words spat like shards of glass against cocaine highs

and post-heroin lows

in gutters and alleyways, disused offices: places where

the city breathes.

they rasp against bone and

love bleeds out over the filthy linoleum floor

the letters struggling to fade from the air 

as we crush skin to skin in the lingering dusk

too weak to kill what is already dead

trying to revive what does or doesn’t exist

between us.　

fingers are thrust furiously between thighs

in a darkened movie theatre

as Toy Story 3 plays across the screen,

the people in the cinema crying silent tears

around them.

she realises that this is the bridge

between childhood and adulthood;

the day her innocence broke

in to tiny, irreparable fragments,

cartoon characters and this boy

whose name she barely remembers

the only witnesses

bullet holes and wonted control

a loaded god complex

cocked and ready to fire

but you’re pulling the trigger all wrong

baby

the gun an extension of your hand

not your body

lust etched against every line

of your angular frame

a desire for

admiration

success

unconditional affection

(to compete with your own utter self hatred)

but above all

control

clear as you fight

to maintain cracked

composure

domination

almost too luminous

too illutrous

but you grasp it

barely

snarled in your fist

like the prize it shouldn’t be

control in one hand

god complex cocked and ready to fire

in the other

so come on

shoot.

they don’t have sex,

or make love:

they fuck -

it’s a strong distinction

where lines often blur.

teeth and jaws locked

tension knotted into every contour

they move together as if

they’re duty bound

to fuck

just so they can feel something

anything

everything

even if only for a moment

a beat. a breath

to exhale and repeat

another night.　

Words, like torn pages,

flutter from between slightly parted lips

bruised pink, a gash across caramel skin.

That mouth once pressed whispers against

my skin, fractured promises of a future that

will never exist.

It now leaks vitriol, the ink

black as it trickles from corners and pools

over teeth 

in a tangle of repentance

and regret

masquerading as an acrid goodbye.

Drowned possibility

not loss

is what makes my chest ache.

It allows me to realise that

we are all enamoured with the

idea

of love.

An adjective, not a verb.

The act itself is filled with

far less

benevolence

than what one’s imagination

believes.

So I know more words

will be written on different pages

maybe tomorrow

maybe next year

and spat at different creatures

perhaps more or less deserving

of one person’s facile projections.

Sometimes she wonders what it would be like to step out in front of a car. How easy it would be. She can almost see herself, as she stands on the curb, stepping forward, her foot meeting the road, and the smack of metal hitting flesh and bones. The sickening crunch. The cool blackness that would follow.

She’s not suicidal. She doesn’t want to die. It’s not about death - at least, she doesn’t think so. It’s about life; how hard it is to live yet how easy it is to not.

Would anybody miss her? Would anybody seriously care?

If she told anybody this face to face, they’d probably want to send her to a psychiatrist. She’s surprised she hasn’t been forced to see one, honestly. She’s mentally stable - mostly - but to an outsider… well, you have no idea how many people have looked at her as if she should be broken. As if she should have had a mental breakdown. But she hasn’t. She’s holding on.

Occasionally, however, she wonders about life, about cars, about dying, and about what this all means.

I bought a purple shirt of sex today

Though it doesn’t look like sex on me, obviously - I can hardly expect it to; it is me and my body wearing it, after all! Not a touch on Benedict’s. The shirt is for a man, but I’m going to adjust it so it fits my (unfortunately) feminine figure (large bust, narrow waist, hips as wide as my shoulders. Terrible for cosplaying men) and it strains across my chest and everything - for authenticity. It’s even lightly pinstriped in grey and the pinky-maroon-y purple colour, and didn’t cost me an arm and a leg like the Dolce & Gabbana one would.

I’ll post pictures at some stage, I’m sure.

I also bought a more appropriately coloured scarf to go with it. Now I just need to decide whether to potentially make my mother hate me forever by dying my curly dark reddy-brown hair to black, and if buying a blazer would be a prudent move (or assume my coat is enough). Hmm…

your skin dusted soft peach,

cheekbones cut sharply

in the half-light from the television

as we tangle against neon.

we are a snarled silhouette 

caught in modernity and mediocrity

by your beauty and my

sheer determination.　

i am happy to

remain alone until

i can find someone

i love

more than

coffee

and 

words.

the world narrows to one focal point

perhaps slightly beyond my field of vision,

the world and everything in it

suffocating,

strangling,

as promises of futures

turn into drugs and gutters and suicide rates

nights spent sleeping next to strangers

and loneliness that coalesces to viscous tangibility

as it drips across every facet of your life

so you say

“take my hand”

so i do

and we run,

run

until our lungs ache, muscles

screaming in protest

images blurring to oblivion

chords of thought streamed in to one

the oxygen high transforming pain

to blissful obliviousness

yet reality snaps back to place

as always

the dream shattering

and instead we’re in this lecture theatre

learning about the false promises of these futures

with nothing but unjustified hope

and a keyboard　

In To The Stream

i will challenge all your boundaries

with little apology

fracture the world built on vanity

hubris

and wax

surrender myself

to everything -

especially

to you

to us

and what we represent

with little regard

for my own life

i will push and pull and distort

and consume

my lack of inhibition apparent

as you scream my name

(in pleasure or pain?)

calling me from the precipice

the stream of (un)consciousness

(perhaps not always mine)

i will forever teeter against

destined to fall

and i will try to love

to fuck

to fight

to hate

to feel a rainbow of emotion

a kaleidoscope of tangled thought 

so as to experience all i can -

just to see

if there’s something

i believe.

and for you?

for you I would carve your name against the silhouette

of my body 

until the scars formed a patchwork of desire,

each a memory of our submission

glued by knitted cells and haemoglobin

alabaster lines permanently etched

like you are

in to each of my breaths　

Things I just did:

Completed the first ever draft of the first ever chapter of my first ever novel.

The chapter is called ‘Breathe’.

Fuck yeah.

This requires a Sherlock/Benedict gif.