I’m spending my life waiting;
right now I’m waiting for
words to ding on my phone
miles away or across the bar
and pour down when I tap to open
the second app that technological evolution
has bestowed upon me.
I’m waiting for your eyes to open
and look at my right – no, left, no, right, no –
look at my lips and kiss them.
Waiting for my father to say he’s proud of me.
Waiting for my life to not be
eating from styrofoam containers
with a plastic fork, at half nine in the evening;
not drinking from a plastic cup,
not waking up screaming.
Not screaming at my uterus that we –
my uterus and I – are not ready to be parents.
Waiting for the birds to go to sleep
in the continuous light that lines the sky;
they scream even when it’s three in the morning
and my room is dark.
Waiting to fuck the night
begging flowing from my lips;
waiting to love again,
waiting to care enough to roll out of bed
for more than a fag and a piss;
waiting for the day to end so I can justify
screaming in my pillow when the dreams come.
Waiting for my phone to turn back on;
waiting for my ribs to crawl out of my body,
for my lungs to dry,
for my liver to fail,
for my hair to reach the floor,
for my scars to fade,
for my weight to engulf me until
I am no longer a person
but a blurb on the back on a badly written book.
Waiting for him to call me,
for the other one to wake up,
for my love to rise from the ashes,
for my father to tell me he’s proud.
For my doctor to tell me I can’t have children
so I can cut myself open and spread my skin on the floor
to be the most expensive rug in the world,
the most expensive surface of a room
where people come to trample me.
I’m waiting for bad things, because there are no more good things.
Waiting for people to realise I’m a fraud:
a sinister half smiling half smart half pretty half alive
shadow of what I could have been
had I not been born in this body
had I been pushed into this world as more than halves
had I not cried myself to sleep every night
had I been reading more than some Russian literature way past my bedtime
had I been had I been had I been
flawed but not too much
chubby but not too much
intelligent but not too much.
I’m waiting for your fingers to pinch my nipple.
For my mind to stop telling me I’m not good enough.
For you, for your lips and your skin and your dick.
For my mother to ring.
For my laptop to be more than a gate to nothing.
For my writing to be good.
For my poetry to be more
than the same sinister half intelligent tripe that it is;
for my writing to be more
than myself moulded to be not perfect
Waiting for the day when I come to terms with
not being the most important person in anybody’s life,
not when they have their significant others,
their pets, their estranged siblings, their phones,
vibrators, computers, themselves.
Waiting for someone to love me as much as I love them:
not more, not even the same way, but just as much.
Waiting for my thighs to melt until there is little left,
until there is nothing but brittle bones
wearing the scars that my skin had
because blades cut through that much fat – who knew?
Waiting to wear a skirt without dry heaving
because a lifetime a judgement never goes away.
Waiting for the rare night when I go to bed
and instead of my terrors I find peace,
I find myself holding a toddler
and reading to them about step sisters cutting their toes off,
telling them that the best thing about me is them.
Waiting for the morning when my heart is so heavy
it outweighs my body
and it holds me down in my blanket
until I’m ready to drink again.
Waiting for my mother to finally turn around
and tell me how much of a disappointment I am.
For my acceptance that my father will never
tell me he’s proud.
Waiting to accept there is nothing to be proud of,
not one thing that others haven’t done
at least a million times better.
Waiting for my brain to be so soaked in whiskey
that I no longer care you don’t like me
that I no longer care for being naked
that I no longer care you’re settling
that I no longer refuse to look at my reflection for more
than it takes to get dressed.
Waiting for the endless stream of faces
who have once been over me, in me,
grunting, their eyes closed to not see me
to finally merge into one.
Waiting for my phone to turn off so I can stop writing this,
for my tears to stop falling,
for my skin to detach and escape
clinging onto someone who hates theirs as much as I hate mine,
sheltering them from abuse.
And when it’s all over
to burn and scatter itself over Scotland
while the rest of my body sinks into the ground
to feed the starving worms.
Waiting for the rain to nurture the poppies that will grow out of me
for my unborn children to come alive
from people who deserve them.