My autobiography:
I’m a London girl who buys flights for 5 countries in 1 second and has minus 49p in my bank account
((well I would have if I had a bank account))

now I wish
on all the stars
and pennies thrown into fountains,
that I was no longer a part
of this world -
down here.
but maybe a part of the rain,
or the clouds,
or an asteroid,
or a love,
or some other planet,
or time.
and then I wish
that the rain,
nor the love,
nor the time,
were a part of this world,
because now my wish means nothing
and is just a star burning out
or just a penny in a fountain
and that is my hope gone,
that would be it.

I dialled a number from a pay phone,
my memory was blurred
so my mind made up these numbers
and pressed them
until somebody answered,
-
The pay phone had been etched
with a girls dreams
and drawn on from the tips
of a set of
fingers
of a boy who lost his own,
-
A girl answered
and she answered with ‘hello’
but the word rang somewhere
unfamiliar
in a place surrounded by blacked out trees
and hearts without any roots.
I screamed at her
to leave herself on a doorstep
of someone who knew how to love
or a corner far from any state line
or junctions
she replied with a goodbye
and left me at the pay phone
in a place unfamiliar.

I think it’s when
that human decides its time,
to rest their head
on another bed,
and turn out the lights
to be left with their own
little sad frights
and you feel every switch
flick,
and every bulb,
flicker,
and suddenly the world is asleep.

take me back before the world
started speeding up,
take me back to the place
where everything smelled of lemon
and myself of lemon milk,
before we were sat by the lake
and before we dived into the ponds,
head first.
before we hit the bottom
and lost control
of the ability to stand up.
take me back to when not being able to breathe
was a good thing,
when the butterflies
had strength
and they chased after the earths
rotations.
take me back

I’m so used
to telling everyone
I don’t need saving,
that I’ve forgotten how
to stop myself drowning

I am hollow,
apart from the pills
and the alcohol
and the sadness -
my organs have been evacuated
in order to repent
their sins.
the martyrs call it
cleansing,
I call it pain.
I’ve scarred myself because
I wasn’t capable of understanding
my own feelings;
and my brothers words
and my lovers tongue -
so I was hollowed out
in order to find my nirvana
but he was never going
to love something so fucked up.

I have driven myself crazy
with the drugs
and the way you chewed
on empty cans.
the thoughts you forced on me
of yourself dancing through
your living room
and taking my hand from
hiding my tear-stained cheeks
have locked themselves deep,
somewhere deep,
inside of me.
and I’ve spent the last few years
ripping myself apart -
sleeping in strangers arms
and clinging to girls
who no longer love me,
just to try and get to the bottom of
this ‘something dark’,
and find you locked away beneath
the drunken phone calls
and empty vodka bottles.
in my mind you were ready to
let everything else go,
the plastic bags
and the litter in the streets
were just minor flaws.
you were going to take my hand
and tell me I wasn’t crazy,
you were going to tell me
that the drugs and the
diagnoses were wrong;
that the only thing I needed to
feel was you

I never knew what it was, I still don’t know what it was. Maybe the wind was subtle enough to move her, so every heart got a piece of her. The boy never stopped wanting her even when she kissed others; her parents dismissed her efforts for ‘not good enough’ yet they still sat in awe of their own flesh and blood.
And nothing would ever or could ever change the way I loved her.
But people start off as one and over time their limbs belong to the mountain tops of the Andes and their bones have been scattered among another’s ashes. And I had to get use to the fact that although I loved every part of her being; I had no way of finding her.

Sleeping in fuzzy socks and a nirvana top.
I like Norwegian wood (the book + the song)
He made me smile

what I never understood about my brother
was why he didn’t get out.
he could have gone to college
just to abide by society’s
wants
and he could have got a job
and made some money
and gone along with the plan.
because the plan was what
was important.
and he could have fooled us
and told us when he got promoted
and celebrate when he got a pay rise.

follow the rules.
it’s a plan and they want you to follow it
all the way to the end.
but he couldn’t fill in the gaps
and he couldn’t understand why.

so he changed the plan and did
like the others.
and he settled for a job
and living with his parents at 20.
side with the enemy and
find your escape -
that’s all he had to do.
I never understood
why he didn’t follow the plan
and I never understood why
he couldn’t get out.

their house was cold
but I peeled back my layers
and pretended it was warm.
the lights flickered
and the oranges and navies
painted the walls -
his mother would tell him
(once, twice, a dozen times)
‘take her to the marshes
and walk around the ponds
while the rest of the world
are fighting over laws
and which clothes to wear’
and I’ve pictured those marshes
ever since
with the colder grass
and my body curved into a ball,
but in my mind
nobody is swinging on the trees
and he isn’t leading me away
from the path.

I’m alone in my mind.

and I’ve never been to the marshes
before
and I’m looking for the painted walls
but the lights stopped flickering
and I’ve never been here before.

he spends his evenings
watching television
and his mornings
complaining about what was on.
he has a face you
would never forget
and eyes that used to cry.
now he’s the sort of boy
that finds it ok
to sit at a square, grey desk
and watch television in the evening.