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My own skin is comfortable, more tolerable when the sun comes out. I do not move and itch, I do not claw at my own eyes in the spring. I was on the bus this morning and it was so fiercely sunny, so warm. I saw that my city had planted some flowers that had finally come to bloom after a few long months living in frozen ground. Mornings are never easy, but I at least see them. My workplace is a greenhouse and I am going to grow – I am becoming a little more with every passing day, as winter turns to spring. As the leaves grow back onto the trees, as the clouds move away. If my thoughts seem incomplete that’s because they are – I haven’t yet formed a whole idea, I am not yet a whole formed person. I am desperate to become better and more complete, to look after myself and become more than I was at fourteen, fifteen, twenty. I can recover. My head still aches, I still take pills. I still worry what others think of me, I still cry. But I am growing, I am growing. I long for California but not in the way that I need it – I have a life here, in this teeny-tiny town where I know everyone. I know everything and it is exhausting but I have made myself a home. I want the West Coast in the way I long for Christmas – I need it to look forward to, I want it for a week or three. But I can always come home, and I want to be home.

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I saw my sister as I see myself at eight, and I am watching a tragedy. Every day that I see her laugh, that I see her draw and throw her head back and devour candy floss – they are numbered. I attend her funeral every day, watching that child die. I want to be surprised, good god let me be surprised – let me see that woman become a parent, a mother, let me see her change as she never could with me. Oh, I know I wasn’t wanted. I know I was an accident, a blemish on a perfect tapestry of alcohol and drugs and poverty. I know I was inopportune, but god, I never deserved to be despised. Children are pure, children are a second chance. I often wonder if it was my fault – if I was sick and tainted, if the reason I was cast aside and thrown around was inside me. I often wonder why other parents and teachers, other mothers, why they never stepped in. A sympathetic friend is not the same as a saviour. I know that I knew I was different, but I did not understand. I had my fun, I had my rituals to protect me. If I tap this seven, fifteen times – she will not come for me tonight. She will leave. At thirteen I suppose, I took to pills and to alcohol and to thieving for some security. I could look after myself, with my friends and my built-up family. Oh my sister, I am not saying I wish you were not born. I only wish for you more than I had for me. I only wish this were not your truth, your life. You are my only light and perhaps one day you will hate me too for never saving you. Every day that we laugh and that I feed you, it is limited and you know. You are my greatest love, my deepest shame, my darkest regret. I want to save you but I know, this kind-hearted child will die. I stand at your grave, in five years or less, when you too will suffer as I did. When you will hate yourself, too. I wish I could save you, but you know I am no parent. I am here but I cannot give you everything. I offer sanctuary – a safe place to escape. I only hope you come out the other side as I did, damaged and hurt but alive. Hopeful.
My sister, I am still wearing black for every day that you still have to exist in that haunted house.

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On my best days, I think I can be
well-rounded and whole, social
and clean. I think it isn’t my fault
I know that I can recover, rebuild

On my worst days, I know I can’t
that relapse is constant
that it was my fault, that I was
rotten to the core – and everyone
knows it

Most days I suffer – most days
I take pills, I get by
it happened, neither here nor there
and I am constantly surviving

Take from me overgrown paths
relatives, ignorance, bloody noses
take chip shop dinners and screaming
missed homework – and give me
my childhood back

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Tourist

It is as if, it has always been cold
and in these dead, dead months
in which I photograph dead trees
walk cold ground, and will it to thaw
I am dying, too – I am dead
to be by the seaside in the winter
is deafening, a constant reminder
by the sad sailboats, the wind-beaten
coast – that the city is more
that it should be full of people
vibrant, with their sunhats
and high hopes for one sunny day
this city is nothing without the sun
but I still wouldn’t be anywhere else
our city’s customers are drinkers
homeless, desolate, seeking solace
a little like myself
in that they need to see a ray
of something, sooner

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Jennifer’s Body + Emo

Megan-Fox-Jennifers-Body-Screencaps-014

Please read my new piece on my other site x 

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May 2013

I just found a dumb poem I wrote when I was 20 about a dream I had about California. 

Then I found it there
the heart of every lie left
vicious and honest blues and greens
a face over me when I awoke
told me things it couldn’t have
that I was something
the lawn was well tended and kept
impacted by the bed where I slept
the visions and the symmetry
took me safely on a journey
the shadows led me along
lined by cobbles in the spring
the warmest face, the longest days
and out of self-preservation
I had to dive into the ocean
a fear of what I would miss
told me what I knew
that there is little left in the middle
for me, I am sure, but for you
I spent five and a half hours
click click click
booking plane tickets
in other people’s names
in my sickness, in hallucination
I had the taste of a vision
of palm trees lining a street
and I could drive to California
but after all,
this is all
(I had the plane tickets refunded)

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“I’ve always liked you.” Oh you have, haven’t you? And where have I heard that before – in crowded bars and over drunken texts and in the workplace, no less. You’ve always liked me and that’s why you persist, why you breeze when I talk. You don’t give a shit – not about my day, the things I’ve to say, my work. You don’t care how I got to be this way – only that my hair looks kinda good right now, and I’m cool and I’m fuckable and I can laugh along at all your shitty jokes. You like the films I can recommend and that I’m a little bit mysterious, I guess, or just that I’m foreign or pretty. You like running around town, making trouble, but never listening when I say I am not single. I am not alone. You’ve always liked me which is why my no means nothing, my wants and needs aren’t a damn thing. But what if? What if I said alright, I’ll fuck you – I’ll drop years of history and unrelenting love to fuck some stranger from another country that I work with in a bar. As if one of those hasn’t asked me before. What then? When I’m naked and the mystery is solved – I’m just another girl, after all, and you’re just another 25 year old boy putting his face too close to mine and asking for things I don’t have in another language. I have had enough and yet I haven’t the words to tell anyone, anymore. You’ve always liked me – and that’s why you will never leave me alone until you have what I cannot give you. The thing you could take from anyone, but somehow it’s more precious from me. You have always liked me, and that’s why you want to fuck me and discard me and make me break all my promises and be scarred again. You have never liked me at all.

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