6.

The perfect spring has been evasive, ever-moving
it will come in March – in April, in June; and I will
catch it, be a better person for the summer
be different if this spring comes, yet – it mightn’t
it isn’t a question of external seasons, for the flowers
have bloomed, for the ice on my beach has thawed
for the tourists have swarmed, descended
destined to dawdle and laugh and beg me
would you just take this one photograph?
but inside, though my skin is burning, though
the summer appears to all to have arrived
it is winter, my own personal winter, as I sit inside
and let the summer pass, again

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5.

I am so full up of uncertainty
and everybody knows more than me
still mythologising my own failings
obsessively caught in pervasive self-hatred
so caught up in how I should be
what I could have been by 23
nervously disappointing in coffee shops
breaking down in bar toilets – I will
never be able to work alone, to waste
away – to lie down and die on a beach
nobody burns out and dies at 22
but it is still my fault, day after day
that social cues evade me, success
is not yet mine – but I have to be alive
to see the sun rise another morning
over the Royal Pavilion, to the West
of my beautiful sea, and if nothing
else, that will be enough for me

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4.

It was that longing for eighteen, the way I carved
that number into my arms, the way I drank it
I thought for a minute, almost believed that
when I was eighteen, I might be free and that
village would dissolve, that family would let me
so I watched trains from under a bridge and I said
that – “I would catch one with my things”
some CDs, clothes and cigarettes – “I will leave.”
and so I waited, for four years, incidentally alive
through thinking it would get better if I only
made it to eighteen. Something happened, not only
under the bridge, not only swinging from rope
but in those four years I made a family from friends
and I thought yeah – I don’t need a train, and I don’t
need to die. When I left three years later, the village
did not dissolve, the house did not burn down, and
the family didn’t care much after all. I could have
slipped away, slept all day through at fourteen
and yet I wouldn’t matter much, now, had I let myself
die, had I caught a train into the night, or had I stayed

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3.

Sometimes the seasons do not change
and for the crowds, for the sunshine
for fevered talk of heat waves and off days
I still sit, cloudy and dark as the winter

The sun is blinding, headache inducing
the crowds gather and a lump rises
in my throat – they are only obstructive
not indicative, of a brighter time

From my bedside I long to be grateful
for the sun spilling onto my covers
and yet I stay here, to avoid the crowds
to avoid the storm brewing inside of me

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3.

The day in, day out of it / the ‘I could just catch a train’, of it / but I am tied, endlessly / to a wooden desk, to a life / built from the ground up, built for something / and I know that there are planes to catch / and if I work, if I work / my desk won’t miss me / when the plane takes off. / but I know, of course I know / that all this hard work / is not deserving of a journey / and there are people still, I am committed still / to the pebbles, to the bars / to the people I have known, here. / I think, endlessly, of childlike freedom / while I never had it like others did / I still had a summer or two / paddling pool breeze / and sun lotion skin. / I still had summers off school, to run and to play / and at others’ houses, I felt innocence again. / to sever ties to this desk, to stand on the shore / call in the sailors, take me to the sea / for I want to play again, and I want to be free

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The L Word

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Click through to read my L Word thoughts x

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2.

It is something I had longed for
to hear the seagulls at night
yet I feel a disconnect
from my home, home is strong
and home is safe
and yet I never felt it
where I was born, barely raised

Had you met me then, you would know
there’s not a thing for me at home
and so I pulled so urgently
cut ties and left swiftly

There are people who know me, miss me
who maybe, sometimes, need me
I am not cosmpolitan, still simple
but I live, now, a life of love
of boats, wine spritzers, friends and bars
drunken hazes, a tilt towards adulthood

Home is a fire that scarred my knees
that broke my heart
I felt at home, sometimes, too
in lock-ins and in shots
in hide-and-seek games, crawling
back to that house at 3am

So I packed my things and drove
to the coast, where I’ve heard dreams
can die, drunk girls can drown
but I have kept myself above water
in this seaside town

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