exhale

i have.

eternally.

pulsated and done.

She would.

willingly.

pulsated and done.

I shooed.

hand waving.

whimsy and dry.

She showed.

heuristics wavering.

whimsy and dry. 

Bitter and Silent.

Aggressively Mellow.

Possessively Distant.

Upsettingly Clean.

She wiped all the pictures

and all they could mean.

my hair was pulled out

to reveal my bald head.

my kindred spirit ruled out

as the worst guidance ever.

the finger tips all burnt off

demanding a waver.

left in the dark

she examines the get out.

given bitterness to hope

she understands there's no option

to climb is to fall

and to walk is to panic

in a line we're all standing 

like a queue, all thematic.

instantly we are and aren't

instantly she is and cannot be

instantly she outshines and outscreetches and outshakes and outreaches and outbreaksup her face and outdamages tendons and outdreams of the end and outdoes you. she's better.

all moi (In Summary Part 2)

it wasn't you. it was all me.
i substituted everything problematic with my positivity for you.
it's never been you.
it's always been me.
plagued with unshiftable weight hats forever.
i tried to take them off but to be honest i don't quite know how big they are.
i asked you to tell me.
you got under them and looked at me with playfulness.
i asked you to tell me how big they are.
you kissed my forehead with certainty
i asked you to describe them to me.
you shook hands with me and locked your fingers around mine.
but i asked you how they are.
not to share them.
they are all mine.
not yours to carry.
really not yours to carry.
i'm not yours to carry.
i'm only yours to look at.
yours to believe in.
yours to remain.
my disorders.
all poured into a mould
that went on to mould my energy for you.
i used you.
carelessly and greedily.
but you kissed me on the cheek.
sturdily and with disappointment.
and then i caught your shadow with the corner of my eye.
and didn't understand.
you didn't understand.

{this is the fly's poem to the light, written in blue ink a year later.continued from 'In Summary'}
it goes with this song:

where

are you?

where?

did the rounds a million times just checking everywhere.

where

are you?

where?

looked in every crevice-cryptic-cleverclogs joke we've shared.

and didn't find you.

ah well. guess one of us has to stay put while the other is looking. you've obviously had that grand idea again and are stood in the farthest new place not looking at people, waiting for me to retrieve you.

ah well. you'll be waiting for a while. guess it was my turn someone found me for once. found me and said it. 'i found you'. and their toes really curled with comfort and their smile widened with the seriousness of what makes you guffaw and tears your heart out simultaneously and whilst undoing your popping button top they laugh at what's beneath it and profess salvation of their soul and inability to live outside your aura.

it's my turn now. but i think there is no queue and i'm feeling a little too 'on sale' parading around with my eggs all in this humongous basket made out of doilies, hearts and yellowing pages of romance novels scary ladies read on the beach whilst smoking long cigarettes. i should have listened to the academics amongst us warning me of expressing more than you can receive. but i honestly thought i could take it. honest to god. cross my heart.

the academics warned me against smoking too. and did i listen? boy did i listen. i listened alright. but was hoping i was cheesier than them with more flair for attracting finders with more flair for becoming a keeper.
with more pizazz to convince people to see me like i see them. to burn the rose-tinted 70s hippy bullshit and permanently install disney eyes that widely love wherever they cast their glow at. whispering with cartoon birdlike-properties 'and you and you and you' as they go along. kissing as frequently as they blink.

the academics warned me life wasn't fair and that enjoying your work is crucial to existence. they insisted you have to make your work fun for you. i insisted you have to find a work that is fun for you. that's where we differ, i thought. that and their resistance to seeing how painted tips can genuinely act as an anti-convulsive anti-depressant anti-politicalhell anti-classistbullying anti-beingthelastonetobeacceptedasfiteveranywhere. funny old thoughts they had. you paint your nail, you are immediately anti-intellectual, anti-legal, you might as well be smoking. drugs. and practising. witch. oh whatever. nobody goes down that route if they have support, surely. nobody is curious enough to do something as stupid as smoke or drink or swear, right?

i paint my nails weekly. it is my rescue. you can tell i need it to survive because when you see me with plain, neat & tidy nails i am distracted, too neat and avoidant, my emotional temperature incommunicable, it is like a brick has sat next to the sofa with you and is nodding for you to pour the tea and give it lactofree milk. (you are delusional though if you see an actual brick nod at you. or are possibly tripping on some off ryvitas, mate) Anyway, now you know i've painted my nails, so when you find me you can be sure it is really me.

the academics don't know jack, i suspected. it turns out they did. and are more advanced than i credited them as initially. oh what i'd give to go back and apologise for the errors and embarrassment. oh what i'd give to find words suitable and strong enough to convey to them my love and respect the way they will perceive as 'ok' and won't guilt them into feeling anything other than happiness. basically they were more advanced than me, and now i've reached and possibly exceeded them, with going to university, and being alive and all.

i digress. i am here with my nails and love for academia. i am here with love you can understand. fucking find me already, i'm always here, and i'm always ready. i'm practically your ideal everything and i feed on being smiled at. promise. i don't even need food. ok maybe i do, but you get it. i mean other food. food for thought. food for your soul. good food. food that's good for you. i can feed on you. i do this thing where i suck out all your bad energy and you are left light-headed and happy and you don't even know why. at first i approach the topic with intense hardcore heavy sadness and within seconds you're crying from laughter and you have none left in you at all. it's my trick. for as long as you're near me i make it all go away. and i don't need food. i need you.
whoever you are.
wherever you went.

where?

are you?

where?

or how?

what a shock

peeling top layer off the bottom

with a sharp and instant dedication

unusual for this time in the morning

unusual sleepy extrication.

liturgy interrupted with regret

by self-preserving disrespect

most conspicuous form of treason

most pathetic. without reason.

sucking this thumb harder than an infant. 

concentrating on breaking my teeth

concentrated heat healing my hatred

curing the cramps, crumbling the crust, crying at last

(a)maZochist

if you're ungrateful i hate you 
if you're a traitor i made you 
you seem astonished, i'm on it
i'll shine and i'll polish your astounding addiction to pain 
so it grates on my 
leftover, bagged up heart 
once again. 

same temperature

sitting on the nearly dried street of a london suburb. sitting down on the ground and stretching one leg, bending the other to show off the thinness of thigh and with it the evident need to be thought of as delicate. elegant. to encourage desire to touch her.  her back not touching the wall behind due to miscalculation of distance when first sat down. she is too knotted up to move. she doesn't want to admit error or come across as all over the place. her hands are already doing more than enough talking, rubbing under the eyes the nonexistent itch, wiping the nonexistent excess oil. her skin is perfect. she is mimicking other people's uncomfortable perfectings of their hair and face so she appears animated, so she doesn't intimidate with her physical comfort in discomfort. she realises it is the same summer smell. the same summer temperature. the same shadowy londony experience of musty tree-grass-tarmac heat and gentle breeze. jagermeister and diet coke. it's a tradition. she is so hardcore. she is so rebellious. she is so emotional. she doesn't care but she really does. just right. perfectly perfect. she laughs and looks in the eye. and then away. she is playing with you. she is calling you. she is screaming. jagermeister stupefaction. all a front to explain why she's resting her knee on yours. why she's showing off her skinny arms and careless attitude. she attacks you with semi-insulting semi-inviting laser stare. you close your eyes and squint in the sun. you flick your curl in your finger and then spill a little drink on your jeans. you look adorable. you look exactly as panicked as her. you are so scared and so excited. you are so indifferent. could just pat her head goodbye and not feel a single thread of regret. casual. so bloody casual.

ran out excuses and filler filled with scripted awkwardness. you are not drunk from the jagermeister. you are drunk from the kiss. you are drunk from the realisation you have what you needed in your arms. you have it right there. you might lose it if you are not careful. but for the moment it's right there. no matter how many deep breaths and post party shakes you have, it is not going to disappear. you can just lift your hand and touch it. please lift your hand and touch it.