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



and are you disappointed? (you must be)
that you didn’t see the nails under my skin
the backwards-ticking clock in my head

no one has left this place without scars
each one tallied by me

i was told everyone isn’t wrong, i am
but i’ve won every game i’ve played up until now
and i should be disappointed
i’m not

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.

a walk across the park

i found something out
my tracing paper is what they call a lonely child
with poems bleeding from her arms, a walk across the park
i’ve written every bite of love i’ve taken from anyone
and no one wrote about me
i slipped on the tears they sketched of themselves
every possible heartbeat away from my cruelness,
no one wrote about me
a turn-around side-ways glance, i tempt fury in people too tired to grieve me
make sure not to waste the paper or time

i shed my skin hundreds of times a year but my skin sticks to the walls
i remember everything at once in a moment

tracing paper

i have wires instead of veins
and i have no tolerance for intolerance of numbness
for your desperate glorification of  emotions after loving Emptiness
i have been trapped behind tracing paper
existing on a flat plane somewhere behind a reality
one-thousand one-year-old conversations constantly on play
recreating, brainwashing myself into generations of nobodys
empty laughs and stabs in the back made me someone else, but she doesn’t exist