E Is For Extremely Emerald

She says
I got into Sussex and I say
I told you so, you stupid bitch
She’s crying on my shoulder
And I feel a part of me
The better one, the polite one,
The one who sees over everyone’s heads
All the way into the future
I feel a part of me
The one that’s shortsighted
And calls me at eight in the morning
And says Jo, Jo I can’t find my glasses because
I can’t see without my glasses
So come help me please?
The one who says sorry before telling me
To fuck off
I feel that part of me hugging me from the inside
The way love does when it spreads
Like alcohol in my veins
And gets to my head.
I’m silently wondering if this is what
Happiness is.
She says
I got into Sussex and I say
I’ve never been so proud of someone baby
I drink her drinks as well because
She’s got work the next day.
She says
I love you
And I say
I love you more.
We argue about it for a few minutes
But none of us wins because
We weren’t competing in the first place.

On Hold

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
but better.

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
in whiskey
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.

200 – 13

My side of the bed is to your left, where you can protect me from the worst acheter viagra en suisse. It’s where your heart beats behind my lungs and it keeps me breathing. It’s where your breath tickles the back of my head when I move my hair out of the way. It’s where I wake up, your arm still around me and I smile because we have three more hours before sunrise and the world doesn’t know we’re hidden in my bed.

200 – 12

You make me feel important, I said to him. When love, he asked. Well, baby, when you brush my hair in the afternoon. And when you — when I pull it too, he pushed. Yes, when you pull it too.

He sat up on the bed and pulled me closer on the floor, to kneel between his legs. The heat was unbearable and it had been raining for hours. Outside it was quite chilly. His fists clenched in my long strands of messy hair. The smoke from his cigarette was everywhere.

Be a good girl, he said. Be a good girl and open up. One day, he stated between drags, one day I’ll make an honest woman out of you. I’ll make sure when you say yes your mouth won’t be full.

He kissed me afterwards because I was important.

Battle Scars

Fresh future-scars rise to their personal fame like mountains
they peak like nipples under the slightest of touches
they define one as far as one allows them to define
they grow under metal, they thrive under water.
They are read not with one’s eyes, but with one’s fingers
they are one’s – my – body’s story
you can read it as a version of Braille
this one here says about the time I was ugly
this one about the night I couldn’t
that – about the time I was happy but then two minutes passed
and I found myself in so much despair
that I trimmed a layer or two of my skin.
There is nothing romantic about it. There is
everything I wish I could do and cannot
because the tendrils of self-doubt lick
at my soul and scare it into submission.
There is stopping my partner
– of always, of sometimes, of once –
and telling them I’m sorry. Not because
I’m sorry I’ve done it, but because I’m sorry
they have to see them, to touch them.
Because I’m sure I’m broken, not bent,
because when I get dressed I turn away from the mirror
and look at anything else,
because sometimes I will smile and think they’re pretty
then hate them – I do this with my face,
with my tits, with everything about my body.
They said to wear them like battle scars
and I do, with fifteen pounds worth of lipstick
they stand as proof of battles I fought
in the darkness of my room and my mind,
and lost at least once a week.