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The Last Thing I NeededThey forget to mention
how cold it was,
how your legs were pale and twisted in your sheets.
They don't talk about the tear-tracks on your sunken cheeks
or the purple marks on your paper eyelids.
They don't talk about how you were alone in the end.
It's not nice-
to die alone.
Two days after your death,
I woke up with a sheet over my mouth-
the feel of loss that clings to my bones and
the familiar weight of your clothes on my skin.
There were bad days;
the ones where you'd throw your words back
and then drink them down. Afterward we'd stumble home
on blistered feet and fall asleep unhappy.
You'd wake up at dawn and spill your secrets onto the floor
and cry when you couldn't put the pieces of your
life back together again.
I'd pull you back into bed with me and
our knees would brush. You were always cold.
fall to intangibility with meYou're just one of those lionhearted rarities; distinct in this world of fast-moving heartbeats and electric cacophony. For every key you touch is another second of pending and disquieted love. One of those ethereal extinctions; before everyone turns their eyes on you you've already flown away.
I stand watching under your dim balcony behind a happy façade; Watching you like a dream catcher. Because I keep cotton clouds in glass jars and paint my world in shades of white and write your name in the spaces between my fingertips.
Weeks are rigid borders like prison barring minutes in; and cliffs made of metal;
I watch you laugh and frown through those incandescent gold reflections.
I want to write you the most beautiful nocturne and paint you something abstract of gold swirls and blue intangibilities to hang on your ceiling;
to make you think of me.
While years and years race past me I drag old clothes out of closets until flecks of dust dance in the air because I want to be a butterf
The WaitingRoom is large but
paint is peeling,
from panelled walls
and alcoved ceilings.
An old woman is buried
in a damp chair.
A warm smell of piss,
She does not turn but
"Americo, do you remember
your blossoming power?
The whole world despised it
but I loved you dearly.
My wanton child-
Red in matricide,
white in supremacy
and blue here now,
in your rosewood seat"
Americo laughs briskly
at Britannia's slight.
But they are both disturbed
and chilled by the sight,
of Romulus' freshly starched sheets,
and all his leafy golden crowns,
in a tied black bag
beside the door.
And thus I beTransparent badges bleed,
remnants of the broken heart.
The ten by 12 prison, it laughs.
It brags of its paneled walls,
trapped, denied, and failed.
The shiny box, the click of keys,
earphones play lamenting themes,
a wish, so wistfully denied,
a dream so far from reach.
Loss parades before the face,
they laugh and scream,
they're obvious to none but you.
Time is not the answer,
but the very problem,
flaunting its truth at you
as you watch them move on.
As you bleed, as you cry,
as you watch and fall.
The pit never ends,
the darkness creeps in,
until at the bottom,
where even the light fears.
Where are you,
Four Thousand PiecesWe met outside the morgue. You were there with your hair too bright and clothes that we had fought over that very morning. You were crouched, your body looking impossibly small and broken.
You can't wear that out. You look like a prostitute.
I'm eighteen years old Mum, I can wear what I like.
All at once you were the brand new baby that I had held in my arms, sobbing over the tiny miracle that your Father and I had never thought possible. Then, you were five years old, and it was time to begin school. You had looked up at me with big green eyes and a serious smile as you proved over and over that you could fasten the Velcro on your brand new shoes.
You smiled at me now, outside this place that we didn't belong in, and I saw the stabilisers that Gary had taken from your bike. He had watched you cycle down the road, ten years old, the proudest Father at that moment in time. I could tell you that he hid tears from you that day. But I don't.
Instead I ask you how your day wa
A Broken DreamHe was just eight years old when he witnessed death for the first time. They had been moving through staccato traffic for fifteen minutes in the growing dusk before his Mother spoke.
It's beautiful she had said softly, her eyes settling on something caught in the headlight reflection bouncing back from the front window. He had leant forward in his seat, craning his neck to see what had captured her attention. An opaque moth lay helplessly trapped beneath the wiper blades. Touching the cold glass gently he had pleaded with her to set it free.
As they crept forward, inching along the motorway, the traffic on either side grew parrallel with their wing mirrors. People were looking up, pointing. There was somebody stood on the bridge, an inky sillouhette against a blushing sky.
Look Mum, he pointed, but she was already tilting her neck to see above them. I know, Honey she replied, her mouth set in a grim line as they both realised what they had missed before. The f
Way OutSo here i am sittin with my thoughts/
hand on the glass of all my empty shots/
grin and bare it Easton you'll be ok/
that's all they ever say/
i'm living on the edge of every single fuckin day/
won't get on my knees cus i refuse to pray/
pass me by it's okay/
pay no mind to the facts/
tear myself apart on tracks/
i'm spittin these words like i'm lookin for a cure/
"Easton I need your help" no worries yeah sure/
i've got problems of my own but never mind/
cus sooner or later it consumes the mind/
i dream of puttin a gun in the mouth/
pullin on the trigger/
the fuckin gun jams/
tried silencing the lambs/
shaken and scared/
all these scars that were bared/
how can't they see this pain/
i'm standing screamin at the sky in the rain/
wishin i could shut it out by killin off my brain/
i think i'm sick or maybe i'm sane/
but me and you we just aint the same/
cus it all came crashin down/
your to blame/
but i'm the one who feels the shame/
cry myself to sleep/
cus i know im in to
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