Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Concerned Whispers and Online Rumours

I think you knew it couldn’t last.


I’d self immolate.


in your favourite dress,

your favourite girl,

self destructing,

for everyone to see,

gently taking the whole world with me,

dancing myself to death,

to a song I wrote,

from concerned whispers,

and online rumours.


I was born dead,


and then disappearing at will,

my brown eyes,

always overflowing with fucking feeling,

and I tried to tell you,

again and again,

as loud as a person can,

until my throat was sore,

and my pen was out of ink,

that I was nothing but trouble,

dancing in the street,

with strangers,

to a song I wrote,

from concerned whispers,

and online rumours.


They say I was born mad.

Can you hear it my love?

It’s so beautiful.

They say my lips aren’t real.

Sing along,

if you can bring yourself to pretend,

for my sake,

that you’re into the lo-fi bedroom pop,

(he’s not…

I’m not mad about it.

I’m not)

I pour onto my label’s table,

to tell them,

that I’m not over being into you.

They say I love you just a little too much.

How much is too much?


I am on fire.

I am immortal.

My accountant is crying,

but my audience is growing,

and the sun stays up too late,

to see how it ends.

There is a mad girl,

who was born dead,

dancing in the street,

because it was only a matter of time,

before she came to life

and let her heart get out of control.

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