6 months in the making

staring at the ceiling on an empty stomach

for the third time this week

voices whisper and taunt me that

i haunt nobody's dreams,

nor am i a passing thought

never shown as much love

as i myself brought

to everyone, fuck if i ever

write a poem about anyone again

i wish they could stay there

and then if the ink was ever to bleed

or i hit delete, they would disappear

with it,

god it feels like fucking forever

since someone touched me with intention

so many honorable mentions

in this hall of infamy

i wanted you and you and you

to be interested in me too,

funny how it always ends up

hopelessly romantic and pathetically pedantic

you're documented in my foolish decision

to turn you into something perfect

you were undeserving,

making me playlists and tainting songs

sorry if this comes across too strong

but i wish i'd never met you sometimes

and you only existed within these lines

the honey that dripped from your lips

onto mine has spoiled,

i know there's poems written about me

in books untouched

on the notes app, and a blog

even though i'll never read them

it's sad honestly, i bet they were quality

you always had a way with words

but i'll just keep imagining them instead

and hoping, so hard

that you made me more beautiful on paper

than you made me feel in real life

Comments

to the daughters of builders who drive white vans

on the 6am train the men smell like my father; red bull, cigarettes, dried cement - they wake up like my father i feel safe in this carriage, these men are my father, any man with a van and one arm out the window, sunburnt from the elbow down - the infamous builder’s tan - seats so dusty i can’t breathe and i have lungs like my father, full of second-hand smoke and concrete, a touch of asbestos, i should weep for my father but my pockets are healthy i am told by my father whose hands shake as he brings another beer to his lips at 10am on a saturday morning, this is coping for my father these men cope - cope like my father - with the asbestos lungs, uneven tans, shaking hands, muscles in constant pain, water on the brain, the ever encroaching grasp of old age; with substances up the nose they unwind like my father this kind of masculinity doesn’t last forever, you know...

i can only write when i am thinking about God

I can only write when I am thinking about God and sometimes God is God and he loves me, most of the time he does not the hand that feeds me overpowered by teeth that bite he visits me at night like a shark smells blood he smells lust, guilt, and greed brought to my knees, voice hushed he picks apart my greed and my lust promising to forgive, to forget he will make me repent and regret, any pain or pleasure at his expense provided in selfless restoration a gift of his affections exchanged for endless loyalty God is not always God, sometimes he is my lover he tells me he loves me, most of the time he does not I can only write when I am thinking about God

crisis of faith

and when i meet god i will ask him why he punished me on earth by denying me the pleasure of being known by anyone other than him intentionally, innately, irrevocably known in a way i could have remained silent forever whilst always being heard i will ask him why the world kept spinning as i screamed and spiralled into the sins he’d laid out for me for me to fumble in my guilt on my knees, raw from repentance and retribution who is to beg for forgiveness now? and i will apologise to my mother for carrying her burdens in my womb it was her first time too, on earth longing for something she’d never known please tell me i did it right, that i made you proud please tell me i lived how you wanted me to give birth to me again and i’ll try harder would it heal you to see me leave, or would it hurt because you never did will i see your face one day in the mirror and touch it to feel your skin and i will ask you if you could not love...

my love

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