Black Cables and Sunrise Without Tequila

How to put it in words
when all I want to do is scream about it
when all I want to do is punch the timeline
of this universe for allowing two people to fall in love
and eventually have me?
The gods have been so unfair in giving me a beating heart
and the pain that comes with every pump.
How to put it in words
when I want to write to you
in blood and tears and baby, sometimes I do.
I want to put it in words, I want
to tell you that I wish you’d care about my hair:
I wish
you’d care
about the way my lungs pause
when it comes to you,
the way my asthma needs more than an inhaler
it needs air that has been breathed by you
the way flies need to decompose corpses.
I want to put it in words, I want
to tell you my nail polish is more than chemicals in a colour
it’s what I want you to read when I can’t tell you I love you
because I care about such things as Hogwarts houses
and which one you’d be sorted into;
and when I’m alone in my bed in my room in a country
that is no longer home
I wish I could send you an owl and tell you
words don’t come easy to me.
I am but one of those bloody foreigners coming here
wanting to know what love is;
love is knowing you break my heart every time
and still when I see you it’s all put together.
I do it because not knowing you hurts more
than knowing you’re going to break my heart.
I want to put in in words, I want,
I really do but I’ve got my pride and I know how to hide
all my sorrows and pain
I’ll do my crying in the rain.
Did you know that in London it rains approximately –
London rain 2014 statistics
London how much did it rain
London fuck you Google how much did it fucking rain
I’m drunk and my pasta has no meat how much did it rain last year you piece of shit
I’m trying to tell this man I love him and thank fuck it rains because
A-Ha has a cover of The Everly Brothers and fuck me Google how difficult is it
To tell me how much it rained?
He’s away and he doesn’t know
I’ve got my pride and I know how to hide all my sorrows and pain
he doesn’t know I’ll do my crying in the fucking rain.
Fuck you Google tell me how much it rains when it pours because
metric system and all that and back home we only measure unhappiness
in how many married men we fuck, I do anyway
and I’ve been so unhappy I don’t have a number.
I guess I was sadder than the infinite of a wedding ring
embedded with precious stones;
I’ll give you my kidney stones because your husband
was fucking everyone and me.
And had I known, darling,
dear thirty-eight year old, the same age as my mother was when she had me,
I would have still fucked him, and please
don’t call my mother to tell her
this is not Greek lessons on the ground floor of a shit building;
this is my life and your life and the way your husband comes within two minutes;
your kids are not his and had they been mine they wouldn’t have been his.
He pays me to teach English and I take that because money for a blowjob
is against my father’s teachings.
I want to put it in words, I want
to call you and tell you
I hope your co-pilot doesn’t hate the world as much as he could
because love as much as I’m unhappy right now, the bees,
the fucking bees don’t want to be alone
and I don’t want to be without the bees.
I want to go home with them
and I’d put up with all the pain
if only I’d fit in a hive.
I want to rule over this establishment and have little male bees
fuck me for baby bees.
I wrote this before:
I want my tears to fuck
each other for fun and should they have baby tears,
I want to lick them in reassurance.
Did you know that in the warmth of my room
I’m shivering with the death of this love
I want to have killed it but its illness allowed for assisted suicide:
this is Switzerland, my love,
neutral and full of rich white men
I wish I could make them all cry.
I want to put it in words, I want you
to know that more than lyrics in a song
I cry in cheap Tesco fabric, covering my cheap
uncomfortable Tesco pillows that serve as favelas
for tiny creatures that feast on my dead skin –
they hate me the way people hate a weak ruler.
I want to rule them but my geometry skills are nonexistent;
my face is drying with young age
clothing an old soul; how have you
found me in this myriad of lines in a poem
and why haven’t you told me you’re letting go?
I wish you’d have told me you’re letting go
I wish you’d have told me you’re letting go.
Did you know my bin is overflowing with plastic cups
because I know you won’t see it for a while
and every drop of whiskey I slide down my throat
is everything that is not you.
Masks. I keep masks deep under my bed
where neither you nor I can find them;
they sip from the straws that escaped the bin
and if I could, I wouldn’t stop them:
one of us has to be happy, love,
God knows it’s never me.
I’m lying down in the high that is your lips
and I fear I’m not happy,
I prey I’m happy
and when you leave I understand what happiness is
in its absence
like an abscess on a gum that has grown like weeds
I can’t help it when my gums decide to be rebels
I wonder if my children will be pink
like my gums, with strong limbs like post-six teeth.
Tell me you’ll read your poetry to my kids
and when you see their eyes
you’ll know they’re mine because their smiles spread to the lines
around their eyebrows.
Tell me
when you read to my kids will you
be thinking you fucked me on a single bed
with little footballs on the sheets
and a toy snake I named Cuddles caressing our sweaty bodies?
I want to put it in words
how to put it in words
when Google won’t tell me how much it rained last year,
when my kids won’t know you by name,
when my name is not my name but the name
that people chose for me,
when my mouth is so tired of talking
it can’t bring itself to whisper,
when you can’t tell me you like my writing
either because you can’t lie or you won’t be bothered.
Darling,
I’ll hire a writer to put down on paper the things
you want me to say and I can’t.
My poems are my soul
in these many letters;
I write them because NHS only covers this much therapy
and I can wake up for therapy only so many times.
I write them because they are the words that have been left
on Jotunheim, they are my Loki, they are my orphans:
I pick them up, Frost Giant or dwarf,
I breastfeed them my heart’s pure blood
the one with oxygen, the one
that is red in science books.
I feed them truth and they shit out
these words you don’t like
because my accent reminds people of internet brides,
of Dracula and the Cheeky Girls.
Darling,
if I could hire someone to entertain you
I’d pay for all the times I can’t make you laugh;
if I could hire someone to talk to you
for all the times I couldn’t be smart enough
I would pay for your happiness
because I care so much that you’re happy
I don’t consider it could be with someone else
and I don’t care if it’s not with me.
How to put it in words
I want to put it in words.
Darling,
I’m afraid that if I hold my breath for long enough
my heartbeat will slow down so much
it will stop altogether.
I want to project words on your body
so they hit your skin and stay with you
like bruises with an accent.
I think of you when my vibrator purrs
and when it dies like words on lips;
I wrote this before:
my chin rests on your sternum,
you play with my hair,
you don’t care about my hair,
you don’t care it’s fake and long only because I feed it
parts of my soul.
My heart is so tired of pumping venom
but there is nothing else for it to pump;
I want my heart to hug a dick
so that it pumps it in a glorious handjob.
The bees the bees the bees have all attacked me,
my skin flakes, it falls like snow in May
in a country that only sees snow with tragedy,
my skin is a tragedy.
Carmen. If you don’t love me, I love you
If you don’t love me beware.
If you haven’t met the Queen for tea,
Darling,
know that I am the spawn of Dracula
except genetics went wrong and instead of sucking blood
out of virgins, I’ve never had a virgin
and I suck dick instead.
Darling,
how to put it in words,
you make me want to buy my bras in your favourite colour
even if you would only see them for thirty-two seconds
and then not again for an entire week.
I wrote this before:
I wonder if you feel my cheek
on the side of your neck when I smile;
your skin tastes like my tears you never knew I cried.
How to put it in words
Darling,
I want to put it in words;
did you know that the last thing I copied on my computer
was your name and now I’m scared to write
because I’ll paste it everywhere.
I’ll Google you and the rain:
assignment fourteen, your name,
reflective notes eight, your name,
I love you, your name,
your name,
your name,
dear mum, your name,
I want to paste it on the walls of this city
and touch it when I go for a walk,
I want to caress the superficial physical side of your name
because there are no more emotions
and we both know I can’t put them in words.
Darling,
your name makes me physically ill
when it pops up in the middle of the night,
the light of the screen blinds me
but not enough that the letters of your name
stop hurting me, you hurt like a bruise,
a beauty mark that burns on my cheek.
I weep when I’m alone
because there are only so many directions to turn
and you’re not in any of them.
I tell you “help”, and you say
Nothing;
I flail like a scarecrow with some sort
of obsessive compulsive disorder:
eight times to the right and eight times to the left,
and eight nights of straight up crying
when the moon shines but not bright enough,
the rain pours but not strong enough,
my veins hurt but not hard enough.
Help
me
and
you
don’t.
My love, if I were you I wouldn’t help me either.
I want to put it in words
but no language has that many synonyms for pain,
and I’m not a walking thesaurus
because I’ve stopped moving long ago.

30/3/15