Tag Archives: personal

116.

I don’t miss it
not yet, anyway

Not like I will when it’s gone
when I think about the nights
(the very few nights)
that I spent, outside, breathing the sea

Because I didn’t savour it enough
because I didn’t enjoy it
enough

When you live somewhere
shop somewhere
go to the doctor somewhere
it gets a little less special

There were nights that were special
tipsy, stepping off and onto the pavement
laughing and shouting and
daring to step into the sea

But I can still do that
I can come back
and that’s something

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115.

Oh, please don’t read my private poems

Although if they were private they’d be
hidden in notebooks, like the worst ones
like the more offensive
like the thoughts you don’t want to see

And the more of my life is put on display
the more I relish a private arena
(kind of)
the less and more I want anyone to know me

I do want to be known, to be seen
and I also want space to be naked
although what’s the use
if I can’t publish what I learned afterward?

Keep out / do not read
but tell me my private thoughts are worthy

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113.

It’s been done by so many others
attempted descriptions of an anxious mind
but do you understand obsession?

I am exhausted by how full up I am on
blood and music and sex and maybes
and I can’t imagine a second of quiet

I crack my fingers, my back, my pelvis

And I think about the years I’ve yet to live
I think about the deterioration of my body
I think about the holidays I will never go on
the people I’ll never fuck
and the cancers I’ll surely get

I can’t just let myself enjoy my body
while I still have it 

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110.

How are other girls soft / where I am hard
How are they sweet / when I am not
I grit my teeth and clench my fists

I long for a boy to break my arms
to be tougher than I am
to challenge me to a fight

And yet not one has, not one can soften me
or crack my ribcage
to see if there’s a heart

The boys I have loved have been gentle
and they have been cold
the second one tried to drink my blood
I would baulk, but it’s the trying

It’s the trying, it’s the challenge
it’s that relentless, violent obsession
that could serve to get under
my skin

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2017.

This year was good to me. I’ve already written about it and I won’t go on, but I feel healthier and happier and more successful than I ever have. 2016 was better than I could have hoped for and I did more than I had planned. It’s only a start, though. It’s a foundation that I hope to build 2017 on. Not everything is perfect, obviously, but I feel like things are happening and I want to do well and I want to be good and have fun and eventually be someone I quite like. So these are my goals for 2017. I won’t do all of them, I might even go a totally different direction, but what matters is that I have plans and I keep on working on something. My contract with VICE ends in February so everything is pretty up in the air, currently. I have no idea what will happen. Or how to plan for it. But here’s a few little ideas.

♡ Plan for Tokyo
♡ Write/pitch memoir/essay book
♡ Go on a work trip
♡ Work on emo diary/maybe do a zine/transcribe it all
♡ Write for Empire
♡ Keep track of finances/spend less/save
♡ Make 20,000
♡ Write 100 articles
♡ Take more photos
♡ Plan on moving to London
♡ Find an agent for my book
♡ Try to get a staff job
♡ Write more/more essays
♡ Read 25 books
♡ Watch more films/keep updated
♡ Take more photos

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108.

After ten days apart will I still
will my heart leap into my throat
will my eyes search you for clues
as you glance up, as you would
to anyone. As we talk as you would
with anyone. As you notice details and
it doesn’t matter if you would
because ultimately, I wouldn’t
but I’m dying without the attention
I’m dying thinking of time she gets
and it’s that you’re just representative
of obsessions, success, shared pasts
and who were you at twenty-three?
Might you have fucked me then?
and I won’t regret a misstep
until June
when you are dead

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b.

My grandad’s partner died

Seven days ago. Seven days and he didn’t tell me – for fear that it might disrupt my day to day, because he was worried it might upset me. And my grandad’s partner doesn’t incur much sympathy from friends or from family who find it so easy to say well, she wasn’t your grandma. But wasn’t she? My grandma died before I was born and so I knew Barbara from the time I was 3. That’s 20 years. What makes a grandma? Is a grandma someone who cooks you dinner, buys you gifts, holds you, watches TV by your side? Is a grandma someone who teaches you to knit and write and read and pretends that your projects are worthy of display? What about a woman who takes you in when your parents aren’t around, who adopts you from the horrors of home? Who enjoys your visits even when her mind is falling apart, even when she can’t remember how old you are or when you met or what breed your dog is. She wasn’t your grandma. Okay. Fine. My grandma stepped aside when my parents abused me, when I was hurt, when I was bullied. But Barbara she let me dress up in her jewellery, she lent me her childhood books, she let me sleep in their bed when I got scared. She acted as mother and grandma and friend when she didn’t have to; when nobody asked her or required her to step up. If that isn’t a grandma or better than, if I haven’t a right to cry and mourn her and write up her memory then I want no part in anyone else’s definition of family.

It happens to all of us; she’s better off. Said my grandad, the same strong, pragmatic man who waited seven days to tell me she was gone. But it doesn’t alleviate my sinking heart, my feeling that the pseudo-family I have built will drop away one by one until only my blood relatives are left.

And what then?

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