I honestly hope your house of cards tumbles down and you are left as cold and...
um. You asked me to say what was on my mind last night, I said I couldn’t articulate it. I knew every barbed, searing word. I held my tongue just to make sure we had sex. We make me a person I do not enjoy.
I told you I loved you just to keep you here. I do not want you here. I do not love you. I do not like that I said that.
I am hopelessly, tirelessly, shamelessly,...
I am happy for all that my love is with. I am happy for all that my love is without. Hope. Fatigue. Shame. Weight.
Lay down, so he might stand.
I think of you in your cold bed. I know I could keep you warm. You’re upset, cold, vulnerable. But still you’d cause me harm.
November 15th 2012
I’m still here where you left me, Still looking at the door. Still covered in dry sex and sweat, Still terrified of more. I’m full of shame for missing you, Still full of lust from kissing you, Still upside down from this sin, you should not have ever come.
7th November 2012 - On the Train
The waddling blister of heart disease in a respectable blue sweater awkwardly wedges himself between seat and table. The arm rests and table groan in hopeless harmony as he spills over, under and about them. He is less brash and entirely less repulsive than the arrogant coronary in the pink shirt. His face is ugly, hardened in expression by an uninspiring life of mediocrity and catastrophically...
all smiling and sharking, the dancefloor is heaving. It’s all so fucking empty. My head is in pieces, but I’ll keep on moving, pretending like you never met me.
I can’t write or sing a melody, know no chords, but then what’s worse is - all my poetry ends up on the page as simple choruses and verses.