new hair

can we can breathe now
with day-old cut grass tucked inside my socks
and stuck in my new hair
if you can remember how to breathe
i’ll wake up at 9.00 am to an empty house
where i learned to be hollow
loved becoming fake shallow
if you can breathe now
i’ll be a i-take-it-back drunk text
i’ll pretend to be full

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seven weeks

i talk at people
and lonely people don’t talk back

i loved my laugh seven weeks before you made me laugh
and i was laughing at myself

that’s okay
there’s nothing much here anyway
no one’s missing anyone

6.00 am

i swallow fake medicine down with wine
and moments later i’m shouting from your rooftop
it’s love that makes me
sipping on champagne with your laugh around the edge of the glass
a plastic drink bottle in my backpack because i broke everything
but you woke me up in the morning,
‘did you make it?
‘did you survive?’
i swallow my good times back with flat wine
never enough, though

dinner guest

i am quickly reacquainted with my year 8 depression
more familiar with who i am when i am no one to everyone
more familiar with myself when rolled eyes hint at a perceived lack of self-awareness
i am not thankful and i have never adopted kindness
i am graced by my guest more commonly known as Hypocrisy
and stupid dreams that died when i tried to
i let everyone take home a different clone of me because i don’t need her
and i never loved her
there is nothing genuine about this and my fingers have been crossed for eight years.