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.