No signposting in my mind, thank you very much, I’ll take the beat down stubborn path. I’ll walk, feet pounding to block out panic, until I near the edge. So fucking close to the edge. Neck twists, zigzag searching for someone to drag me back, but I’m behind the trickery of a mirror, staring contest with myself, unaware of supportive hands. I step off, return to my twisted dancing lover, who holds all manner of sin disguised as succour. We dance until I bruise, cut, break, shoes worn, arms tired, posture poor, believing I’m fine, I’m in love with life again. Only hindsight can shake you into order again, only a cloudy sky can remind you of before.
Crushes are nice, they don’t confuse me as much anymore.
Down a few drinks, ease a few nerves, legs greet each other in a cautious flirt; nothing too unusual. So why can I hear those tapping clicks of voice, eyes, smile, you? It’s an irritating noise for such a simple dance between lust and loneliness. There’s no off button, no magical blind to yank down, just my brain twirling around, clicking and clapping in time to your tune. I’m either a delusional creep or an intense romantic, the line is kind of blurry. Or maybe I’ve been driven mad by all those silly dancing questions of want, doubt and curiosity. Dizzy with newly acquainted intrigue, sipping mugs of tea to settle the pondering.
What the fuck has happened? What happened to silence and prohibition of dirty dancing?
Work in progress. Title will probably change.
You bit my ear, I didn’t complain.
It’s funny where the mind goes,
not confined by sweaty metal carriages or urban caves,
unattended, watch it smack against
familiar teeth, gums, lips –
your lips, thinking of your lips.
Hands clenching worn spine, eyes
fumbling over tired ink, just
concentrate. Please. (Politeness never deserts, no matter how dumb lust is.)
[Might change title]
Oh it would so lovely, if you shared the madness with me.
We would skate over small talk and never stumble.
Notifications, whispers, greetings, gifs – your name attached would add eccentricity and excitement.
The radio broadcasts the early hour, if you were here you’d probably pester me to relax, breathe, sleep.
For you I’d dim down the manic momentarily, well I’d at least try.
Smiles would fold in on themselves, connected as intensely as veins.
The addition of your voice to the inhabitants in my head would create captivating chaos.
I cannot deny, chaos and uncertainty have never looked so attractive until now.
Daydreams of you wade through overgrown, neglected drudgery, come out on top in prominent position.
For now I’ll wait, perhaps when I feel bolder, I’ll ask you to share the madness with me.
I totally did not take a criticism from a complete stranger personally (!)
I opened the webpage and asked you take your shoes off before you entered, because I like to keep the carpet clean. Help yourself to a drink, make yourself feel comfortable, whilst I dash around trying to hide dirty cups and baby photos. You were about as genuine as a Facebook memory, but I tried nonetheless. I took my best smile out to match my eyes for you. Poetry to me, as cheesy as it sounds, is connected to my bloodstream. Poetry is art, love, confusion, wonder, therapy, anger and breath etc. And you yanked it off the shelf and smashed it on the floor. Now look, I can handle constructive criticism – I invite it and respect it. What I cannot handle is a patronising stranger glancing at a collection for a brief minute, noticing one crack, one scratch, one fumble, and boldly claiming that the whole collection is mediocre bitterness at best. I mean for fuck’s sake, I can make better mocking jokes about my work than that! And now angry string has caught me and attached me to this silly comment. Now I’ve gone and proved your bloody point and written a mediocre bitter rant at best. Great. Fucking great.
I miss you and the madness. I miss the fantasy fixed in my hard drive. I miss the aching laughter, a victim of your sarcastic mocking. I miss the listening ear, the digital shoulder, the small secrets. I miss you and it feels shit and I’m a crying cliche mess of a woman. That’s all I’ve got now. Time is a healer as the saying goes. Well I hate the fact that I have to now heal.
in no particular order:
Kissing on poorly-lit pavements
Laughing until I ache
Reading in the park
The comfort of junk food
Binging on TV
Fresh sheets on a bed
Running into an energetic sweat
Wearing PJs all day
Secrets shared by midnight whispers
A bookshelf full of books
Giddiness over a new crush
Cringe 80s pop
Running home in the rain
The satisfaction of completing a list
Someone who likes some of these things too.