1. You and your shit haircut, and warm blue coat,
next to me on low railing in parking lot top floor alone.
It became our spot, with your camera
on slow shutter stop, that makes headlights look more like laser beams,
in one image, capturing many moments, and pressing your lips into me.
2. The first time I fucked a boy it was period sex.
The first person I told was my best friend.
He was cool to the touch, and soft, like marble – all gloss,
and looking at him, I understood why renaissance masters revered the male nude.
I chisel him with my fingers and lips,
and watch him halve as shimmering, brilliant geode.
3. Finally, I slosh out like an overfull glass, and I am thinking about cats –
there are so many wandering around my hall
that it would be plausible, people would believe me if I said,
I got these cuts from one of them.
Silver exacto craft knife blissfully opens my wrists,
I lost my happiness – maybe I left it in there.
4. I have stopped sleeping again.
It is better to be kept awake in my too small bed
by his bony rib digging into my chest.
The clock shows 5am; I’m out cold,
nightmaring again. I don’t mind a body
pressed up against me, the crook of his arm
is more stable than the pandora’s box of my thoughts.
5. I hate how I make your mannerisms mine,
the evidence you have been diffusing into my mind,
but I don’t think I’ve diffused into yours –
the particles of me have effervesced into the atmosphere,
lost, perhaps coming down later as rain – never to be seen again.
6. The first belly laugh I’ve had in weeks: tired, naked, and strewn over your body.
“You’re trapped” I whisper into the shell of your ear,
and I feel you shuffle under me, skin to skin.
Hand trails over my shoulders, my back, my butt,
until you’ve found my giggly, tickly, spot.
7. I feel light as air, crushed beneath your tiny frame,
the closest we’ve ever been, my hands in your hair,
nails on your neck, we are nature children on this park bench,
as leaves shade us and fall around us,
and insects alight on our clothes,
our oasis in the city,
beautiful – with cold, red ears and nose.
8. The softest self destruction: to be in love alone.
To tram to Lace Market and be set aglow,
and to have to put myself out when we both go home.
I wonder if you know
that I would brew in kerosene for a lifetime,
for the chance to be set on fire with a spark from your eyes.
9. Social interaction is an unpleasant event
that my friends don’t get compensation for.
I trail sticky silk with me wherever I go,
and ensnare boys and flies and girls.
I become myself when I repay a night spent next to me
by relieving your morning glory.
10. You skipping class to meet a girl
at Gregg’s – me, so happy that you just buy two gingerbread cookies without asking.
Me, once again tricked into thinking I’m special.
I think I could talk to you until the end of time
and be excited each time the thought of you
came across my mind.
11. A five in the morning calm,
sat on wooden railing outside Broadgate Park,
while my skin cools and dew turns to frost –
through the thin cotton of my clubbing dress
my essence sloughs off. I am no face, no person,
only flesh. A passenger as my body hurtles towards death.
Maybe I sat for minutes or hours, and counted lovely things,
but never got to double digits,
out there beside the bins.