Gin-induced poetry

Drunken WIP.

Spend too much on a taxi just so I can feel your thigh next to mine. Mistaken headaches wrapped in unfamiliar sheets. But there’s nothing a little water can’t fix. Right?

Do you tell your friends about me?

Do they know how my name

sounds on your tongue?

I waste all this mental energy on questions with unknown answers,

which won’t change fact into any

kind of fantasy scribbled in my


Friends tell me to share the crazy, but I think they’re unwise.



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.)

You said I was bitter…

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. 

Miss you

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. 

Arbitrary and unoriginal things I like

in no particular order:

Kissing on poorly-lit pavements

Laughing until I ache

Cuddly dogs

Reading in the park


The comfort of junk food



Binging on TV

Fresh sheets on a bed

Happy tears

Mysterious humans

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. 


You feel weak in my hand, all trembling plastic and mute colour. I didn’t realise my fingers were capable of simple suffocation. I guess you learn something new everyday. Protests bang against invisible walls in outrage, like unpopular mimes. It’s no use, you’re on the move. You will fix it all, whether you want to or not. Your touch will whisk the hairs on my legs into a froth of activity. They will respond to your sharp, suffocated tone. They will sway in submission. You will fix it all. You will fix it all. Fix it all. 


It only takes one cut, one crinkle, one crumble. I knew you were weak from the start. I used up every last nerve you had for my own selfish satisfaction. Now you are discarded amongst a grave of tissues and towel. I forget about your flimsy functionality and move on to the next with guilt.