Crept.

All of a sudden i'm soaked
through and through
and the truth you told turned
everything else into lie.

Lucifer.

What's constant here is my slipping away.
The canyon in my mind deepens every day,

taking my bones away and threatening
the gaps in my breath.
I haven't stopped listening to the static on the radio,
reading the fine print in the newspapers;
I know it's in there somewhere.
But,
if it isnt,
if I can't save from falling,
it was loving you, more than words can say,
that made me want to see the sunrise
of just one more beautiful day. 

Capture.

I saw others in your eyes
and felt that familiar tug
of floor out from beneath
and warmth of bathroom tiles.

A.

Because it's this year and this now,
because I'd like to think I could be the type of person not to blame you for their mistakes,
because illogically I'm darkest at the surface.
I have a list of reasons that I could use,
and pretend that in them somewhere, lies the perfect explanation of why I am
more of a picture than a person.
But when I look at you I realise
I just don't know.

Low.

Every now and then
I look over see you as a stranger,
thinking about things you've said
and wondering if this will
turn into an ache I won't forget.

You know you can tear me up,
turn me into scraps of old newspaper.
I think this time I cared too much,
wanting more from every letter
that you spoke.

Now I guess we'll never know
just what could have been hiding
in our corners,
and when I listen to the radio
songs are playing that I never really noticed.

Ink.

I stopped growing when I was nineteen,
I marked it on my bedroom wall with fat black line.
That same year I spoke to my father,
the first and only time.
He sounded so dirty, like the floor of a biker bar.
The gravel in his unfamiliar voice tore a layer off my skin.
When I hung up the phone, I was all shiny and new. Like I stepped out
of a scalding bath.

Late at night, when I can't sleep, un-missed lovers tessellate on my walls,
painting portraits of oh my god.
Late at night, when I can't sleep,
I find it comforting to imagine I can slowly take my flesh off
my bones,
that I can rearrange my body into something worthy.
Sleep is so very peaceful when it is filled with dreams of a beautiful,
mutilated me.

I can curse the history books for teaching me
lessons I never learnt my self,
but I will forever bless the boys who locked me up
in concrete cellars
for the light (of my life) at dawn and my methylated spirit.

Sheltered.

Stainless words like razorblades,
I'm mostly sure that they are mine
flicker in the back of my mind
like a rain drenched 3am.
Twine and string of inadequacy and boredom,
smoothed by my curling fingers,
strand by strand into a beautiful braid
of never again
and I wish I never had.
The walls now smell like my old tweed coat,
just because you hated it,
and the dishes reek of your pin stripe suit
because they are all so fucking dirty.

Heave.

Weighing down each strand of hair,
the aching truth of being half alive.
I'll forever sit in the shade of dripping
whores and sleep in a rocky divide.

Blushing.

The deepest blue you have ever seen
translating me into this.

There are days I sleep through purposely
just for some pain relief,
the glass I set on the doorknob has never
shattered through my dreams.
Those lines I like to cross knowingly
show how close we could have been,
so I let my wounds breathe beneath blankets
of all our tasteless histories.

I follow packs of dogs through woods,

jealous of their warm bodies.

Victorious.

I told myself
when the sun hits the pavement,
you can breathe again.
I said
this time you aren't the
rotten fruit
at the bottom of the box.
This time,
darling
it looks less like you
and more like him.
This time,
this fucking time,
I didn't let us down.

Ago.

Comes through sweet
like bloody roses
but it kicks me
just like a horse,
it pulses violently
through crowds
like a whores' battery
filled toy.
I get just a little bit
worn waiting
when the kill
has already been found,
it's a hell on earth
bloodbath
we roll around in
on the ground.

We both know how
how to paint this
canvas black
a skill which we
just cant ignore.

Unconscious.

Good morning

my intertwining nightmare,
the galloping ruins of a person
I did not become.

Hello
my unfolding calamity,
my lessons unlearned in
dire uncertainty.
I heard the whispers
that you could be coming,
saw the fire in the sky.
I can taste your salty betrayal
sharp on my tongue
and see my face crumbling
away in the mirror.

Crisp.

Looking through all these years,

searching through all the layers.

This feeling, it explodes through me,

and it chases away

and it runs away,

it's infectious

and hopeless

and desperate

and homeless.

Those moments weren't lost on me,

I'm grasping at nothing,

whole pages disappearing

in this cold wind storm.

So long long long ago

without you,

I heard you,

I kissed you,

I felt you.

These are whole letters addressed to me,

with my name in your writing

my laughter in your typing.

Catching myself getting caught in

examples of broken,

the damage

of reckless,

the theory

of cotton.

Mistaken.

You said you were sorry,

like that would keep my legs open.

The more you spoke the less I heard, 

like flattery would pin me to your bed.

I know what I must have looked like, 

such a fucking easy target.
But I'd rather settle out in the cold
than in the confines of your twisted head.

Bite.

Anytime you decide I don't need to hold on so tight,
just let me know,
like a wooden floor, I believe in you.
Lets put our hearts up for sale, scream our lungs out in the desert,
turn these minds into landfill.
While we are still young with fresh blood pulsing through us,
meet me.
I'll run to see you at the fork in the road,
I'll scramble to all of our unspoken truths
to have one more moment,
keep you a little longer,
and feed you a bite of my heart.

Sunken.

There's little more
than nothing
left in this aged head.
I stripped the walls
from white
to wood,
instantly
I hated it.

I'm Asking.

Lock me up,
lock up this shattered girl and throw away they key.
I need something to keep me in this spot
when every breath fills my body with the
urge to leave.

Tie me down,
tie up my fingers, my hands, my toes and feet.
Anchor me to what I know is right
because I'm so damn good at running from
the echo of defeat.

Echo.

Embrace my warm demon,
drain out your heart some.
We drink but never fly,
intoxicate the darkness
more than live.
I am a walking victim
of an endless moonlight need.

Stained.

Walk on, son. Walk on now.
So you can still lift your head tomorrow,
don't tarnish that fucked up name of yours.
Someone will kiss her shoulders like she used to wish
you would,
and he'll hold onto her, for dear life,
because he can see her for what she really is.
Walk on son, just walk on now.
There ain't nothing you can do
but thank her momma for that pretty face.

Confession.

Forgive me father for I have sinned.

I have kept a meaty part of myself under tight lock and key, I have hidden the darkness I bathe in so deep now I cannot breathe.

I must confess this now, before I choke on me;

I want to drown in this swirling mess, I want to suffocate so fucking badly.

Why haven't I been able to turn this bathwater red?

The idea of it is so enchanting, so soft against my desperately un-mottled skin,

so smooth against my tragically unscarred face.

Light.

Lost in the has-to-be-fiction of these nights
completely addicted to the sound of brewing storms
and finally,
as the rain fell, we held hands.
The dirt and I was washed away
by the torrential knowledge of what it finally was.
The flood,
the fire.
The smell of pepper and cherries on your skin,
and I,
hungrier than ever before.

Disintegrated.

A blade
of grass

A murder
of crows

A shot
of Vodka

A sharp
opinion

The curse
of beauty

The blood
of oranges

Drowning
of sorrows

The kiss
of death.

And my shattered mind.

Perfect.

In the abyss of frustration
sleeping in smoky rooms
and wearing wine stained t-shirts
listening to Nirvana
and only eating your words,
you called me.

I can't tell you how flattered I am.
Really.

You Are.

You are.
The brilliant poem
I cannot write,
the string of words
I cannot pearl together.

You are.
My unwritten song of 90 days.

Quietly.

Sitting side by side on a swing,
moving between uncertainty and wistfulness,
we both stay silent.
I had imagined your face months ago, although your hair was darker
in my mind.
The names of faces
have long gone.
I have let down my Rapunzel hair,
and although I don't expect to feel your weight
tonight,
I will keep my braids loosened
just in case.

Ghosts.

The open window let the breeze in, carrying with it the smell of salt spray and ghosts from years passed/past.
Hands open; white, empty canvases.
In the moonlight the room expanded.
A world developed within these walls and I swam through the provinces I had once occupied.
I tangle myself up in an age that was my innocence, and greedily drink saltwater from my eyes.
I miss us so much more than miss.
The night is endless and my loss is forever.
Racing with dreams and messy thoughts, my mind slips further from the world I now belong,
I now belong.

Naked and dripping in moonlight, alabaster skin begins to hum with desire that only exists in the before.
Wriggling and slithering through imagined deep waters,
touching the wet memory we shared for lifetimes,
sinking further into a watery grave.

Girl On Fire.

She hasn't softened her grip on the noose, rough around her neck.
Shutting her eyes tighter than an oyster shell she tries to shed some salty water.
Next tuesday she'll set fire to herself,
waking the neighbours
and adding to the portrait of misery she has scarred on her skin.

Scattered bottles of pills and rusted razor blades,
bottles of charcoal
and a bathtub of lukewarm water is where she calls home.
She wraps herself up in kerosene comforts and inhales.
She is running into her end as fast as she can.

They have burnt sage to exorcise her, and pulsed her mind to numb her.
She knows the walls of pure white rooms are the blackest of all.
She gets higher when she swallows gravel,
finds more clarity with her head underwater.
"That girl", they whisper,  "That girl is on fire."

Cold Dust Girl.

It was a chance.

A ticket booked for an hourless flight,
and the job you took when you were 18.

The six steps you climbed to get to me.

A small screen conversation with a friend,
and a sleepless wednesday night.

I met you at the top of the stairs.

Riot.

Your halo is flickering again

and you might need the light
when you drive the final nail in.

It's true; I let my words turn black,
though they still sound so beautiful.
I can't remember when it was
that I actually cared about you.

I have plunged myself in the ground
beneath someone else's feet now,
so I guess you can blame it all on me.

I didn't look back when the riot started,
I didn't turn around once when
the adolescent hurricane finally hit.
I knew I wasn't leaving anything (worthwhile) behind.

Fugitives.

Things fray,

but you sit perfectly against my skin.
It was music you know,
the way you first murmured my name;
poetry on a blank page.
It filled this once empty gallon drum
I had sitting beneath my ribcage.
Rest your eyes lover,

rest your doubtless mind aswell;
I took my first real breath
when you slipped your boots
off on my bedroom floor.

This Morning.

In the indigo tinted light
of one more sleepless dawn
I rested my head on your shoulder
and planted the rest in your hands.

Dust.

And so it spreads,
thicker than a viscous deception and more
violently
than an infidelity.
Curing all the innocence with a sliding tongue of deceit
and spreading the killer,
the new cancer
the fresh disease.
It shines like the fresh start the old testament foretold
and feels like cleared air after rain weary weather
finally fades,
but
sometimes the dirt becomes so thick you just want to get
dirtier,
just need to sink further into the grit,
itch to feel the filth in every eyes-open kiss.

The dust will settle in the same place as before,
and all those fingertips will those their points.

Perfume.

In the middle of the night
the phone was hot against my ear.
She sounded like she had red lips and a cigarette
in her hand
as she broke my heart, telling me my love was in fact
hers.
I could smell her perfume through the cables
and see her blonde hair resting perfectly on her shoulders.
Fresh cut flowers through every room,
and white lace against her flawless skin.
Curled up in mismatched sheets
with my tears wetting my tangled hair,
I realised that I don't stand a chance against
women
when I'm nothing more than just a girl.

Lift.

I know this could completely drown me but
I want to keep swimmng out to sea.
I dreamt you came over,
felt the weight of your body
and listened to your fingers making soft music
on me.