I imagine myself
in a house without
windows

I grow there,
stilted, like a
flower denied
of rain and
sunlight

I am always
cold, covered
in thin hairs that
rise like flames
when a whisper
reaches the back
of my neck

I am always
scared, rivers of
fear flowing like
blood through
my veins

I am always
hungry, remembering
the taste of fresh bread
in the morning

It has been a long time
since I ate

Your name has lingered
Too long on my lips
Bruised and chapped
Turning blue as the
Summer passes
Skipping autumn
Into winter
Where I am always
Hungry and
Wondering streets
That are endless
Yet lit only
In the middle
I hear your
Cry in my ear
And turn
To my face
To nothing
The taste of you
Still warms me
but I am
outside looking
in on a bed
freshly made
white cotton
sheets
and I don’t know
how to look
away from
it

I hope you've ****** the blood
dry from your wounds

the fruit of a woman's
words

led their by the promise
of a future

there would be a silver
ring wrapped around a finger

and twenty pairs of eyes
crying

tears falling onto white cotton
lap

children being shushed

girls being pushed into lilac
dresses

old ladies pressing lavender
between liver spots

fearful thirty somethings
clutching at stems

I hope it doesn't look like this
when you look back

I hope the sun shone and your
father wept

his little girl learning how to be
a woman

from the back of a mans hand

fingers trying not to rub off the ink
a signature

as it sets

In the fullness
of your kiss

I am

the taste of
honey licked
from teaspoons,

the feel of
clean sheets
on freshly
washed skin,

the smell of
cut grass that
sticks to the skin
of my back,

the sight of
mountains moving
as my fingers
draw their own
landscapes,

and the sound
of white waves
softly whispering
songs of the
ocean

We have
the choice
to either
chase
every hour
given to
us
or to
claw back
every hour
in a desperate
chase to
put things
right

There will be a moment
when time places it's hand
on your shoulder
and forces you to
turn and face it,

staring you down
like a dog, with a bite
that threatens to take
every drop of blood,
of life, that your skin
contains

you will not bleed
before you hit
the ground, limbs
spread at angles
no mathematician
would dare
to calculate

there will be a moment
when you swallow
the entire universe,
feel it's press against
your gut, urging
you to let it
go

touching the shape
of the air, feeling
each pocket close
and open, like a flower
against your cheek

on your way down
there will be
a moment

to finally breathe

The only thing left
to come between us
is the ocean,
white waves arching
like naked backs,
drenched rocks
shining in dim
sunlight, sharks
chasing the scent
of blood that streams
from the hole in my...
where your fish hook
pulled my heart
straight out

By the time I was thirty,
I had carved fish with
butter knifes, licking
the sides clean,

I had chosen shoes
for the width of their
narrow heals and lipstick
for the hours it promised
to sit on your lips,

I had held the hand
of a child that wasn't
mine as it cried, and
wiped the wet mouth
of a stranger,

but I had never
felt the look
of a man
gut me

hook me,
helplessly,
and shake
out my
insides

until now

The grass was tall
enough to hide me
from anyone

and I wrapped myself
up in it's long blades,
braiding them into
my hair, softly
tickling my skin

pulling daisies down to
the roots, my fingernails
shining with silver polish,
teasing magpies as
I dig

down into the earth,
turning up memories
and moments in the
chaos of soil

the past and present
mingling on my skin
as I dig, deeper,
greedily

listening to the scattered
songs of birds and
imagining how
I look to them

small and frantic

but strangely, I am not

I am calm, calmer

and the smell of buttercups
reminds me of childhood
games, of holding flowers
under chins, teasing
and tripping

moments, memories

pockets in time that the
voices haven't reached
and I relish them

counting them on
my fingers

as they play

and then, there are noises,
shouts, doors banging
and windows shaking

fingers clawing at
my throat and
yelling

spit

bloodstains on the cuffs
of my dress

and sirens

I grew up with
an apple tree,
growing right in front
of my door

each year,
they would swell,
bright red skin
stretching around
white flesh

my grandfather
would pick the
sweetest and
hold it out
to me

saying how sad
he felt when he held
me before my mother
had named me

how I never believed
in Santa and liked
to lick the lemon
pips off his fingers
when he made
lemonade

I was growing up
so fast, he'd say,
but my roots
would always sleep
beneath his feet
with the apple tree

Teach me
the contours
of your
body
and I shall
memorise
them
and find
you again

You have always tasted life
with my lips,

each night we spent
swapping secrets
under stars,

each kiss of my neck
that sent shivers of
electricity down
my spine,

every cigarette that
we shared between
shaking hands,

limbs unfolding like rose
petals, skin peeling
away at your touch
shredding me down
to the bone

where you stand,
watching and waiting

You have always tasted life
from my lips

Through winters I wonder,
boots laced up high,
containing each
step as I follow
your footprints

home

Ask anyone, they’ll tell you
she likes to pretend,
red heels and red lipstick,
chest waving between
parked cars,

behind the supermaket
she stripped,
stealing glances
at another’s skin,

to kiss on the concrete,
so close to preachers
pressing papers
into hands,

was like walking
through a thick forest,
lips parted and
desperate for
air

Tortured
My face
Contorted

The earth
Bending around
My bones

The shell
Of me
Cracked

Timeless
My skin
Ages

By the
Second

What of
The hollow
Crown

I wear
Around my
Head

Empty spaces
And echoes
Of yesterday

The future
Twisted like
A tree branch

In a hurricane

Eyes blacker
Than night
Skies

Starless and
The moon
Is cold

I am alone
Utterly

In the silence
Of 6AM

Does time
Heal all
Wounds

I don't think so

I think age
May tame
Them

But old
Hurts
Run like
Rivers

Of fire

Consuming
Everything

Eating me
To the
Bones

Essentially, I want
to love what has
never been loved
before

to hold what has
never been hurt
against my heart

to fight death
with my bare
hands

and conquer it

If we lie here long enough
we will feel the curve of
the Earth moulding into
the curve of our spines,

the universe expanding above
us, relentless and racing as
our hands weave together,
pulled tight at the fingers
like shoe laces,

we watch paper aeroplanes
fly like comets, brilliant
against the carpet of night,

cloudless, we imagine faces
that we know, white stars
growing like flowers,
time passing in seconds,
speeding into hours as

our hearts beat against
our bones, the air wrapping
around our skin  as we fit,
piece by piece,

into each other

He said I would never forget
the taste of his name
on my lips,

the soft sound of his breath
against my irregular heart
beat

he told me, the first thing
about love was to find the
right cadence of their name
in your mouth,

it was more important than
the brush of fingertips on
naked skin,

hungrier than
the touch of lips on lips,

needier than a thousand goodnights.

My tongue fitted the shape of it,
somehow, and I know a name
by any other rose would taste
bitter, like unsweetened lemonade

and our goodbyes would be the same, passionless, less urgent,
asserting that I would never
forget the taste of my first
love's name on my lips

Fear is strange. As a concept it motivates you, a driving force, as an emotion is paralyses you. The fear of being unable to move in itself makes your muscles work. Flexing. Clenching. The need to run. Escape. But you can't. You can't move. There's a war going on between mind and muscle, and in this conflict I am the only casualty.

I've always been running, never bothering to throw breadcrumbs behind, but I never knew what I was running from.

One morning, she grabbed me in her sleep, as if I was the only solid thing in the room, maybe in the world...

I never asked what she was dreaming about. I didn't reach out to her. Fear.

The day she slammed the car door behind her as she got out. It was embarrassing how annoyed I was. How absolutely, blindly ******* I was about it. I feel so bad about it now, looking back I feel bad about a lot of the **** we did, or I did, the pointless cruelty of it.

As I lie on the grass I feel the bladed reaching beneath my shirt. Itching. Every single blade of grass is blocking every single pore of my skin, as if insects are nesting. The air curves around my limbs, as if to accommodate for hers.

She must have felt it and a part of her must have felt more alive because of it. Isn't that such a cliche? Feeling more alive because you're dying. If you can see all of time folding in front of you, hear your past crash into the back of you... Would you break or put your foot down?

Her dress was that kind of orange colour that makes you feel slight sick if you stare at it for too long. It was funny the way the blood stains formed in circles. Perfect. Circles. Like a penny... It was still neat apart from a small tear at the hip...

She must have felt the ripple of the air across her skin as she stood there. It must have been like a blanket. Soft and cushiony. She could have wrapped herself in it. Protected herself.

Maybe she really did feel protected, by the air, from the fall. Maybe that's all anyone wants to feel. I don't think so, I stood there...

It was so black. Hard and hatefully black. I couldn't look down for long. It made me feel too small for the world. Everything grew around me, the pit spread out like a sheet beneath me, the air rippling, my skin itching.

It swallowed her. How could she stand there and not be altered by it? How could she walk away as the same person? Who would she be?

I move around the flat like a blind man. I don't know where the edges of anything are anymore. I don't know where the edges of my body start. The rooms are huge, so huge that even the silence echoes.

I feel inexplicably and overwhelmingly bored. People tell me how sorry they are but I've heard it all ready. People send cards with nice things written in them but I've read them all before. Every smell is the same. The perfume that lingers on her scarf is the same. I'll never be surprised again by the smell of something new. I will never smell anything except the last whispers of her.

All food tastes the same. All girls look the same. I stay the same. I look in the mirror and I can't believe how I still look like me. I can't understand why my heart is still covered by skin and bone and muscle when it's been ripped.... Ripped... Ripped out...

They told me that the platform was crowded, as they pushed styrofoam cups of **** brown water into my hands. 'Good' I say...

I've said the wrong thing again. You would think it would be people saying the wrong thing to me but it isn't. My mouth doesn't work in relation to my brain anymore. There's a delay, a time difference...

As I stand there, my heart eats itself, my lungs clench, my muscles twitch and the urge to take one more tiny step takes over my veins like a virus.

The speakers are broken but the woman's determined, in case it was an accident, in case she didn't know,

'High speed trains through this station.'

My eyes open and
it starts,

insect like creatures
walking over my
brain,

each foot fall
falling in an
unbearable

tap, tap,

tapping, the inside
of my skull

knocks,

knock, knock,
he is always there,

is it a he? It must be
from the way he
dances,

twisting his limbs
into irregular
shapes,

patterns that bend
and change the
harder you look
at them.

In a fluid moment,
the kiss of a shape
shifter catches
my lips,

I am thirsty, now,
desperate to drink
something over than
my own acidic
breathes,

I pace pavements,
laces dragging, catching
stones in the soles of
my broken shoes,

the ground shakes,
threatening to open
up

but still I keep
moving, as I am
eaten, insides
first,

claws pulling,
jaws looming.

I walk, blind and
bloodied, fighting
gravity with my
bare hands

as the world buckles
beneath me, the
very roots of the Earth
bending beneath
my feet as I am

swallowed whole

He talked of shedding
skin and roaming
constellations

the bones of the
Earth breaking
beneath us

the past blending
seemleslly jnto
the future

spinning time

and weaving
ourselves out of
the present

It was beautiful to touch
the curve of your spine

outside, gray skies dance
over umbrellas, foam cups of
sugared coffee sit tight
between gloved hands

everything is m o v i n g

yet in here, I am still,
limbs kneaded to the
curve of your

s
p
   i
n
e

I try to remember the sound
of padded paw prints,
foxes chasing rabbits
underneath trees,
shedding their leaves
across autumn

the smell of honey
and lemon rising form
a bowl of boiling water

but I can't,

these fresh sheets
should remind me of forests
and old wives cold remedies

but instead, your hands rest
upon them, skin brittle and
transparent , as I place damp
cotton buds to your chapped lips

thinking only of winter
folding before us, electric blankets
that burn through
to my thighs

leaving red marks that spread
like sly smiles from the corners
of your mouth

when they took
the wires
out

I remember braiding hair
at the mouth of the river,
golden strings weaving
between my fingers

legs stretched roughly
across long grass, the
itch of it spreading
under our cotton
dresses

I imagine, the waves
washing over my face
as I swim down consuming
the deep black drop
of nothingness,

as I cover my ears
to the roars
of planes,

turn my guts away
from the motion
of a boat

I listen,
to the beat of
your heart as I thread

strand over strand

and pull

You called it a race
to the stars, each one
bursting as we reached
its edges,  the whites of
their eyes becoming yellow,
sweeping the sky in
orange kisses,

and in those explosions
of colour and fire,
I realised that love
was chasing us

into nothingness

It was your turn to wake me,
your arched back stretching,
muscles flexing as you
lengthened your limbs
towards me, covering my skin
with yours, in creases that
whisper,

good morning

I wanted a man
to gasp at the heels
of my shoes,

I'd pick them for their colour
and become it,

as if sequins could stitch
to my soul and make it

shine

blue eyes dancing
with firelight

arches of ash
under which we shall

kiss

One by one
our memories
will become
boxed photographs
and these colours
will fade like
stars, disappearing
at daybreak

The look in your eyes
hooks me,

taking me back to the days
of my grandfathers, dark
whiskey in hip-flasks kept close
to their chests, eating tinned fruit
and singing to warm themselves up
on cold nights

I remember the sound of their voices,
thick and throaty, as if forty
cigarettes a day had eaten
into their chords

I wear their blazers sometimes,
Over a red dress, imagining myself
before they thought of me

wondering if they felt the rain fall
on their face as blood washed the
souls of their shoes

I know that your green eyes
are searching my face for signs and
similarities, the past threatening to
seep through the open pores
of my skin

I am corrupted

To hold

your heart

in my hand

would be

enough

to feel

alive

we spend our evenings
taking long drags of
expensive cigarettes
and shots of single
malt whiskey, oblivious
to the yellowing of our skin
and liver, you place your
hands over my hands
as I tremble in the cold air,
stretching our limbs towards
the sky,  as if we our
soaking in starlight

In the dark
we touch
souls

not knowing
if we exist
at all

when we wake, I trace
the lines of your lips
with my lips, cherry
flavoured and empty of
questions

I have tried to tame the universe,
as it's fabric teared into violent
mornings, racing towards ******
afternoons,

messages left in smudged
fingerprints across sheets
of time,

licking the sky gray

You trace the lines
of my tattoos, gently,
and ask, softly,
for their stories

so I open my skin to you,
letting you see the layers
that I've buried beneath
black ink

I've heard people talk of
the power there is in
destroying something gentle,

but I think that I will always,
always, let voices of autumn
take me by the hand and
whisper secrets

and resist crunching leaves
with my feet

Stars open between
the trees in which
I’m hiding,
the river catching
their light,

ghostly reflections
of the men
I have known
wink at me from
their watery depths

I play a game,
imagining a
narrow boat
that a family
inhabit,

a small child
running its length,
folding their bed
into kitchen
space

inside, I am
panicked,
knowing that I
cannot swim and
that the forest
is closing
in

Across the pillow,
I stare at your sleeping
skin, wondering if it
will full todays
hunger

March is made of madness,

butterflies that flutter
against my brain, my
heart, a wasp in
a jar

my voice shakes,
I drink cheap cider
that burns my insides,
from dented cans
that cut my lips

earning war wounds
as I try to cover
my battle scars

sleep chases me
and I hide in doorways,
dressed in black and blending,
begging the flickering
orange streetlights
to swallow me

his serpents tongue
licks my ear

soft, quiet and deadly

the fruit I should never
have eaten rises in my throat,
like anger

threatening to flee

and I have no choice
but to swallow
it

I trace
running rivers
with my feet,
around corners
and pockets
of rocks

I am
seeking you,
like a child
will endlessly
wait, watching
clouds turn into
faces that
they recognise

under the sun,
my body burns
without you,
against barren
wastelands and
scorched earth,
I pound, foot
fall, after foot
fall, racing rivers
to reach you
first

I would have moved
mountains, with my bare
hands, if you'd asked me
too

instead my hands wrap,
tight, inside themselves,
fingers weaving patterns
with each wave of
my heart beat

aching, breaking with
each rise and fall,
quick paced and
frantic

as a child, you're told

- the devil makes work
for idle thumbs -

but you are just a man

We always kiss in
the dark, scared to
know if we keep
our eyes open

instead, I take in

(smell)

the scent of your
aftershave, mulling
like wine, into
my neck,

(taste)

a cigarette, taken
with coffee,

(hear)

the sound of
your teeth
clicking against
my teeth,

(feel)

the sweep of
your tongue
filling my
cavities

the movement
of four
embraces me

and in that blindness
my heart beats,
faster, as if
fierce love is as
simple as

darkness

There is a part of me
so hidden, that a gentle
coaxing of a finger
is as meaningless to it
as a single stone that falls
in a storm

in its silence,
I grow,
weaker

I am shattered, like glass
surrounded now
with splinters

after all these years, I am
still trying to wash it
away

the constant splashing
of water on my
face

does nothing to cool it

hipbones echoing,
hollow and
weak

the taste of his lips
on my lips
has lingered

like a secret,
I drink it, deep
down into my
throat

consuming me

(and only me)

Lay with me,
between the sand
and the sea

weave my hair
between your fingers,
in time to the wind

kiss me, as if Monday's
don't exist

and we will make sense of
this senselessness

As a child, I believed in
April, in nights that
drew way from winter,
and pulled sharply into
Spring

the smell of polish
soaking into old oak
furniture

my fingers playing
lightly with the
wind

and daffodils

now, I dread
the frequent showers,
the Easter eggs planted
like mines,

surrounding me

in that moment of
unkowingness, I am a child
again, checking flower beds
for clues and seeking sweetness
in neglected corners
of earth

I was never interested
in hunting until I lost
myself

I have given each part of my
heart a name

attached it to a memory and
age

this one is seven, cutting off
the blonde hair of Barbie dolls
and painting in the plastic, fleshless scalp with my
wax crayons

now she is eleven, anxious walks
from school, skipping self consciously, aware, painfully
aware of everything

the size of her fists clenched
in fear against her palms,
the length of her nails scratching
out moments so that they
pass

(faster)

now, I am ageless,
nameless - I don't belong
to anyone, not even to
myself

and it is better this way,
to be dragging my knees over
the glass of a shattered whiskey
glass

crawling, the dirt is where I
belong now, it is where I
nest - and the state of my
skin is nothing

nothing compared to the torn fabric of my past

aged seventeen and bro-
ken

cheap *****,
dangerously cheap
*****

a spare room, is where my body is hijacked, and the very core of him
becomes the core of me

as he takes me,
piece by bloodied piece

until there is
nothing left
of a girl

no hearts,
no parts,
no names

the bitterness,
the knowledge,
that it was ***
that broke me

and that only ***
can make me
whole again

Too soon, she became a human,
climbing perilously

(unwinged)

to kiss the sky,
to see waves roll over oceans

(she would tame a tiger with
her mortal fingers)

inside, she knew that it would take
magic, not love

to save her

I have burns
on my hands
from touching
you

as the blisters
burst

I feel you
eradicate
my fingerprints

and

(again)

I

become

nothing...

as a child, I drank
cherryade through strawberry
lace straws,

I remember the taste
of the first sugar
rush, innocent
and reckless

now, there is the morning
after, holding hands with
hangovers on commuter
trains

and in the bottom of glasses
and mirrors, truth shines

and although my drinks are
still red, the wine

reaches my heart, faster
and sits
in the place of
a lover

and the

crash

is no longer

cushioned

by something sweet

My heart

hurts

from

the iodine

the lick of a metal

tongue

eyes sting

wounds

need healing

but I'm in love

with

the

Iodophor