It was 4am, and I was in Dartford park.
There was nothing to be afraid of anymore,
nowhere to hide and nothing to hide from,
just the steady back and forth of the swings as I rang out my own personal new year, months and hours too late.
I had decided that day, that I was going to start again.
It would be like I had died, and come back as something much more manageable for all the people that had grown sick of what I currently am.
It was a nonsense, of course,
as many things are when it comes to me,
but I needed some kind of delusional promise to keep myself going.
I would have given you everything, my love,
all my riches,
all my fruit salad chewits,
if you’d just let yourself be loved.
I sang that song you always loved at my show last night,
my audience were kind, indulging me as I bored them to tears with a song, composed by Britain’s most beloved tax cheat,
and they cheered politely when it was done,
so I considered our conversation done,
until of course, you had to post about my childhood favourite movie.
It feels like you’re still talking to me.
I’m your pretty Peggy Ray,
going missing on the moon,
because that’s just what you do to me,
and maybe one day,
I’ll come back down to Earth,
but for now,
I can’t face it.
Don’t be surprised when you spy me in all of our old haunts,
taunting myself with my memories is how I handle the news that nothing has changed and I am still seventeen, somewhere inside myself.
I lost myself, a little, when I loved you,
lost my shit and said “Fuck it!” because I wanted to be young and in love for a bit,
something sweet for the summer,
postcards full of lustful longing that soon became letters,
then suitcases full of songs and stanzas about the stupid, clever girl that has lived in my head for a decade.
I had to delete your number,
because as sweet as you find my self destructive tendencies,
there were only so many times I could drunkenly text you the lyrics to Mark Owen’s “Hail Mary” before I gained the self awareness to put my heart away,
praying that my next lover will be able to love me when both of us are sober.
Here I am,
singing into dark, empty skies,
swinging like my life depends on it,
dreaming of a goodbye kiss that becomes so crazed and dazed that it never ends.
I’m still here,
4am, Dartford park,
swinging higher and higher, hoping to see the stars from that song you always loved.