I could be blessed with just one more thing

I'd pray for stronger legs

so when my mind might fail

and my heart will break,

I'll still be able to walk away.

List.

10. Someone else's perfume on his sheets

9. The weight of a rumour on my chest

8. Losing my sister to my addiction

7. Watching as her heart was broken

6. Kissing the lips of revenge

5. His love in the heart of another

4. The scars on the tips of my fingers

3. My mothers tears

2. Watching him spill his own blood

1. Feeling him spill mine

Do Not Disturb.

In a stark white hotel room, she breaks her own heart.
A cigarette in hand and smoke curling from her lips, she is folded up on the window sill watching the city dissolve into artificial darkness.
There is a red wine stain on the sheets and a bathtub full of cold water.
The tv is on, muted, in the background.
Ambivalence is rampant,
she scrawls across the hotel stationary, flicking ash onto the floor.
Chivalry is dead and I willingly sit in the crossfire.


She wakes in the morning to sunlight stabbing at her skin,
her heart still aches,
her head is throbbing
and her bed is still empty.

God this hurts.