Forecast

You tell me I’ll be yours with the same conviction in your voice as someone who says it’s gonna rain.
When I ask how you can be so certain you just smile and say I feel it in my bones,
you say you get the feel for these things after time.
And I guess it’s flattering to be someones ache,
but it’s been weeks and I’m sat here without you and it’s all clear skies as far as the eye can see.

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He speaks of love like a mad priest speaks of salvation.

I have a friend who lives in a tower in a city where the mountain traps the rain between them like wild things trap prey.
He hides his heart in whiskey bottles and serves it up to anyone who makes the pilgrimage to hear him speak,
his words of pleasure and the absurd have filled room and halls and echo long after he leaves;
and every bit of this city rumbles when he laughs.
Outside of words, he lives in an altar of consumerism and his walls are filled with chantings in the night, prayers of Rumi and the low buzzing of devices.
He collect us like we are stray cats and dysfunctional dolls, to put on shelves and his desks and his sofa.
With soothing words and sly smiles he tells us to stop acting so small for we are the universe in ecstatic motion.
And although the words belong to someone else, his hands on the back of us as we try to go on is all him.

I have a friend who lives in a tower, in a city where rain washes everything clean too often for my taste.
But he has a suit for every occasion and a smile for every broken heart except his own.
And we walk the streets to his house like disciples to a place of prayer.

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Sleep

½ of a duvet tucked between your knees.
A pinch of rocking back and forth. 

Mix until soothed, then put aside. 

1 Memory of things left unfinished. 
2 broken promises you have no excuse for.
1 thing you forgot to do. 

Gently fold together and reduce until nothing left. 

1 arm around a waist.
1 pillow full of curls.
2 breaths in different tempo.
1 front curled up against
1 back.

Add kisses to the back of the neck until no bitterness remains. 

Bring together with fingertips until mixture hums in sleepy contentment, add dreams to taste. 
Pour onto mattress of suitable size, leave for 6 – 10 hours in room temperature until it rises. 

P.S

If you make this recipe with alcohol add units until body is soft and pliant, 
pour body onto mattress of choice.
Leave until agitations builds, then add water and sunshine. 

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Kitty

I am not a beacon to draw you in nor a torch for you to bear.
I am not a fortress and men should not waltz up to my door expecting a drawbridge.
(And should I be anything resembling such you should know my moat is wide and filled to the brim.)
I am not made for your consumption,
nor am I made of smiles for you on a friday night at two am while your eyes are scanning the room for something to make you feel alive.
I wont be your amusement, your game or yours to string along like a marionette coming alive under your fingertips.
This life wasn’t made for you and neither was I.
So stop fucking shouting at me from your stupid cars you fucking assholes.

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Mutual destruction

I want you like a gun wants to be cocked and fired,
all high strung, tense, capable of horrible things in the wrong hands.
I want you like the water wants to lick the bricks of the city,
waves after waves of endless destruction no one expects you to endure.
But I can be soft, I can be lapping waves over legs and backs, I can be gentle rain.
Just not for you.
We weren’t made for tuesday afternoons and hands twined together in a way that doesn’t hurt,
arms pinned down, bruises in the shapes of fingers and my voice roaring.
And I want you like fire wants wood,
I’ll run through the underbrush of you and run everything alive out of you.
I’ll ruin everything, and you’ll start it all and laugh as I devour us both.

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This is how you become broken

This is how you become broken,
by hardening your skin so much they can’t tell you apart from your grandmothers ornate plate that you keep in the bookshelf.
Then say nothing, only soft things have mouths and words and reasons, you are unyielding and made of ceramic, glass or thin brittle stone.
Paint on your skin in colours seemingly random but to you signify the path so far.
(I’ve chosen peacock colours and my face is all gold.)
This is how you become broken,
once you have made yourself into a mantlepiece decoration, leave yourself in someones hands and watch as you slip through their fingers and onto the floor.
See their mouths form a surprised “O” because they thought you were flesh but you know better and now they do too.
Spend days, months, years trying to find glue strong enough to hold your pieces together, but realise that you’re probably never going to be whole again.
Mourn the pieces that escaped you as you landed on that floor.
Trust no one with fingers to ever touch you again, or rub your jagged edges against them to see if they flinch.
Loving you is now a test and they will always fail.
This is how you become broken, by pretending you’re once hard then shattered.
By pretending you are made of something that can come undone, into pieces.
But we are not glass, or ceramic, or thin brittle stone.
My thighs yield under touch and my arms are strong enough to carry myself.
And I know your soft cheeks and your eyes and your smile on soft rose petal lips.
And darling, you can’t break.

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Sickly sweet

I’d give you my heart if I didn’t think you would devour it whole and ask for seconds.
But wrap your venus flytrap legs around me,
and I’m yours.

I’m yours. 

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