In his bedroom, studio

The everyday is far from everyday

Singing, playing songs he’s written

Me holding back my own words

Written and spoken

Not knowing what to say on the final chord

Because it nearly brought me to tears

Because he doesn’t know how good he is

And I don’t know how to tell him

But a kiss will do, I think

Because it seems to say a lot more

It speaks quieter and easier

Not obtrusive, not lingering awkwardly 

Or ending abruptly

Less pressure, more pressure

Flirting with the idea of love

Or just intimacy

Isaac Gracie plays on

As we find more ways to speak

And learn to leave longer spaces between breaths

Because breathing isn’t important anymore

Because breathing is lonely

And I never want to feel that 

And I feel I never will

Fear I never will

Breathing again

It’s a word

That knocks the breath out of me

My stomach twitches

Pulls in and wallows

At the thought of it

I feel my bones tense

They’re less bold now

Remembering

And hearing again

Of another, taken

If it’s cold

I see the air droplets

Simmering in the rays

Of an ignorant sun

Lifting the haze

Around my mouth

And creating a dragon’s breath

It looks more fierce than I feel

But I guess thats just it

Isn’t it?

If it’s hot

It hurts more to hear

I need that breath more

So am emptied

And exhausted

Each time my lungs clutch

And cling hard

At the very thought

Take their time to empty

And longer to refill

And it’s a petty plea, I know

Quite desperate really

To feel a little less

Like that same body

But when you say that word

And I am made to hear

That rounding rrr

Forced in my ear

I breathe deeper

To empty myself of it

Imagine that

I lied to you, yes

But by that point I was already dead

Scolding hot drenched syrup

Dropped

Top to toe

Chewy edges

Find my edges

Stick to hairs

And pull

Make me marble

By that point

I was already dead

Didn’t need to lie

To make my heart less humble

When it didn’t even beat

How do I make myself love

Something already dead

Withered and frayed

Taking too long to write

And too slow to come to terms

With its own insignificance

You’d think

Being dead

I’d know my worth by now

But still I wait for the day

My brain catches up

With my bold and arrogant

Imagination

The Sitting Room

Modern rustic and rainy days 

Pages fall, words fail

Spiced apples and caramel

Dreaming of a home we can’t afford

An umbrella pulls us closer, or tries

Whilst arcade games cheat and lie

Cherry lips on cherry lips

And on windy piers I forget the cold

Because we’re sitting back propped by the fire

Apple crumble after Shepherd’s pie 

Then it’s Bears Den and The Great Gatsby

A soundtrack to spontaneity

It’s selfish of me to want this

And selfless to want to share it with you

I forgive you for everything you haven’t done

And probably will never do

Are you giving it up?

Never, I will never give it up.

Terminal

I have this guilt

That’s filling my stomach

Drops with a sickly smell

Finds corners in my gut

And settles

A pool in the pit of me

I’m worried it’ll get into my lungs

And I won’t be able to breath

And then how will I tell you

When my mouth is full of this soot

That I feel overwhelmed

How will I speak

When my body is drenched

In this dead weight feeling

Throat clogged

Mouth bitter

I imagine you with a pair of scissors

Blunt and rusting

Taking my stomach and sawing at it

Making crooked edges

In my swollen organ

So the guilt can trickle out

Find some release

A break for air

To lift the weight

From my waist

And cover the floors with it

In another lie

It was hard to hear myself

Promise in some way

To do something I didn’t do

Say what I didn’t say

Because of course I want to tell you

want to scream with you

be seen like you

tear that memory apart

make lines across our pages

across our heavy sodden hearts

meet in some grim centre

and form a dark black blot

and use our hands to force it

to come together and burn

to make them feel that sting

that we both have to feel

But how can I tell you

Something I can’t tell myself

Haven’t learnt the language yet

That you can speak so well

Taking cuttings

I’m born

To be born again

In another form

Half mine half his

But all mine

Am told

By

Religion?

Is that the word

For family

Friends

And strangers too

They think they know me better

Maybe do

But they must struggle

To believe

They know my mind

Inside

Like I do

I can see

The walls

And read the veins

Stretched below the surface

That spell out

So clearly

That I am not interested

In that kind of end

But

I don’t know what I think

As I don’t know what I thought

Before I was told what to think

Because I didn’t know how to know

Because my brain was still pliable

Taking on whatever shape

I was passing through

So how do I know what I think?

Maybe you’re right after all

Maybe I’ll grow into it

And it’ll grow into me