alone with four years ago

Within an hour, I have wept seven times.

My most productive thought so far
was counting the seconds somebody will call for help
if a car ran me over.
And if nobody did
will you find me?

These thoughts are familiar, they have plagued my mind
many nights for a long time
until I met you, until I was given more to think about
instead of car crashes, of late night wanders, of escape.

But these thoughts scare me, they push me in
and make me weep like a child with scraped knees.

I cried for all the beautiful things
still trying so hard to shine a light on me
sitting in a corner where all is shadowed and refracted.
I cried for the moments
that make my heart skip a beat
and my insides erupt with ecstacy,
the moments I feel so strongly
every now and then
like the hint of sun in these ungrateful Manchester days.

My body is drained and metaphorically
out of proportion but I cannot sleep
because the sheets feel different this morning
and the walls are breathing down my bones
giving me shivers even the coldest night out
could not.

I cried for a day of
too many cigarettes and
too little food. Of nausea, of strain
of weakness.

The side effects all seem too familiar
and I feel them just from watching
the healing process of a genuine soul
slightly jaded and restrained
and I feel them so deeply
because I cannot contain my emotions in a box
even though at times like these, I should.

I learn to steer my thoughts for my own keeping.

I cried in greeting to the next six days of the week
steadily turning into a blur of selflessness,
of commitment and obligation, the next six days of
not enough hours to lie in bed
and wish for nothing
because even my days are now not my decisions to make.

The best of times are when I am in your arms
shaking my head at everything I feel now,
because we promise each other things always get better
and they do. Always.
But I cry today because you are not here
and things are not better
and no leaflets or photographs or cigarette buds
or mantras can shake my momentary loss of balance.

I weep for the happiness we bring to each other,
scribbled on crumpled paper and locked in glass bottles,
for the hurt that it all mistakingly latched itself upon.

I have to remember the ability to recycle these useless waste of feelings.
I have to remember the ways of an expert healer,
of closure and of resistance.
I have to remember how to withstand feeling sick and tired.
I am sick and tired.

So fucking tired.

Within an hour, I have wept seven times.
Four times for good reason, three times for
all the pain this world brings with life.

the days we never wait for

these are melancholic times,

wrapped in dried tears and torn laughter;

a sincere smile, a beautiful stagnancy,

like diamond drops on cracked windows 

after rain, heat rising from beneath earth,

the aftermath of a stretch broken,

lingering over like a constant hangover.

my mind, it ripples like stoned water,

musing on how perceptions shift with

waves of emotions, but never time. 

my eyes are tired, the blackouts blazing past

the shine of my light,

greying everything in sight.

a parquet soul, linear but easily scarred,

i sit in the centre of all that touches me,

a mural of my memories,

and i watch from afar,

when you touch me from the inside

because our happiness is sometimes worth

standing back for to admire;

i believe that much that it won't just

wilt and fade away.

this is the beautiful stagnancy resting on me

altered and obscure,

and i get scared sometimes,

like a sleeping child in reach of colourful dreams

because everything else is so

goddamn monochromatic.

i watch our struggles through the best of times

from afar, counting back fourhundredandthirtyseven days ago, now

fourhundredandthirtyseven days on, feeling as tested as the twelve cuts on my hands.

carry me with the strength left in you

for i cannot carry the weight of our entirety,

but i will carry yours, and set mine aside

for you, 

because i trust in you to believe, too.

this is an uneventful feeling,

what twenty eight days can do to us,

with a string of bad sleep, bad health, bad timing.

bad thoughts.

i can sometimes taste the fear

at the back of my mouth, dry and

uncouth, teaching me familiarities

of the fallen like a second-timer.

the things i gather start to ache

and stain the hoards of happiness

i bring in baggage, so tried and pushed to the limit.

the shadows in the day have begun to shadow me

like mirror image. i am sad,

mind as blank as the road i stare down,

forfeiting all thought, raging a war that is so

sickeningly and obviously self-inflicted.

i look into your eyes,

and see myself, worn out and stripped down,

knowing i will never see 

the better version like you do, because you 

make me feel stronger than i really am,

even through the harshest gush of unwelcoming friction.

these are melancholic times, like a mother's weep

and my shaking hands.

tell me,

will it only lift up from here?

my favourite phase

I carry this much talked about weight

once again,

like a catch of breath above my diaphragm,

it is difficult to get used to this,

like bags that never get lighter with time

and rich food you always leave unfinished

but keep ordering anyway.

I take the same route home everyday

and begin to notice things that

never before touched my sight

like which pavements accumulate the most puddles,

the regular accordionist's second favourite spot,

the time it takes for the bus to pull away from Sainsbury's,

and the number of steps before i reach his doorstep

depending on my mood.

sometimes i wonder what would happen

if everything ends and i never got off at my stop

and carried on

like a role i have never played before.

in life i have earned so much,

and lost more.

like the smiles i could've given my mother

in replacement of slammed doors and cold dinners,

like the virginity i shouldn't have saved for someone

who never saved his violence,

like the friends i would've kept but let fall out like

loose waste off a truck,

like the passion of my hands and my heart when i created,

like the happiness i scrapped as an end,

made instead as a prologue,

like the life the students from my school would have

that i chose to walk away from,

like the life i once chose to walk away from.

i listen to songs that used to play

as i dangled my feet out my bedroom window on the 5th floor

never really believing i could fly away from everything that

ached

and wonder if i would be able to take it now

if i ever felt such pain again.

i lost that too.

'don't change' she says, and we laugh

knowing it is easier for her to say

than for me to do

and wonder how much hurt i will inflict in the process

of standing still when the world keeps pacing

ahead.

sometimes i cannot keep up,

but life really isn't something i want to lose

entirely.

bedsheets and frost

There is a weight that sits tightly against my chest,

Like tyres on the dry of a road,

Glasses unbalanced on a tray

Or the weight of our bodies

Waning the beds we sleep on.

It is the weight of

Counting every breath he takes before he falls asleep

Like second nature, watching his eyes

Drift a thousand miles when he is

Vulnerable, the weight of

words that left our lips, or 

Remained untouched in our thoughts

Wearing us down,

Like the episodes of a favourite show 

we have left unregarded 

and the splash of night looming over 

a thin line of dusk.

It is the weight of unfamiliar feelings

And familiar worries

Creeping into our dreams as we sleep

To greet us at our wake.

It is the hunch of what could possibly leave us stale, or make us

Invincible.

You know you are meant for somebody

When you do not predict what the next steps are, when with pure love at its happiest

comes a string of negatives,

And situations you face are

Uncontrollable and breathtakingly

Overwhelming.

Everything is not the same

Because fresh air never hits twice.

There is a weight that sits

Neatly in my mind,

Of things I can never fix

Like the ache in my ribs and my self inflicted paranoia,

The weight of things that I learn to 

Accept, like our pasts and

Our present flaws that comes 

naturally with every life that is tangible.

It is the weight of emotions that have

Accumulated from extremities,

Stretched and compressed

Into a bulb of intensity,

The weight of our passion seeping into each other and sometimes

Going straight past what our eyes can contrive.

It is the weight of looking forward to the times

When everything sits firmly

And strongly

In the best of places

Like the hint of his smile and the warmth

Of his breath on my skin.

This weight is what fills a soul

As longing as mine,

Like my head when it rests on the dent 

In his shoulders,

Or his hand on the curve of my chest 

as I curl in.

Without it, I will only be empty, 

hollow, opaque.

So I learn to embrace the world

At its heaviest,

As it settles on my shoulders

Only hoping it balances out

Eventually..

And for the meantime,

I guess I could always shift the weight

Like backpacks and guitar cases,

Until I find a the place it will

Rightfully belong to,

Just like the way I have found my place

Rightfully beside you.

scratches

I am sad. Upset like spilled wine on white, 

like a stomach doing laps. Sad 

like an old lady left standing on a tram, 

sad like a child with a sweet smile 

who will never learn to use it. 

Sad like an empty shell, like the people 

who die alone. I am sad like 

Sarah Kane and my mother 

at their darkest thoughts. 

I write poems that astound people 

but it's nothing to celebrate because I have only 

ever done that when I felt the way I do. Undressed 

and naked from the happiness I genuinely feel,

left staring at whatever is left over. 

And everybody else is staring at it too, 

unsure of what to do with it, 

like a fish out of water flapping in their palms. 

Everybody knows, and I still 

don't know why I am typing laughter 

at every sentences in conversations 

- like it makes a difference.

I am sad because I have no reason to be. 

I am sad and I feel like I am imposing it, 

and I feel guilty because of this, 

so I get even more upset.

So I remain sad. 

Sad like the way he looks at me 

like I have shadows in my eyes, like the way 

they try to place a contagious smile back on 

my lips because my mind is

overworked and out on display. I am sad because 

I do not know when little things like buses and 

light banter and the lack of skins 

for my tobacco started getting to me and I

don't know which junction to take myself away from this. 

Sad because I don't know when the left overs of myself

began to matter more than my entire being.

Down like a basement tenants 

never use, like the bottom of a mountain,

the centre of a cave. 

It is obvious. 

What isn't obvious, is that 

I am happy. Despite all that, I am happy 

like the sun, like the father 

and son having lunch together, like

stumbling upon a sentiment you once 

thought you'd lost. Happy because 

I have somebody to wake up to, to

love and to comfort. Happy because I can 

still feel like I am alive. Happy because 

I am alive.

My mind is at its darkest but 

my soul is still light - where do I go from here?

Tired.

Can't I be tired?

Can't my eyes sink as low as graves,

Can't they shade their under skin dark?

Can't my body deteriorate and cause me pain

And set itself loose at the joints?

Can't my mind wander to the tip of the sea,

Can't it weigh me down and overwhelm?

Can't my senses be muffled and less aware,

Or accentuate with alarm into emotional disarray?

Can't I be tired?

Can't I be selflessly undernourished,

Can't I be helplessly weak?

Can't I be recklessly lashing,

And frighteningly coiling?

Can't I be foreign to the world,

Can't I be familiar nonetheless?

Can't I be afraid of nothing,

Or scared of everything?

I am so tired even my poem is tired and structured and stupidly

bland.

searching for buttons

I settle in the centre 
To give myself leeway of falling back 
Or moving forwards 
When a side becomes too heavy to balance, 
Because I believe I am a coward. 
It is comfortable like a purring cat on your lap 
And the veins on his hand under my fingertips 
When the time is right. 
I watch the sky tell me a story of 
Life as it passes, the many times 
I have missed it happen because I try 
To appreciate the closer things 
Like milkshakes, tobacco, the right films 
And the right dreams and him. 

There are cobbled paths 
on the journey to my heart many have 
tripped and stumbled upon for they were 
too used to easy living, 
But I have found one who has paved 
A similar path a thousand times enough to 
Push on. 

But walking the same road can get a bit colourless sometimes, even for the most determined. 

He shapes his shoulders and I 
Whisper a kiss on the middle of his back where 
The curves were made for me. 
I shiver at the touch of beauty 
In the closure of his eyes as he 
Drifts through a sleep so unperturbed 
As I fight the nightmares away. 

I like the idea of loyalty cards. 
Of how you 
commit every inch of yourself, 
and with every bundle of mistakes 
You can expect at least, 
Achieving something good out of it. 
Safe. 
Sometimes chances are the choices you make. 

Sometimes I smother 
And break concentration 
From the clog of his mind 
But I am impulsive and spend my time 
worrying if I don't tell him now 
Then I will never tell him 
And I will become the secret 
He never speaks of. 

So I give the choice to say more than 
He might care to hear and 
Be assured he has listened and the 
Choice is now out of my hands. 

There a several snapshots that 
Stay vivid in my memories 
Like learning how to swim 
And my cousin's ability to morph into an old man, 
Scraping my knees playing chase outside my uncle's house, 
And my soul scorched red from the impact of once colliding very physically with somebody who wasn't so nice. 

Some snapshots that 
May not be real, 
Like the man outside the gates on a stormy night 
Sat in with my cousins, 
My grandmother sat on her bed 
A week after she passed 
And the colours I saw when I 
Acquainted with the end. 

There are many chances that come with 
A choice but 
Sometimes the chances run dry, 
Like how I will not have the time now 
until Thursday 
To sew the buttons back on my right boot, 
To have proper sleep, 
To take a trip to the doctor's, 
To take the bins out, 
To make amends with time lost with him, 
To make amends with time lost with myself.

alone in a coffee shop

the things you learn about life are not gradual

like mouldy walls or a caterpillar's cocoon, 

the second lamp in my bedroom i never use 

and art with no timeframe. 

they come sudden

and obvious and permanent.

like the beep at the back of the kitchen that used to sit

just a little out of your hearing range and clockwork mind,

but now it ticks in time to your thoughts,

like how Matt Bellamy takes a breath before 

every line of a song. like how some people's voices pitch up 

at the end of sentences and some do not sing when they speak.

or like if you memorise what one person is becoming

you can predict everybody else.

the things i have learnt about life

has taught me to put aside my emotions

like the way i now recognise

and hear about foul profanities and intoxicating fear 

every corner i turn when i used to dismiss it with

solidity. like when my broken rib showed me ugly people existed

but their strength rebuilding mine showed me beautiful people did too.

and how pain used to never hurt because it was always there

but now it is only occasional like moonless skies and phone calls to my mother.

and how he always uses the phrase "it's dead good", 

because some things are better than life, and hunches

and kisses my lips twice before my forehead at night.

these are things i notice, and i believe

i don't notice enough. perhaps i do not notice the specific day

trees begin to droop and grow old with winter,

or how people walking in groups align their footsteps, though i notice mine,

or the personality of a child by the way they hold their arms 

out and touch you inside.

the things you learn about life are 

not always meant for keeps,

so you turn away and keep your balance,

like the hint of an old bruise or the wild splash of chemicals in their eyes.

like children who learn too early about death and sexual intentions 

and are not yours to teach,

or how some stains resist all the detergent you use.

like the night and days of clutching to my bed sheets

because i couldn't face myself and the world, or how for a moment as

fleeting as a skylark, he looked at me differently 

because he was equally as lost.

some things are not meant for keeps

because they will rot inside you and make you 

regurgitate their poison.

these are the few of many things in life i have learnt

that syllabus and five days a week never taught me

like the counter breaths he takes before his heart can settle

and the way his shoulders shake when he is laughing

the way i can move the shine in my eyes to a certain spot

to hide my disarray of thoughts.

like knowing you are allowed to get frustrated at them sometimes and tell them,

but still share every word and thought because they are your best friends.

how my sister does not know i can hear the tone

in her voice as she says things are fine when they aren't

and the way my dad doesn't have to smile for me to know he is happy

but took a tear from his eyes to know i once broke his heart.

or like the escalation to my mother's voice when she realises 

i am on the other end of the line and i feel complete.

some things i embrace,

some things i throw out to the pigeons 

and lost souls that search for meaning.

some things i let take me to heights i

never knew i could reach.

living the afterhours

sometimes i will feel top-heavy like
the empty shampoo bottles in my shower,
turned over and
ready to fall, desperately
screaming to be thrown away. sometimes his eyes
rage wars with mine until i am
like the flailing ends
of window blinds nobody wants to touch
for fear of causing more damage.

because he fears to break me.
so he wavers,
like white noise and faded tv screens
through my insecurities,
and likewise i blind myself
until i am worn down and discolored
like the photographs our mothers keep
of me and us and their shadowed pasts.

we will all do the same eventually.

sometimes i wonder how life can be
this bipolar, throwing me
in the deep ends of both
extremities where all is
as light
as dark
as the place sitting still
in the bottom pit of my body
where either rupture or serenity takes place;
pick and choose.

sometimes i look at my reflection
and like what i see, most often
not,
because there are never enough
expressions that can change with my mood
to keep it intact and easy to display.
like how there are never enough
seasons or words or time in a day.

and i get sick of the see-saws that
fluctuate space inside me until all the
contradicting emotions
confuse and cause wreckage when really
i just want to love.

it is 8.22 in the morning
and the storm is on fire
because i let it.

sometimes i can hear his heart break.

it is the sound of waves
colliding with horizons
and a sky of despair.
it is the song my heart, too
has long memorised.

i have a compulsive obsession
with rubbing on surfaces
until every single layer of dirt the world
had to offer wipes clean.
maybe it is because i believe fixing
what the eye can see will
distract from the depths of
every detailed leftover debris and clumped underneaths.

or maybe not.
maybe i am really just okay,
and my mind chooses to exaggerate pain.

but pain is no longer my sole familiarity
and it scares me when it drops by to visit.
it is no longer my home, because you are.
your love.
your tears.
your laughter.
your hurt.
your joy.
your soul.
with mine.

heavy eyes, they say it all

i cannot breathe.

i cannot think the way i want myself to think because my thoughts are running over each other and i feel every scar on my skin revisiting the surface and screaming horrors into my sleep because my mind is as tense as air molecules struggling for air in a stained, overused kettle before they take flight and 

evaporate.

i try to place radiance where there is dark

in every single fucking thing i do

because shadows can never form

where there is no shine

but i smother myself with so much

until i am stood too close to the light

and my own shadows engulf the entire space 

of my being.

i want to feel the way i deserve to feel.

i carry myself like deadweight

promising myself the meaning of all this.

sometimes i meditate to such heights

where i feel completely ethereal

but always fall to the constant comedown 

that resides in the depths of permanence

clogging my will and draining my sight.

i want to feel the way i deserve to feel.

there are days like these

when i try to face the world

because it is expected of me

and assume that if everybody else 

cannot see the girl that digs her nails into her skin and

tears her hair out and runs into walls

at the flight of insanity

this girl will soon disappear

but there is only so much i can exert

before i revert into myself

and claim recognition with this

familiar pain i try to disguise and

push out.

i tell myself there is more to life

and truly believe it

because of you and because of 

who i have learned to become 

when i am at my strongest.

but maybe i will only settle on the ease of

believing it in all purity

if i dare to accept

that without this pain

life will only be as meaningless

as my belief that i am in complete control of myself.

it is with pain

where life is shatteringly beautiful

and all i feel 

is worth everything.

i want to feel what i deserve to feel,

so i need to stop fearing fear

and face it

and fight it

until there is nothing left to fight for.