My heart aches for colour-saturated days

while I clamp my jaw around heavy numbers;

soon I'll be living in warm-toned fuzz,

a haze of grainy pictures like a memory reel -

but not soon enough.

Now is not the time for free thinking

and finding myself.

Now is the time for swallowing 

black treacle text

that chars my tongue with its bitter shape

while projections of bucket list ticks

dance quietly on the reverse of my brain.

If someone were to look at me

while I’m looking at you

when you’re not looking,

they would know.

It must be written

all over my face.

When I see you

with your guard down,

my guard drops too

and I soften at the edges,

until I catch myself falling

and haul my eyes away.

If someone were

to glance at me

in that undefended moment,

they would know,

they would know,

they would surely,

surely

know.

I looked up

at the sky

and felt like I was falling.

I taste the blue black,

try to hold it in my mind.

Lungs crash

to the concrete -

so much has changed

since last week:

all the leaves are brown now.

Everything is less hidden.

The sky holds my eyes.

Is that where I go when I die?

Out of the cardboard box

and into the incomprehensible: 
an unknown empty

so vast

I cannot fit it

in the lining

of my stomach

nor keep it

in my throat

nor hold it

with hand or mind.

As my eyes stare

I realise

maybe this

is what I was searching for

all along.

Maybe this is my pause in time,

my break from life:

the breath in

before

the exhale.

The night hushes

in my ear,

whispering to me

in tones of blue-static.

I

am

unafraid.

When did I stop being afraid?


When did every creak

become just a creak

and not a monster,

when did empty dark

become empty

and not filled with hands ready to grab,

when

did

I

stop

being

afraid?

When I realised

there

are

much

worse

things

than

what

hides

under

the

bed.

sometimes i will be

brushing my teeth

or washing the dishes

or falling asleep

when all of a sudden-

words by the dozen-

a poem comes to me.

i'll stand stock still 

for a minute or so

and feel the syllables root and grow-

i'll listen and taste

the story they've made

then scrawl my pen 'cross the nearest page

and even if i don't understand it,

i'll write it before it fades.

Tired moth

come look at

my coffin:

here lies

bones, teeth, etc.

No face -

no voice -

no worth -

nothing to give

except the things I left behind.

Through cliff faces of soil

are the marks I left

and they are all that matters

now.

The things I did,

and who I was -

not this pile

of bones, teeth, etc.

The sky is 

a pink so sweet

it gives my heart 

a sugar flush.

Lines of birds 

fly past a moon 

which curls like 

a silver eyelash

set in mauve.

Somehow the streets

smell of incense 

and sawdust

and woodsmoke.

Everything is still.

Little lights 

embellish 

little houses

and I see 

for a moment

how easy it would be

to stay here 

forever.

'What a beautiful rut to get stuck in',

I think.

My suitcase decays in the attic.

troll crouches

under bridge

behind screen

hide

hide

shout 

in distorted voice

in language of the year

at those 

who cannot see you

will not find you

laugh

at anguish

because

no consequence.

no consequence

that you will see.

harmless.

only a way

to pass

the time.

harmless,

really.

mostly.

I am an unfinished novel.

You are the ending I crave.

I am born

out of my dark-cave

into industrial white light

and porcelain.

A world

where the floor

is more pleasant to look at

than the truth

and yellow leaves

hide dead things

like a cemetery

disguised as a play-park.

Fingers claw at my

red-light lungs

while skirting boards

hold up the walls

and solid untruths

lean beneath my feet.

I try so hard to be fine

but I cannot stop

from counting the days

until I break

and I fear the fear

that is to come.

They tell me everything’s okay:

flush away anything

that isn’t right.

But how

can you

flush

away

an

idea

?