I played with fire,
I woke up, drowning.
It’s just the way of the world, my love,
one day you’re an empress, the next you are empty,
but last night, you said you loved me,
and I ruled the world as a ghost for a moment,
crown, trembling atop my tresses as you undressed me with nervous, nimble fingers.
I could say “no” but what good would it do?
We both know the way that I want it,
and we both know that you don’t care,
and, perhaps it’s my problem, for playing along as you preyed on my loneliness and lassitude.
I just wanted to be held until the world let me go,
and you were just there.
They are tempted by my temper,
because my exotic flair makes it feel like passion,
like in a French magazine,
since sweet sixteen,
and further back,
in the fables of my life that I have forgotten,
I was rotten to the core,
storming through each day with a smile and my rage.
I dream of diamonds,
around my neck and down the throats of all those that I dislike,
Queen of the pampered Princesses,
running through benefactors for nefarious purposes,
never satisfied by their platinum cards and best wishes.
Last night as I strolled through the shopping centre,
I saw a little pair of shoes, painted blue for my little one,
feeling so blue because they had tightly tied laces and left a taste in my mouth, without my lips even opening.
Ghosts were following me again,
the things that money cannot buy will always allude me, they never let me live,
living in my bones and setting fire to my soul.
There are geese gliding across the rising sun as I recall last night’s dream,
boil a kettle that will never be poured,
pouring over my seamless, endless era of madness,
because I truly want it all.
The streetlights switch off,
and I switch on the siren waterworks.
I want to talk to people,
to leak onto their fingertips, through dried ink,
to be carried around by absent minded hands for the rest of the day,
stuck in the back of their mind, or the back of their throat, like a strong flavour or an even stronger memory that hurts so badly to think about.
I spent my childhood obsessing over being remembered,
because I didn’t think I’d make it this far into adulthood,
I’m aimless and awestruck,
wondering how I’ll be remembered when I’m gone, because I have now been here too long.
I was supposed to be something fleeting,
short but sweet,
the kind of girl who just disappears into dark nights and is never heard from again,
the kind of girl who lives in the air and never shares too much of herself.
I thought I’d wave goodbye on the beach,
blowing a kiss to the setting sun as I waded into my second birth,
the water, avid and endless around my legs and my waist as I went to waste in the sea’s sweetness.
I couldn’t do it.
Changed plans and cowardice.
I spent my whole life, waiting for it to end and then something in me decided to try again,
and now I’m waking up,
just to look at myself in the mirror and ask my reflection how she’s feeling.
She always lies, which is deeply unhelpful,
and I fantasise about what I could be now if I had let the water love me as she would have liked.
Is it ever worth it?
I always ask,
but then I start shouting and screaming before an answer comes,
because I don’t want to hear it.
I don’t want to know.
I get so sick of it, you know. All the flowery ways in which I could say “I fucked up, and I don’t know if there will ever be time to fix it.” and there are kind smiles from all the obliged ones, who can’t escape my incessant mess, because we are bound by blood or subservient to sycophantic sentimentality.
Writing another verse about how I am the fucking worst. Lamenting that nobody likes me, but much like Morrissey, I don’t care. Shouting to an empty room about how it’s so unfair, to be so brilliant, but never beloved.
I will be applauded, again, for being vulnerable and honest, for tearing the skin from my broken bones and putting on a show of the deepest emotion. God, won’t you help me? I’ve been dying for decades, and I don’t know how to live with that. And… and it’s all so raw, so the people will applaud, because I got out my notebook, instead of going to therapy (again), and I’m on my knees, wailing and whinging about how nobody’s love will ever be enough for me, because I have spent my life chasing a high that could never exist.
One day, I will live in an ancient palace, just to be dramatic and decadent. The walls will echo with torment, and the girl I love will be galled by the restraining order I gifted her for Valentine’s Day. I will be barren and broken hearted. A recluse. Writing another verse, about how I am the fucking worst, and how it was all so inevitable, and I promise you, I will be so sick of it all.