“You’re normal, but exotic (hard to relate to).”

this is the town where your childhood is sleeping, this is the place where your parents still live, and your siblings stayed longer than you ever did. in future depressing, developed and dead, no longer the home that you kept in your head, this is the town where your best moments slept, before you moved on to find better than best. your mumbling and shoe-scuffing, awkwardly kissing, the grass in the evening, the wind that was speaking. the moments you’re missing by missing this place, your first box of matches, the first blurring face, because this is the place where the broken glass started, convincing yourself that it wasn’t half-hearted, the ending of things that you spent half a year on, the extracurricular cuttings that lead onto things that you’ll care for. the smell of the dirt. the phone towers, cat-shaped, and colours that hurt when you think of the way that the sky looks much better out here where the people aren’t strung close together. this is the place where you thought you might drown, it’s the strings in your body, the longing you found, it’s the knot in your chest before you were let down by the people and places outside of this town.

if you pick the path
with the half-healed scab
and you walk the way
with the deadbeat dad
I’ll be catching coins
you’ll detach success
at your last big break
though you dressed your best

you’ll be biting back
at the bet-boned boy
with a thing for luck
and a taste-test turn
when you still can’t cook
and the business burns
as he makes you mad
with the things you’ll learn

then the next high roller
lays the cards down flat
and you can’t control her
but we both knew that

and I get one dollar
into my little cup
for every time you fuck up

ahahaha awkward moment talking about feminist art in my tutorial today, I was saying how not all feminists are bra-burning crazies and then remembered that I didn’t wear a bra to uni and I looked down and was like…oh.

fight for me. i could love you 

forever right now. holding back 

for the first time. from that time on, 

paris was a planet. a man who would 

always love you, no matter what.

have seven kids, thousands, millions.

when i said i wanted you to rot in hell 

like a bauble, or a trinket, do you think 

i really meant i wanted you to burn?

people learn guitar in hell.

hear this from me directly:

courage is a man with a gun in his hand.

do you think that love is a gift?

i wanted you to understand:

you’re not tracking those bloody footprints

in here for all eternity.

there’s a swamp inside me into which things leach

there’s a sinkhole sucking and a black hole creeps

with my eyes at sea-level something seeps

on the downward spiral

to soft survival

and more uneasy sleep

couldn’t take it, so I didn’t

take the sink out of the kitchen

breaking eggs and drowning vowels

in elbow-deep and dirty water

making nothing, making noises

constant endless contradictions

knowing nothing though you ought to

stop your crying, no more kitchens

apron, bowl and cutter ready

one day soon you’re going steady

cake on counter, don’t forget

faking, fuming, take your head

you know that this is what you get

in the oven, unforgiving, leaking lies and lone regret

I can’t tell whether I’m making the best or worst decision of my (love)life. But I’m hopeful.

months later, I remember
that I didn’t say enough.
and the words to make it better
almost formed upon my tongue;
I could taste them in my mouth
but I knew that I’d be lying,
so they hung there in the air,
getting heavier each second
before sinking to the floor
where you were crying.