Blood

I imagine her

finding me

sat on the edge

and she says

‘Oh baby, that’s nothing

you didn’t even make yourself bleed’

 

This is not a poem

Hello!

This is not a poem, but just a little note to say I’ve started writing weekly blog posts for a new blog called ‘The Model’.

My first post is up on the site now and you can find it here.

I hope you enjoy xx

Friday

It wasn’t anything special

I don’t think

Other than him

Here

And me on the side

Drinking in a long dress

That didn’t match

My settings

But he told me ‘you look pretty’

So, I couldn’t take it off

And wouldn’t dare.

 

 

Sleep talking

You slept on tiptoes

and between dreams

and told me

in your sleep

that I was stealing the covers

and I laughed

watching you cradled in cloud

and linen perfume.

 

You woke before the sun

and between seconds

and told me

as your eyes opened

that I’d stolen the covers

and I said I was sorry

and kissed your smiling greedy eyes

back to sleep.

Counting sheep

She looked at me weirdly today

And then not at all

And then my mind took me on another adventure

Where her hands were a harness around my neck

To keep my head upright, and my throat closed

Where her hands cut lengths of my hair off in my sleep

And began to weave a blanket to smother me with

Where her hands made fire and burnt my skin so it crackled

To show that I am lesser and I am not so fierce

 

 

And it took a while for me to escape my miserable dream

And find peace again in my sub-conscience

But also to rid the memory that her hands will return

To torment me again

Banana

I am peeling the skin,

thick repulsive dotted yellowed

lumpy boney

bruised

 

I am peeling the skin,

speckled brown sharp soft

dark edged

putrid

 

I am peeling the skin,

flesh spits outwards mouldy

squeezes squirts

doughy

 

I am peeling the skin,

sickening smell saliva decay

pulpy mess

wet

 

I am peeling the skin,

dig push finger into mush

pull out

sodden

 

I am peeling the skin,

grime on the floor sudden guilt

wasted taste

iron

 

I am peeling the skin,

rotting dirty fruit I think

thinking other

him

Do you understand it now?

Some people say they don’t understand my poems. But I don’t remember asking if they understood. I want to know if they enjoyed it.

Because. Because, this poem is about you. And that poem is about you too. That last one when I talked about those selfish girls or those feelings you get when you wake up and you’re no longer dreaming. That poem about hatred and jealousy is about you too. It’s selfish. You must think only about yourself. Poetry is completely selfish, you see.

So, tell me. What are you thinking about?

 

I’m thinking about him…

An apology

An apology

to you

who makes me blush

and scream

and tries too hard

to make me better.

 

I am sorry

for myself

for my bitter ways

and for my bitter words

but this is my all

and everything.

 

I hope you forgive

my selfish mind

that tries desperately

to win your approval

but falls too quick

and bruises.