hole

I watched him die
slowly
six years,
three quarters of my little life
I watched my mother die
next to him
although her body did not decay.
I watched her
ripped apart by love
spit and stamped on by love
I watched her clean up
puddles of love’s vomit
heard her drown in it
wailing for release.
the cries of grief are not made of rocks or sand.

I watched my brother
my sister, die
over the years to come
and I watched myself die, too.
how could you expect us to live
after seeing what life can do?
the rancid stench of sickness
stuck heavy like petrol in our air
the honey of hell
dripping off our tongues.
and what could be done?
we could not ask
Mother for help
because she died that night
just after he turned into yellow stone
she died as his mind bled out his ear
as his eyes, still blinking, became foreign
she died as she fed him (dutifully)
raised us (dutifully)
cleaned him (dutifully)
stacked supermarket shelves (dutifully)
told everyone he was sick and dying (dutifully).
and so it was that she died,
dutifully.

all those little deaths will kill you,
eventually
and you only realise when you ask yourself to love
and there is nothing but a dried up hole
in your heart, where love is supposed to live.
then, the fleeting offer of degradation
seems prettier than the promise of forever.
“you fools don’t know that forever will be what kills you!”
screams the hole, the little mouth
such a loud voice for something so
extinct.

what if he dies those
long little deaths
before my eyes,
dragging me down to hell
as my father did to her?
and I, the fool in love
will I sit dutifully as he dissolves and churns, alone?
a whole life’s sacrifice for love,
only for him to die on me?
my
this psychology is so complex
withered roots tangle and kiss in my
little mouth of little deaths

learned the lesson that love is pain
love is death
love is grief and anguish
and put my theories to the test more than once
proved tout a fait
so suffer, screams the hole.
good reason dictates life is worth it,
suffering only a lesson
just neurons and nerves
but good reason cannot answer to
fear that feels bigger than all of existence
to pain that sets my face on fire,
turns m limbs into twigs and
my breath into acid.

but will you die on this hill, girl?
will you take that left fork
and cut off you arm
to stay alone, safe?
it’s what they all sing about
love, love, love.
and I know now that life is lovely
at the very least
and that good reason
it dictates love is not
always loss.
but I have to feel it
to believe it.

I have to open that gate
oil the rusty hinges
find a compass through the noise
and chatter of death,
let my feelings marry my reason.
life is not living if
controlled by fear, after all
and maybe it is a bird that I need
to string to my wrist
and guide me home.

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direct messages

16 01 18

my compassion
kindness
is my gift.
to myself and to you
I see the child in your eyes
maybe I know now
what kate bush was singing about.
the fearful child
wears your masculine flesh
like a costume
I see through the suit
and I see who you are.
you hurt me, and
I will step away
but I will still
give you with the
kindness that you shut out,
that you have shut out
for so long
to survive the cruelties of the earth.
you fill the holes
of your soul with dirt
and pack it in tight
like that’s not going to attract worms.
darling,
they’ll eat straight through the heart you
claim you have.
stop talking to yourself in stories
destroy your cold cynicism
in the fires of existing
you can do it darling,
you can do it.
take off that rotten
costume you wear.
bleed into the days and nights
for as long as you need to.
I send you compassion,
down the length of my arm.
now please,
get the fuck out of my DMs
and don’t you dare presume
to sexualise my kindness again

itch

05 09 18

you bit me all those years ago
sucked the blood from my heart
permissively, engorged your own
and I scratched away fervently
not letting the scab heal.
I scratched and scratched
until a little hole was formed, junkie-like.
I know better now
you bloodsucker, poison-leaver
heart-fucker
but I cannot unscar skin and muscle.
you are my permanent injury.
I abstain from scratching
but the itch still remains
potent,
as it ever was.

daughter

2017. excerpt from a song 

my brother’s your other
I would have had your daughter
I’m not the tiny creature
you think I am
I’m the big bad wolf
incubus succubus
evil eagle pecking out your eyes

I could have stayed and laid
there forever with you
forever with you
you leak out of my eyes
like a traumatic head injury would
I could have stayed and laid
there forever with you

I don’t know what
I want from you
but I know I don’t
I don’t want you

the dirt

women, the balm
balm for my wounds
seamstresses of my heart
blood in my blood
those men never related to me
they just wanted my eyes wide
and my mouth wide
maybe I wanted their eyes wide too
or maybe I just wanted a new father
but they are not in my blood,
like you women are in my blood.
come, warriors
on the other side
of the world
inside a phone screen
or ten tube stops away
come,
over bread and oil,
or cigarettes
or creating –
you warriors,
you make my bones strong
and my mind agile.
let me do the same for you
and let me stop apologising
for needing you
you pearls,
you islands,
you sisters.
cry,
and I will cry too
and we will
lock our fingers together
and keep growing out of the dirt.

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

lover

our friend with the red-haired
beard became my lover.
and like no other he
pushes and pulls me up and down
hills and planes.
I guess I spill my guts out onto
the floor more than he’d expect
and being so stoic and sweet,
I don’t know if he knows
what to do when a girl comes to him
holding out her own intestines.
but it doesn’t matter,
because my red-haired lover will
try anyway.
toaster’s broken,
fuck knows where to start, but
he starts.
that’s why I like him.
stoic and sweet and full of
practical advice and
reminders that life really
is not that serious, girl.
and when the sun comes out
and illuminates the flecks of
gold in his red-haired beard
god, it makes me feel sweet
and I revel as I feel his
elasticity sweat into my skin
and my softness dripping into
his open mouth.
lover,
I hope we don’t ever
step on each other’s hearts.