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

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