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I bear the brunt of your day;
As you hover in your head
Gradually feeding your veins
whilst I stand silent by the bed.
Not up for conversation,
or a twisted kind of negotiation. 
But our merged state of hysteria
leads to an ocean we cannot be.
So we can either hold our breath
or choose to drown out at sea.

Cracked with use
are her lips like concrete.
Fitted with no beliefs
is a jewelled cross
laying over her chest.
A hall of heads fall silent.
Vices in a moment will resume,
after a delicate clearing of the throat;
A lady choking on her own perfume.

The night you left me, I returned the favour.
I could not feel my own bones,
when they ran from our alleyway and from you.
What was mine is not anymore.
The night you left me
my flesh felt thin.
After everything:
Talking is cheap and your lies have been expensive, but what did they matter.
I wished there were springs in my bed I could’ve
digged my thighs into.
When I curled into myself,
I could feel every inch of you laced into my skin.
Trying to pull out your stitches twisted my stomach.
I sat and I didn’t know what to do with my hands.
The night you left me, my lip split. Red trickled along the lines in my teeth and hardened. The night you left me was spent running my tongue over a dry lump of blood.
Nobody told me about this part.
I am terrified.
I wanted you to love me carefully.

Old bed sheets 
remind me of things I cannot change.
Unwashed hair and tight seams
remind me of things I have since gained. 
Empty spaces
filled with rotten, fleeting thoughts,
brandishing swords as they chase
away traces of me. 
Burned down candles 
remind me of things I cannot change.
Filthy hands and bursting seams
remind me of things I have since gained.

The value
of one single sheet of glass;
Posing as a barrier 
between you and all you have. 
Dividing your lungs
and so separate they breathe,
whistling through blood in the air:
Do not forget about me.

A shadow of a moment
following me around the room.
Giving heavy details
to make up for weightless decisions
made in the slight of a second;
Ill of reprimand. 
And I cannot help but notice
beads of blood by either eye,
thick and unable to fall.
The last excuse that you will claim
hardly matters at all.

Until we’re sure of its existence
ideas of impermanence are familiar, I suppose.
Scraping fingernails at the front door,
each turn a desire to expose. 

damage is given only to skin;
Holes of hard red, printed in 
like the skeleton of a butterfly,
outlining each quailed thigh.
Tissues pressed to swollen eyes;
Stone clouds in uncertain sea-green skies.
Stinging irritations paired with stinging realisations,
in that my bruises shaped as whispers and lies
appear mild in comparison 
to her body on fire.

One hundred notes 
contained in a plastic bottle;
Not quite as creased and faded
as they will be tomorrow.
Concealed beneath my bed and beneath my fingernails,
each carefully penciled letter
is now turning pale. 
Once used up entirely,
know that your work had a cause;
For every slip of paper
removed one stubborn thorn.

Two great-winged birds,
pushing against the heavy sky.
They feed on attention
but starve thanks to you and I. 
We meet at neither below or above,
we meet nowhere at all.
Yet separate we are not,
as I feel each section of my spine
and each crease by either eye.
All of this I feel because
of confirmation that you are mine.
Skin on skin;
Soft and touched and beautiful. 
Bled and marked and dirty and used.
A prime moment 
as it does not matter whose is whose.

are too much
for phantom thoughts.
gave me everything,
for which I am appreciative,
but I fear
you left nothing for yourself.

Inadequacy can arrive as a number;
High collared coat with secrets in the pockets.
Only will you relax in your dress
once your eyes are lost from their sockets.
Hands covering mouths
in reflection of what you speak,
I am the number.
You are the number.
He is the number.
Everything beyond the number
is blurred with irrelevance
and lost out of sight.
18, 16, 12, 10, 8, 6, 4, 2, 0.
They say that less is more, right?