The skin on my back is raw,
I feel a niggling at my shoulder blades.
Writhing, a separate entity that I have no control over.
I don’t know how long I can restrain it,
one day it’s going to spike out
as wings.
Tag: expression
Kip
When I see your face,
jaw slack and eyes closed,
beyond the beat of this moment
in a dimension all of your own,
I relax in the knowledge that
despite the chaos of eggshell mornings
and clay evenings,
you’re finally getting some rest.
A thousand
There was a time when revealing any part of ourselves
to others
was something neither of us
could ever do.
We liked to play with illusions and give them out freely,
a cheap ticket to the circus act
we wanted to emit,
concealing with flare and artful tongues
the decrepit conditions
behind the scenes.
But our painted smiles have been washed off,
scrubbed away
until only our blemished, ruddy cheeks remain.
We’ve gone au naturel,
and now our smiles for each other
hold as much power as a thousand
years could bring us.
Rushing Rivers
Dawn. We kiss, say our
good mornings.
You, the boy who is my best friend,
listen carefully to the account of my dreams.
Sometimes,
night terrors.
You know where parts come from, just as I do.
You know me,
inside and out, like
the motions you use cutting and shuffling cards,
except without the years of practice
yet at the same time
a lifetime of listening and observing.
We get ready for work,
the day ahead planned and uncertain.
We are a tag team, a cassette tape and pencil.
Together, nothing can keep us down.
Rolling chances
How do you weave a web
if you don’t have a corner to claim as your own?
How do you spin the spindle
if there is no wheel or thread to be found?
How do you sing a note
when your voice is too worn to be heard?
And when do you have a chance
to raise your hand
when the forest is already crowded?
Into the fog
The fog on the bathroom mirror covers my face,
coating it in a weariness I can normally only see inside.
Droplets run down;
tears I cannot shed.
My mouth is a watery line,
anxious and unsure of who I am.
Then you come in and open the window.
The glass clears as you lean against me,
easing my expression to a soft grin
as the warmth seeping from every inch of you
fills my heart.
Lip Locked
Considering all the words I have in my head, all the thoughts, opinions, the attitudes that make me me, why, when I have chance to open my mouth, does the flow of my mind run dry?
Why can’t I be the one to argue a point and deliver a message succinctly? Why do I stutter and stare, fighting against my very self just to say something simple, or think in a straightforward way, before my answers stumble, scattered, from my lips?
Why? Why? Why do I need to justify myself to myself? Justify the way that I am? Why does it matter if I can’t verbalise my thoughts, when I can with paper and pen?
Water Nymph
Sometimes I think I’m water.
Well, technically a substantial portion of me is,
but I’m talking about,
you know,
free flowing water.
The kind that freezes when it’s cold,
or pools in shallow dips when it rains,
hangs around in the air
to fluff up
that girl’s neatly straightened hair.
Except it isn’t my form that changes.
It’s my mood,
my entire attitude
to life.
I’m not complaining, just
observing really.
Once I thought it’d be good to be fire.
Then the wind caught my candle
and blew it out.
Fancy words for little things
We can’t simply stand around
quoting the words of long-dead playwrights
whenever our lovers’ embrace crumples
under the weight of our hesitation.
I want to speak in my own tongues,
not someone else’s. How can their thoughts
be true to what I wish to convey?
Your muchness matches my muchness.
And I hope it will
forever.
Upturned paint tins
Shelter; storms gather as we escape
down the grassy staircase, vines
threaten to catch our ankles.
The ground splits open on the final
step. We’re swallowed down –
or perhaps suspended – in the giant
stomach of crumbled earth.
The MC appears behind us.
‘Describe how you get your ideas.’
