Pretension

I subscribe
to publications
that incur international shipping rates
while buying skirts
and three dollar shirts
from op shops down the street.

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Constellations

I like the sound of my pen scratching paper drawing smooth long lines until we

Stop

come up for air and breathe for a while

aimlessly wander to the brink,

of this morning’s tastes
and the colours of last night
that have seeped into your skin.

For my pen could draw lines on your back connecting each scar, freckle, blemish

Rose Tattoo

A constellation tattooed in the back of my mind though nothing is permanent,

but the sound of my pen this morning and you-

 

beautiful.

Morning After

after

nights spent in sadness, cocooned in blankets, hands clasped, close to your chest with shallow breaths, clinging to the edge of your rib cage, clawing at your throat
escaping

in and out, in and out again, your dry and evaporated breath, air to lungs, fingers shaking, lips trembling
eventually

skinny light edges through your windows and birds wake up before you do and you, you let your feet swing to the edge, maybe slowly at first, your heavy still, but not anchored

eventually
toes slip from the bed to the floor, sinking into carpet, into socks, into slippers, maybe boots, your move next, and you move

on
and on

again.

 

Everything is Noise

Hold me a little closer and drown out the lies. Their words are becoming truth, snakes under my skin.

I can no longer find the quiet spaces I used to retreat to. She has been taken from me. My secrets have been snatched, still untold, but not mine to tell anymore.

I feel like the dull ache in your legs after a Thursday night shift. Like the emptiness of being awake at 3 Am. All the time.

I can taste hostility in the back of my throat. Sour grapes, hard to bite into. I scrape my tongue with a tooth brush laden with paste as Mum always told me that was how you got rid of bad breath.

Her words rest on my tongue now.

The edging of lace on my grandmother’s table. My fingertips pull at the edges. Photographs, paintings, of those who do not want my eyes there are screaming at me. I am wasting away in my own way. On the inside I am dying, drying. A dried, feeble daisy.

There is no brightness in the hollow of now. The sound is screeching, moving to the beat of a thousand electro hits. It’s a dark tunnel. Most people think and fear loudly in 140 characters or less. I fear permanency.

If the cold rain could wash us away, down the sidewalk, to a drain. If we could run through the cobblestones and create irregular rectangle patterns through the cracks of less accepting times, well, maybe, that would be for the best. Quieter at least.

Tidal Wave

I hold this to no standards
The air that you are
the mornings of cold comfort and ice melting down your chest

      I feel like a tidal wave that will drown you

                  I am sorry for the immensity of my words
                    

But if I cannot hold thoughts of you in the jars I gaze up at longingly on my highest shelf
Or keep secrets locked in jewelry boxes in my bottom drawer underneath socks and magazine brochures
How will I remember the moments of fleeting sense and reckless abandon that carved out spaces of beauty in my grey months
How after all that I have invested in seconds, and calendar crosses, and alarms will it not go to waste

                           to evaporate

 

I cannot let you be that

an absence of explanation a slip in my minor scale

a fallen note into pale silence

                                                                                                                            washed away.