if i were to split you up into pieces of perfections
it would go something like this:
- your love
- your angry tears
- the love you are given
- every mistake you made
- everything you say out loud
- the anxiety you feel sometimes
- everything you say inside yourself
- the piece of you that says yes when you want to say yes
- the piece of you that says no when you want to say no
- the piece of you that doesn’t say anything in case you hurt someone
(maybe in that order)
if i were to split you up into pieces of perfections, and jumble them all up, make some bigger than the other, rename a few pieces when you’re not looking
how unbelievably perfect would you be?
if i were to split you up into pieces of perfections, take you away from your form, look at you naked, no longer clothed in your hopes and dreams
would you remain perfect? or are you posing just for me?
if i were to split you up into pieces of perfections, keep one in a jar beside my bed, one to freshen the clothes in my cupboard, and one to spread the jam on my toast
how grossly imperfect would i be? holding on to you pieces of you?
showing you off and using you to survive?
if i were to split you up into pieces of perfections, i’m sorry. i should never have done it.
She’s sat there with her hair waving towards the grit between the kitchen tiles.
Her £15 manicure tapping against the marbled worktop.
She says she sees UFOs in the marbled pattern and watches him speak; with passion; about the flat earth.
What she really sees is the faces of ghouls that visit her dreams.
She is his.
She has dirt under her nails and they both know it,
and she wants to not care and she is his.
The grey is starting to fall beside her mouth and she wants to not care. But she is his.
As he speaks about making her the best breakfast ever
The green for her red blemishes has failed to blend into her blush.
There is nothing in the fridge,
and he wants to care but she is his.
The morning puffiness beneath her eyes has grown because he loves it and she is his.
She has tried sleeping less so it can look – puffier – she has tried sleeping more so it can look – puffier – she has tried to sleep restlessly so it can look – puffier.
Her winning result is: restless. Because he looks at her and she is his.
And he will see me sat there and he will love me.
my dreams in no particular order:
– my man in blue.
– the hole in my back.
– the skin graft I perform on myself – from my clit to my chin.
– the empty box of Chinese that I would like to fill with my vomit, to see i am made of something. and I am rejecting some things. and I can decide what I need. and what I do not. is that you?
– the wet sock merging with my skin.
– the context: my sister had a dream of giving motivational speeches on beaches. I counter-dreamed. I saw a green monster shitting on every beach she gave a speech. a fight she didn’t know we had.
– the fireflies dying and the horrible feeling of seeing city lights instead.
– the one where your eyes droop towards the dirt.
– the possibility of me being not-all-there.
– the yellows I touch turn grey. or milk coloured. depends on my mood.
– the old boxy tv saying ‘I told you so’ while drinking fizzy orange juice. it doesn’t scare me that a tv would drink juice.
– the new plane I will never attain unless I kill myself. (I’m sorry you had to read that)
– salman rushdie hugging me. this definitely is a bad dream.
– the people missing me. and having ‘the people’ in my vocabulary.
– the missing poster.
– the reward (or just the beginning) of a complete end.
now that the list has been put forward to you all, you may tell me what is a good dream and what is a bad dream. I dream so much that I don’t sleep. I am tired, so very tired. please tell me what is good and what is bad. I would do it myself but I need to get some shut eye. I know it may seem like an optional task but I would like to emphasise that it is necessary and important. I need rest.
she moves the shelves three.two centimetres to the right, a sign of progression, she believes. the amount of years.2 she spent underlining ‘how to pool your life work into gridlines’, calculating how many yearsx7 she will spend in hell and highlighting the steps to ego death.
she removes zero.four centimetres of dust, a proud moment, as she expected a lot more before she started cleaning. she kept her windows open during the winter and a glass of water by her bed. a subconscious decision to not self sabotage.
she set her duvet one.one inches below her pillow because she feels like she deserves to breathe at night. she puts her underwear two.seven millimetres to the left and opens her cervix for two sets of three lines on her fingers. a reward for cleaning.
she sleeps for seven.five hours and stays in bed for another ten minutes contemplating whether she has enough kcal to achieve her goals. if she had finished her oats yesterday-breakfast, she may have had an additional twenty nine percent chance, upon her existing sixty one percent, to sift through her unopened letters to herself.
after two minutes of watching one man talk about the significance of light – and taking notes – she rested. she argued with 4 doubts. 1. is she good enough. 2. does she delete her essays. 3. is her heart made with/for gold (and how much gold) 4. will her children understand.
at eleven:fifty she takes a picture of her shelf, drinks five hundred millilitres of water and reads an article of the authenticity of counting sheep as she falls asleep.
tired breaths, rasp; you’re tired of the mugs of veins gone cold on your bedside table; rasp. you want a warm bed and bottomless expectations.
just leech onto gravity, my dear,
let it spin you into criminal activities, let it strain your knees, let it hold you by the feet. dear. let your heart meet your intestines. no more sky, wake up with root dents in your cheeks.
be brave, dear. the clouds are the coming together of his&her sweat. do not take interest in others. learn what you touch. dig, dear. soil your knees, lament the good deeds, drink wine from ice trays. do not, at all costs, watch rivers flow. it is pitiful, seeing how many waves are needed to get one across. stand alone. if you must be around rivers, dip nothing but your knuckles. groom the lump in your throat, starve yourself of all anecdotes.
trust gravity. be weak dear, i’m here to help.
The angels argue who will fall
first, and they choose you.
You are quick to laugh it off,
“O Angels, must I fall. Can you not arrange a ride? With all the power God holds, can he not find someone, who with me, could die?”
Amongst the extroverted residue
I see translucent trails of you.
I see you cry by the bins of Abraham’s bakery
you are just a sphere of blue
Without blowing my cover from behind the reed flute
I somehow wish to tell you
for years I’ve watched you grow into
a light above the architectural dispute,
and since a child golden cobbles heat up as you walk beside them on your way to Gabriel’s honey pool,
I see you between God and his first Repute
and since a young age you have had your eyes wishing to dilate,
cocking your head between God and Adam
wishing you could have a love as great.
For heavenly years I have tried to build up the verses to tell you that;
I have fallen in love with watching you and
I have come to always
see you behind me, ahead of myself
I see you above me, I lower myself
my only wish is for you to be brave enough to grow form
so I may hold you and you may have, just as you wished, a love to fall for.
Do you churn inside
having seen him bite his sober cries
and now she’s tasting the leaked mercury escaping his mind,
having seen her love stifled silences
and now he’s tracing the constellation from her back into the skies
She had once upon a time
only sang the world’s lullaby
and now she only sings her lover’s reprise,
and he only ever felt easy howling into the night
but now he chases the blinding white
and since the two were made to unite
you burn inside
knowing they love being lost in Her Mother’s unplanned trials
more than being Clockwork’s only child.
Tell me does it hurt inside
seeing the lovers escape from
the watchful eyes of the world
to run into the wild.