aquetical

one. i need to tell you that i have dust beneath my fingernails and that it collects between my fingers, clumps in my veins, feathers and flakes in my eyes and everything is crumbling. and if you are a mountain peak, i am cliff faces eroding i am houses edging closer to the edge. what i'm trying to say is i am not young, no, not really. two. maybe, i was not created to live like this. i pluck at my ribs. the sky has fallen, and the stars have shattered and i have the sensation of falling, distantly and, bursting like supernovas across my bedsheets a kaleidoscope of energy and light and heat in a heartbeat. i want to be the f

You only thought you loved me. in the beginning, i was from Lemnos and you were from the side of the A451 i was a fire, all sharp tongue and burning passion - and i temporarily ran out of oxygen, you see so I slit your wrist quietly, in the night pushed you, in front of a Sainsbury's lorry submerged your head in the bath and watched life, bleed out of your eyes. or i dreamt that i did. I think we might have had similar dreams. in the end, i suppose you thought I was in control, that I was dependent, that I was self-confident, self-assured, that i was something, anything,  - without you. or did you think that your w

I've made so many mistakes that I just want to end it all,    miss the next jump and start again from level one.

i am 292 feet underwater and 292 feet out of my depth. i am a pebble, sinking, into the deep water pools like cyanide in the corner of my eye i see azure, turquoise, ultramarine, cerulean it fills my lungs my bones and my throat i am silently being strangled in front of you from the inside; and how many words are there anyway for- i. arsenic when it burns     burns bright     with the colour blue I tell you that a twitch in your right arm could be myoclonic that Beethoven died in 1827, a clotting disorder is called coagulopathy, you do not understand. ii. copper sulphate when heated

You used to flutter like cicadas, glow like lightning bugs, radiate optimism like it could never die. It did. Your spine is crawling out of your skin, centipedal, creeping, rejected by your own back with the tissues beneath it. Thyroid stung by wasps, swollen, throbbing, rage sucking you down, the blackness calls for a friend. Pessimism is a live-in guest that never wants to leave, sucking dry elegance, sustenance, essence Light is shrieking.

What I don't want is glitter falling into my eyes when I look up lovingly at you, head on your bowed thighs.  You are too much, you are the kind of fire that you cannot touch.  Your mouth is a dark star cave with secrets that I don't want to touch.  I can hear you chewing up bits of bones of men, laughing, always laughing.  All three of us had freckles and were born with the inability to ever completely heal a wound.  I don't want to stare at a big mess for the rest of my life, just hoping it doesn't get any bigger.  What I don't want are your infections, or the tone of your voice when you're insecure.  What I don't want for at

I've got two brain cells left; one's standing still      and the other is chasing it. a train tied to its tracks; a plane crash replacing it. a hemisphere cut in half - distance in fractions reviewed. My mind is running down my face and I can't find a cup                   to catch it in. life's something that keeps happening. and, while conscious (of this fact), you think (nothing) of the moments it's happening to you. My ears fell off a while ago, if you are still talking     

in the helium of a night where constellations ignite the blood-spattered atrium of a late summer's sky, I find myself a comet shooting the urban grid in an urgency as I race a suicidal rim on two wheels in the blackness between the fires, my red-shifted thoughts crossing light years out-of-body and outliving me till the awareness of you slingshots me at Mach speed to await your arrival long before it happens, caught at the last light so close to my destination, inhaling the danger of you, where to idle the demon   begs disaster, even if the interlude proves a watershed – by Neptune's light, I will wish to death