wasted electric

the sky is trying to tell me
that the world is ending.

these memories are trying to tell me
that no matter how many different
hats or jumpers you wear or
road trips or shots or lines you
take, no matter how many cups of teas are
drunk cold, no matter how short you
cut your hair, how many kisses
you give a five-year old, no matter
how much jazz you listen to or
songs you write no matter how much
laughter is shared on a watch tower
resting on a London sunset,
you will still break like the pull of a thread
when silence tugs at the very centre
of all this buried pain. it rises to the
surface, scraping under my skin
like cockroaches, and i scratch,
clawing into the layers and layers of
all i have lost with this, finding the point
when i hurt more on the outside
than in.

these shelves wane, like the weight of demise
and i think of my mother and how i stayed awake 
waiting on a call to tell me she will be fine
i think of the words that cut into messages i do not want to read or feel anything for
because i remember the voice and its anger
i think of four weeks ago. 

i tear up the letter thanking me for
telling the doctors that i think i am going insane.
i tear it up because a thank you doesn't make the anxieties go away.
i tear it up because a thank you is not the same as an apology for the two minutes of "i cannot do anything to help you" and "you've dealt with it for years, i'm sure you can find a way to deal with it until we decide if you really are not okay".

the thoughts i hastily wrap to myself draw blood
as they unravel,
and the crack of dawn
is trying to tell me
that it is fine to shut my eyes
even if everything is too bright.

i cannot take away the beauty of it all,
and that is what hurts most,
because it is easier to let go 
of something you no longer bear to face,
but the truth is,
when you have nothing to despise and
a lot more to appreciate over a heartache,
 it is unforgivable and much more is at stake
because grief is simply when you lose something
you cannot bear to stop loving.

the sky is trying to tell me 
that the world is ending.
these memories are telling me
that somewhere in my mind,
it already has.


there are paper figures that dance around
and cut my skin, with the way they
eavesdrop and take only half the story
running circles like ants 

i wish i could light a fire
under them until they fall like rain
into a pile of assumptions gone dry
and catch their ashes onto the purpose
they cast out onto the streets

these paper dolls
they hum like witches
they flap like eyelashes 
trying to keep awake
these dancing flakes
they tear
they tear
they tear

where has my peace gone?
this work of art that once grew and grew and grew
all ripped up and caught in the wind
whistling melodies i cannot recognise

paper eyes
all around
open, shut
open, shut
take them off me,
take them out of me.