Tag Archives: writing

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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112.

My body is decaying
and yours, too, let’s be honest
but I don’t care about yours
if we are to be truly honest

My skin without sun is paper thin
and at twenty-four I’m too old to be a prodigy
but too young to be let off the hook of living

How much longer do I have to
live by news cycles, by words, by numbers
feeling my body die
watching my friends
die

Constantly seeking validation
that will never be enough

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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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109.

It’s killing me 

I would say were it not so dramatic
and if nothing has killed me yet it won’t
not this, anyway
but details and visions are
crippling my ability
to function normally
without what if, what if, what if
and it doesn’t bear thinking about
but what if it does?
and it will always be in my nature
to look for a way out of anything
to consider the next step
do you think about it, too?

Of course you don’t
some people are content

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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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106.

For better or for worse
my obsession with success
with calendars and ticking clocks
has brought me here

I feel my body decay
month by month, day by day

And I can’t quite vocalise
what it is I fear
only that when I’m forty
I want to be happy

To not regret leaving friends behind me
to not long for
crowded halls
to say only I am relieved

That I had fun,
but I am glad I am here

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