Duct tape heart

“When it has been 59 days of heaving, living softly and threading around the edges of yourself it is ok to think murder.
To think uncare packages filled with pictures of yourself smiling so they know you can pretend.
Because you know where it hurts it’s fine to think of your tongue as a knife you wield.
To wrap your heart in duct tape and go “Fuck it.”
“Fuck it, good enough, keep moving.”

When you know you’re not out of the woods yet.
it’s ok to get our your knife and carve yourself a weapon out of the closest tree.
Build fires and stay in the light, it’s ok to touch yourself with firm fingertips but not let others.
It is fine to not live every day as if healing is something in smiles, and soft voices, and water.
Sometimes healing comes wearing heavy boots and hard eyes,
sometimes healing comes wielding an axe and duct tape shouting.
“You! Take this and keep going! Just fucking keep going!””

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Temptations

Chaos,
whispered into the marrow of a lover.
These are the things I can give you.
Wear feathers in your hair, and shimmy your hips.
Let’s burn the evening until we are all purple and pink.
I can grin until your world flickers, I can sing you songs off key.
These are the things I can give you.
Grow out your nails, let me paint them in beetle green and blue.
Let them run down my spine while I navigate your throat.
I can make you believe In decay,
abandoned houses have nothing on me.
These are the things I can give you

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February

February is the tired month,
it’s the drag your heels – month.
Can’t get out of bed, why do we need to shower so often – month.
This month smells like anti depressants and the knot in your stomach you know is supposed to go away, it will go away, I promise.
It’s the raining month, it doesn’t snow in London but I keep wishing the frost would stick around.

February is waking up at half two every day for a week,
taking days off work to think straight about crooked things.

It’s hands over my belly – why don’t I eat enough, why?

This month feels like too hot mugs of tea that cools down too quickly,
and gets forgotten.
Mugs with owls, mugs with foxes, mugs with shapes that follows me into hazy naps.
Stacked like a wall between me and the rest of this city,
half full, half empty, and brown like… 

like all the colours of my water colour pallet mixed together,
trying to find the shade of sky I want.
Brown and grey and rain on the asphalt. 


February is flowers dying in the vases and I can’t seem to throw them out,
it’s hanging on to any splash of life I can.

Lighting candles because I’ve forgotten how to burn completely.

Reaching out in the night, too sweaty when I’m close to him, too cold when I’m apart.

Just needed a week to recover, a holiday, let’s talk about sunny places.

There is a salt plate in Bolivia and I want to see the stairs like they are supposed to be seen.



February is the tired month,
Can’t remember the summer – month.
Time to make another mug of tea;

walls don’t build themselves.

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Blót

You come to me, having hacked your heart into 24 pieces,
covered them in cocoa powder and placed them in a box.

You say there is power in being vulnerable,
naked holding a shield you stand before me as if I am your war.
Since the beginning of time people have flung themselves upon altars,
some of stone,
some of flesh.

And I wonder which one you think I am.

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I’m still addicted to metaphors and my plant’s not growing.

It’s been six month,
I repotted my small plant,
maybe it wasn’t growing because the earth was all wrong.
I placed it in new soil and promptly broke half the thick leaves.
And with a sardonic smile I hung my head,
well isn’t that how it is.

I’m considering sending it too America,
I didn’t grow until I was in a new country, maybe it’s the same.
And it’s not poetic how I keep likening myself to a pot plant.
Roots all curled up in itself like it doesn’t know it’s safe.

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When she tells you she’s not good for you, you listen.

Do not look for your way home by following the path laid in my bones.
My chest is not a cave for you to fall into,
exploring and stumbling,
lost without a red thread to follow home.

My mouth is not the deep sea meant for you,
there are ruins and creatures with small bodies and sharp teeth down there and they wont care.
They wont care that you are so soft,
that you let me have the last glass of wine,
that you light my cigarettes for me, and make me fruit plates in the afternoons.

When a woman tells you she is made out of jagged edges and warning signs you leave,
you leave and you don’t look back.
Not everything in life is a way out of the woods,
not your kisses, not my promises.


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Star signs

My best friend did my horoscope for the first time when I was fifteen,
and I discovered I wanted the stars to tell me what I am.
Could become.
But the stars are quiet and cold and at no point did the horoscope read:
Things are coming for you that will leave you aching,
there is a storm coming baby and you’re not ready,
you’re gonna roar your precious lion heart out but it wont be enough,
treat yourself to something nice this week.

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