You can find me in the forest,
soaking up what little sun breaks through the branches.
I left a part of me back in London,
as well as the beach streets of Blackpool and Barcelona,
sometimes, the tiniest sliver still lingers in the imaginations that I cannot repossess myself from.
I am trapped,
in ways I can’t comprehend or express,
but it’s not so bad,
I draw pictures of my grand escape,
on the side of my bottle,
waiting for the day it will be poured,
and I will drink,
like the struggle is over,
seeing the struggle on the horizon,
but closing my eyes as escapism enters my mouth.
What am I talking about?
I woke up at 3AM to cry about things.
Surrounded by unwrapped Christmas gifts,
that make me feel ungrateful and unmotivated
a calendar where I tracked all the things I wished for this year.
The summer was a sour decline from the sweetness of spring.
I wrapped myself in a conspiracy,
keeping myself in a cult,
because I needed to believe,
to keep myself alive.
I saw meaning in many meaningless moments,
so sure that it was sustainable,
but then the train came,
hurtling and hurting,
speeding down tracks I spent the summer sleeping on,
and I watched it,
just smiling a little,
cider in hand,
ready for some kind of realisation that would never come,
some justification of why I hurt myself,
over and over,
by helping him torture me,
holding out my own heart and saying
Handing him knives and excruciatingly empty messages that just let me know that he was alive,
but not thinking of me too deeply,
because there was someone else,
or I was someone else,
you know you’re not the prettiest girl,
So did you really expect him to stay?
Do you really expect anyone to stay?
He wasn’t the prettiest boy either,
but he knew how to make anybody feel like a princess,
so he was always going to have a trail of girls,
with gaping eyes,
dark and trailing with tears,
mouths that howled,
on the bathroom floor,
barely able to brace for the impact of the mirror,
and it’s cold, cruel realisation,
that it was just another lie,
just another day for someone like him.
I’m not sick anymore.
I don’t think I was then,
I just really wanted to live in a land that I had created,
because humans crave love,
and I think that this was the year I finally became a human,
without realising it,
until it was too late,
and I was too cruel to myself.
I was kind to myself in the autumn.
He was kind too,
not the spectre of my summer,
but the angel of autumn,
only appearing in the night’s sky,
when I was ready to live again,
only able to lay kisses on skin and souls that had healed,
he dries tears I hadn’t realised I’d been crying,
and I fall back to sleep.
I find myself in a forest,
my phone is turned off,
and I am surrounded by air.
I can breathe.
I can breathe like I’m not going to die.
The branches are brittle,
but we stay strong together,
I lay kisses on leaves that glitter,
gold and orange,
I ask them to stay with me,
and they fall around me as I rest,
on the floor of the forest,
far away from train tracks,
and summer sociopaths.
I stab my regret to death,
as morning arrives,
because I no longer need it,
and it’s just a memory,
a faded scar,
that is boarded up,
then painted over,
like an empty lot on the high street.
I am warm as I awake,
kissed and cherished,
by the gentle approach of autumn.
There is blood on my beautiful face.
you’re not the prettiest girl,
you are a gorgeous woman.