infinite tenderness

Being reunited with your first childhood love is something that feels very sudden, out of place, yet completely in place: fitting like a puzzle piece into your life. Seeing her again is like closing my eyes on a rollercoaster and opening them again only when they tell you to take off your seatbelt: and you feel like you’ve missed out on this whole middle chunk and you wished you were there to see it (yet you also don’t), so you just get the end product delivered to you. No labels. No preamble. Just the person with a smile that has shifted slightly and eyes that have lost and gained hope for what seems like centuries. And you remember seeing her joyous and naïve and ignorant, her eyes wide open like gemstones begging for light, for life to hit them. But it’s still all there. And the whiff you smell when she passes you is always the same and you know that if you were to squeeze her all into one drop of essential precious oil, it would smell as strongly and beautifully as it did three years ago. She wears scars now, but she also wears the same golden nail polish, and this little curious quirk has popped up in her- and it drives me crazy: her curiosity for life. She’s sticking her tongue out to taste what it feels like to be alive. And I’ll always feel this infinite tenderness towards her.

Advertisements

to my mother//tug of war

broken thorns

scratch

catch

against

supple skin

arborescent fingertips

spin

vines around

the heart

the lungs

 

and you’ll want to exhale

but your ribcage

is climbing up

your throat

and you’ll want to

stay afloat

through the wetblack

glimmering

river of –

 

hope

strangling

despair

dangling from

anger

sprawling over

affection

 

it’s a tug of war

we switch between being

the rope

and the

hands

pulling,

pushing

each other apart

just to restart.

 

we’re both trying

to glimpse past

the haze between

our eyelashes

squeeze past –

sneak past,

the gap between

our two front teeth –

the gap between,

our heart,

our words

 

and we try,

and try,

and cry

and try

trip over each other’s

broken pieces

with glue in our hands

intentions

waiting for attention

 

sneaking glimpses

 

calloused fingers

spilling over the other’s cheeks

wiping away tears

and

dust from

everyday life

sinking into comfort

with a twinge of pain

but it’s home

anyway

so we don’t stare

anyway

 

and in the end

we look out

windows,

where the rain starts

abruptly

and we’ll be

softly

grazing,

gazing at the sky

 

and

we’ll find each other’s

shapes

in clouds

and sounds of

faraway lullabies

my pill

you know something

that annoys me

about me

I’m not saying this for

self victimisation

that fixation

away from stagnation

oh look,

my catchphrase

through the haze

 

anyways

sometimes,

maybe always,

i find cuts beautiful

i find blood beautiful

i find gushing wounds fascinating

like a scientist

i’ll sprinkle salt on top

oh look its bubbling

shining

heat is produced

i guess i just turned on the engine?

 

i find suffering exquisite

something romantic

something perfect

something strong and bold and

confident,

like what i am not,

 

let me give you an equation,

to create

is to suffer

to suffer is to create

I’m bleeding so i must create

something of the mystical

sophistical

 

being happy is completely useless

i need a stab

to react

i need toxicity

like a pill

 

I’m addicted

convicted

 

 

 

Pretty Girls. Better Not.

Missing out

on pretty girls in

pretty dresses

downing drinks

that poke holes

in their throats

 

Coats and coats

of laughter

kisses

press record!

remember

 

pretty girls

with their

pretty faces

cry themselves

to sleep

because pretty

is never enough

 

they’re made out of

porcelain

posting pictures

that define their

life

because they are

nothing more

 

emptied out

by ghosts of themselves

on silicon screens

 

But these pretty girls,

we are all jealous of.

Living in the perfect

dollhouse

 

Eyes follow

all movements:

a swish of a too-short skirt

and they’ve got

someone begging at those

barely standing knees.

 

Pretty girls

stick fingers where

they shouldn’t

so the stomach

remains as empty

as the rest.

 

It’s ok. Red

lipstick will cover

the cracks

concealer won’t

tell others these

pretty girls don’t

sleep

 

Maybe I want to

be a pretty girl

in a fur coat:

a lover in one hand and a

bottle of wine in another.

 

Better not.

Broken Promises

She looked at him, amazed, with pure joy. It was as if she’d seen him for the first time. For her, he was like a luminescent spark appeared after rubbing two rocks together for countless minutes. Her eyes admired every single bit of the man she knew so well.

She was leaning towards him in her bed, her frail body almost trembling with emotion. Continue reading