snow

little moon baby
eyes like mine
deeper than black holes
telling tales of destruction
her hand rests on my hip
and I would never compare her to
a doll, but
the words to describe someone so
precious and delicate escape me
her skin is snow
so how do I melt when
it’s mine that is warm?
we will never understand us or them
those beasts of brawn and hair
they fill the holes but don’t heal
I wonder if I want to love her
as I wish I loved myself

Advertisements

titanic

a girl
just as lost as I was,
reached out with
a perfectly manicured hand.
queen captain of the new Titanic,
weathering a storm you
could never know
(not even in your worst nightmares).
the lies of boys brought us together
brought us to a three-hour phone
conversation before we even knew
who we were.
that’s not how us damaged girls are
supposed to act, but
even then we knew where
our blood was best directed.
a girl,
with more beauty and soul than
you could ever understand
(or would deserve).
they should be the ones eating our pain
digesting it whole and
letting it fester in their rotten guts
but that
is not how life works, so on
and on we will go.
she does not need to prove anything
to you, but look how she
glimmers in the light as
a pearl
even when you try to cast your shadow.
fuck you,
we live.

prince

I used to think he was a prince,
and I wrote about him with diamonds
flowing from my pen.

I stared at him in wide eyed
wonder whilst he slept
in my bed, and I so wanted to
plant myself in his soil
and grow my smothering bindweed
around him.

I let the waves of
obsession and lust
wash over my heart,

and oh,
those waves were so
lovely for a time

(until they came crashing down
and I screamed for three
whole hours when I realised
he did not plan on falling in
love with me).

then he was gone and
I was powerless and
angry and consumed by
my need for his
royal validation.

“I hate you!
come back,”
I whispered into our letters,

and my pen flowed
not with diamonds but
poisoned well-water.

then time passed
and I grew and
flowered and blossomed and
shed my buds and became
an oak.

and
when he came back
(because that is what
always seems to happen),

he wasn’t a prince and
his hair wasn’t spun gold anymore.
he was just a man.

I wasn’t his arrow
and my burns had healed

no longer so susceptible to
drops of water and kisses.

I revelled in our connection
and nothing more.
I looked at him and he at me.

uncomplicated and free
and true in our humanity and our
normalcy and our faultery
and our fuck ups.

maybe now that I am a tree
and not a twining unwanted stem
I can be like this
and feel joy for its simplicity
instead of dissecting its
fragile meaning.

or maybe I will muse and see
that my desire for his turrets and towers
ebbs away with the moonlight
trickling down my thighs as
the lap of the warmest tide
goes out. 

we shall see, little prince.

star part II

read part I here

I wrote once
a little while ago about
a burning hot star that
scalded my palms and
blinded my eyes
I wondered why I was
so paralysed by its beauty
and so afraid of its power
I plunged my hands into it then,
not knowing how to harness its purity
I gilded my fingers silver
and skinned them to the bone

stars are all white gold
and full of dreams
but they don’t travel through galaxies
and now that I understand how to
work my telescope,
instead of staring into the light
with bare-eyed fascination
I can see that the star, so far from
my breathing earth
is burning itself into static death
going out in a blaze of beauty
that will suck the life out of every
little thing around it

I look away from the endless sky
and down at my feet, tempered in their
little leather boots
and see the leaves swilling around them
I see the pearls of dew drops glisten
and grass growing through cracks in the pavement
a sparked single match lights a
wood fire somewhere to my left
and I realise that a burnt-out sun
a thousand light years away
could never warm my healing hands
could never captivate and delight my eye
the way my left-hand fire could

jennifer

she is clear
as a pealing bell
ringing resolutely
across countrysides
and through brick buildings

jennifer
she is painted
with golden freckles
blue ocean rays of light
ebb and tide in her eyes
the English rose
blinks Mediterranean waters

jennifer
her heart brings me
morning joy
she is
pancakes for breakfast
on a Wednesday
just because

jennifer
was my favourite name
as a child
on birthdays I’d wish to meet her
I’d dream
of who she could be

jennifer
I hope to hear
her birdsong laugh
again
and again
and again

vitiligo

beautiful boy
you are gone
but I will not
let you die.

the sickness of death
so heavy
the black rain winds
that so many others have written

would be easy
to concentrate on.

my friend,
you were not sickness
but for a tarnished
group of moments.

the pain of your absence,
leaves us open-surgery hearts.
but the steadfastness
of your soul

pumps scarlet blood
to each fingertip.

still you sit
underneath my window,
your breathing turned to droplets
laughing so hard

the cigarettes fell out
of our mouths.
still we dance
for hours and hours

to average white-boy beats
(I always knew you could make better).

you could never
vanish from existence.
how implausible
to imagine.

as if
your vitiligo arms
could cease to be
in the world.

no, they are here.
just as the rest of you is here.

beautiful boy,
I will not let you be gone.
because the world is too small
without you.

the vigor of life
so light
does not matter.
you have only slipped away

into the next room.
and so it will continue to be

until I see you again.

happy 25th birthday finn

(I used a line from the Henry Scott Holland poem “death is nothing at all” that bears some relevance here. points if you can find it)