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

Kindness

The comfort of junk food

Gin

Honesty

Binging on TV

Fresh sheets on a bed

Happy tears

Mysterious humans

Running into an energetic sweat

Poetry

Wearing PJs all day

Secrets shared by midnight whispers

A bookshelf full of books

Respect

Giddiness over a new crush 

Cringe 80s pop

Surprises

Running home in the rain

The satisfaction of completing a list

Someone who likes some of these things too. 

Frailty  

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. 

Snap. 

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. 

Moments of Madness

Cornered in a circular room –

illogical as it sounds, on the tip of a toxic tongue.

Breath refusing to be wasted, yearning to be savoured.

Pick the easy option, pleads and pressures the long-term drive.

Choose not to think, collapse on foggy bed, but no sleep joins –

you’re not exactly the best company.

Toss, turn, toss, until rationality resigns himself to the sofa.

Pick the easy option, even if no one else understands.

 

A single prick can revive exhausted questions, every sigh less stiff.

Who needs to talk when bloody screaming is an option?

Who needs to listen when tissued silence comforts your wounds?

Tripping backwards over feet, crying over dormant memories,

wondering what the colour blue feels like –

write in present tense until you remember how shoes meet ground.

Repainting a personality until value is believable, the brush strokes

take time, but the framing is easy.

 

Stars strangle cloudy nights yet this pain is so fucking beautiful.

Emotions are now as indecisive as the breeze,

but when it’s past midnight, it’s understandable.

Languid conversations circulate and mingle, pass business cards of loathing;

psychological pandering at its finest.

Close burdened eyes for a minute,  body numb as mind, until alarm clock rings.

 

 

 

Mood swings are weird

Sometimes I am as numb as sandpaper and burnt tongues. 

Sometimes I am all rage and waves and electric shocks from plug sockets. 

Sometimes I am as quiet as dead plants and unnoticed tube gaps. 

Sometimes I am a fiery kitchen stove, exhaust fan moaning defiantly. 

Sometimes I am all chewed-up drink straws and discarded aluminium cans, excess energy played with me. 

Sometimes I am a writer, bold and unapologetic, cliche as birds tattooed behind an ear.