Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Nature Is A Language. Can’t You Read?

Thatcher’s dead,

but I’m still not satisfied.

I join her in the dirt,

with broken promises and stars in my eyes,

my dreams don’t cast shadows,

and I live in a neighbourhood where good people don’t go.

He joins me,

and I smoke all his cigarettes,

while we listen to The Smiths.

He asks me why I don’t smile for him,

I lie and say that I don’t know,

but he knows,

from the strip of pills,

smiling at him,

from the back pocket of my bag,

and the way I cry for him sometimes,

so he can feel like a big man.

I let him,

because I like him.

I don’t love him,

but I fuck him,

because I don’t love myself either,

and he makes me feel better,

until I go home.

I go home.

A storm is waiting.

A lake of leeches falls from my ceiling,

and they want so much,

the things I haven’t possessed for years.

Safety and stability.

A straight answer and a good night’s sleep.

He tears them from my arms,

and then those arms are his,

around him like a lost child,

and his eyes are wild.

It’s written all over my face,

his name lives on my lips,

and his sweet blue eyes burn into my mind,

on the rare occasions these days,

when I can sleep,

and dream.

Dream of him I do,

he’s all over my dreams,

and it’s all over my face,

but I shake my head,

just let him hold me close,

kiss my neck,

like I’m something precious,

and desirable.

We kiss like it’s the 80’s,

he fucks neon into my veins,

we have nothing but each other,

and the pittance the government thinks we are worth.

I tell him that I love him,

because it feels nostalgic,

and I’m tragic,

when he’s not around.

So maybe I do.

I kiss him,

on the bonnet of his expensive car,

and for a moment,

I feel worth something.

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