Constellations of frozen glances
I so lovingly photographed and watched 
Fade through the icy glass of photo frames. 
A blazing pattern of fire
Streaking across the unblinking eyes on my wall.

Scorch marks, blackened over time.

I miss the heat from the stove, 
On the nights of adventures in deck chairs,
Watching, or not, movies in blankets of ourselves.
Seeing you receive slopping kisses from man’s best friend,
You were; you are mine. 



Wrapping myself in petals of familiarity,
Every morning they bloom into 
Grotesque images of people, places, objects,
Leafy sepals of sameness.

Empty empty vacuous flower bud.

Senseless clambering for water, 
For a moving constant, a flowing necessitation.
Nourish me with the lick of your honeyed tenderness.

Sick of monotony,
But wanting what once was.
C’est La Vie
Dizzying homesickness, 
Lacking in you.

The Story of a Long Distance Romance

How much can you miss a person before seeing them doesn’t make it worth it? Are you allowed to hurt this much – is the next meeting going to justify the pain you feel now? I can’t tell if, as the number gets smaller and fewer hours separate our meeting, it gets any easier. The weight of expectation is pricking holes down my arteries and it’s getting harder to breathe. If I see you and you can’t fix me, I’m going to fall apart.

I’ve weaved myself into a trap of cliched writing. The stereotypical debate is as follows: Is it easier to let go or to hold on. And I can’t let go – I don’t want to. But this pent up frustration and anger, like a wasp stinging me every time some semblance of hope crops up on the horizon; I’m not sure how long more I can take.

So I grip onto the silken thread you’ve left for me to hold onto. They say a spider’s web is stronger than you could ever expect from something so delicate you know? I’ll drag myself up, time and time again, a divide cracking me in half and I’m not sure if it’s physical or my own shortcomings.

Your happiness wraps me up like a warm bath that keeps getting hotter, searing my skin and I’m burnt. Charcoal flakes off me and in the morning I’m new for an imaginary instance.


You’re spewing vulgarity,
And I wish I could take your words and throw them at him.

Cunt, you’re up in smoke.
Burn holes in the sweater I’ve forgotten the smell of
And taint it with grassy forgetfulness.
Hazy, hazy child,
It’s like he runs a mile before realising it’s in a mirror.
Turn around, my love, before it’s too late,
Thread a trail of apologies behind you
And cling to the hope I’ll trip.

Know I’ll trip. Know I’ll never toss words at you,
I’ll cut you, but I’ll never salt your wounds,
And you’ll never learn.
I’m listening to her speak,
And I wish I could turn on you.
Violate you with how I’m feeling.
Cloying, sweet messages of vapid emotion.

Without you, I’m seeing bones.
A skeleton wrought with potential.


I am your bedpost,

You cut into me, you leave nicks

You leave grooves.


Shallow, deep, permanent.

The years have changed my hues

And I darken into maroon.


At least I’m not just a notch,

You’ve left a multitude of scars,

I am not just a mark.


Paint me a future,

The brush cuts like glass

And leaves a see-through valley.


Give me a ring,

I’ll give you resistance, but please

Break me down.


I am your bedpost,

For as long as you’ll have me.

I am your bedpost until you throw me out.