Happy Anniversary

For me, generally,
poetry has never been
about sincerity
rather a lack thereof -
a methodical attempt
at avoiding honesty
feelings are no friend
not of mine, but you are

Seven years – I know
you do not read what I write
it’s embarrassing, I suppose
to pretend that you like it

But you have to know.
I was abused – when we met
and for years since
I was in the grip of a cycle
of behaviour – I was young
but I was never safe

I have had advantage taken
of me – had guilt ingrained
into the back of a young mind
self abuse was born of it from others
and I have been stuck saying sorry
ever since

I do have things to be sorry for -
the hole in the wall, the screams
when faced with everyday trials
you know – the simplest things
trigger and hit a part of my head
that was beaten and cracked
and you know I still flinch a little

I shiver at hands on my skin
but I know – I can come home
I have been rescued daily
for seven years
I am healing – but I am not safe
I am born again in attic rooms
saved in the days I could be with you
and healed constantly by the coast

I can manage how i treat you
and I can manage myself
I know that I have been disappointing
fleeting, pathetic, I am weak
and I have a violence
give me seven more years
to give back what I have been given, here

Thank you is never enough,
and love seems a little weak
but lover and family, you have
been my only
and from abuse to victim
there is a library, a litany
of things you needn’t know
had you never met me

I recognise my mistakes,
my anger and petulance
I am a child, now
because I was never one

Give me seven more years,

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Of all the things I want from the West Coast
there is a thing whose absence hurts most
and it was found in whispered mountain-tops
or in a pool in the desert, in child-like screaming
and shared fireworks, stolen flashes
it was friendship – and it is missing, here

Of all the things I have on the South Coast
pebbles, beaches, buildings and boats
it is not here. I borrow, briefly, other people’s
and I find it at work fleetingly before they leave
but I do not have my own

California is something else, if not for
its golden coast, if not for the waves
the sun and colour and laughter
it is for its friendship, and the honesty
in laughter

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Who am I to tell you
what makes a souvenir
that broken bones and bloody eyes
are no indication – I was here
and tell me again
why I should not have left
that to leave is to
tear you in half

I want to return your gifts -
but they are burned
into my skin

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I came onto my blog today with the intention of writing some garbage for you to read. Instead, I came to find that I have had 10,000 views all time. I appreciate that that isn’t impressive, but with my terrible attendance over here I am just pleased to have achieved anything. Thank you, sincerely.

     I have been trying much harder to keep up with this and my film blog. It is important to me that I give you something instead of being lazy, despite being quite a busy girl. I have been poorly again lately and have to go back into hospital (boooo) but I’m doing okay. I miss California and I am dirt poor but it’ll be okay! Thank you so much for everything and I hope to hear from all of you. Tell me what you want me to write about and I will do it x

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In one way or another
I have hurt myself daily
since 2004. In sabotage
broken walls skipped meals
and ripped open skin
I have torn myself open
when others do not
from the outside in

One decade – ten years
and I am looking to fix
abuse, hurt and hunger
with a little sea air
and a self-built family
of wagging tails and
different pieces
of others

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I love my country.

I know I complain often, as some do -
of its quiet busyness, of its cramped cities
and I long for that ‘big’ or emptiness of others
I pray for mountains, for sun and for calm
But I am grateful, at least, for my own city
I love the buildings, that ours are older than others
that we have cobbles amongst modernity
that we are lucky, that our country often
does want to care for us, even when
it fails
I appreciate our culture – and others – together. It is true
that we are accepting.

Despite its flaws and its filthiness, our transport is irreplaceable
I can go anywhere – for a price – if I want to get away from here
To see a friend, go home, go to Europe – there is a bus, or a train, or a motorway
and I love our cliffs
our indigenous flowers, our rivers
our manmade canals and the fields
we take for granted. So thank you, England
and thank you Brighton. Though I tire sometimes
and need a break, or to see fresh sights – I can always come back

and I am grateful

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Simply put; I am not
giving up. Even when
I perhaps know -
I should

I will stay in this city
until death or money
take me

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