when we were young he used to
wrap his hands around my waist
and drag me along to the middle
of the room.
he'd put some ancient record on
probably some Elvis song or well
whatever he thought I'd like
we'd shuffle along the wooden floor
awkwardly cos neither of us really
bothered to learn how to dance
but it was very us.
I'd press my nose to his temple
and together we would sway
and even after the record ended
we would still remain.


discard me to make me feel something.
Lull me into compliance by calling me
your little love
and then punch me in the tits.


tell me a story of
your fight with your best friend
him, small and angry
cradled in your lap

of garden picnics
your stained Sunday best
boys, play-fighting
your hair and your smile

of cold autumn rain
him in his raincoat
you with your glasses
his mocking questions


that he swore
you wouldn’t understand
‘til you were older

of you accepting your role
of the immature one
and subsequently whispering
‘then have me’ to the brush
and your delight when he took
and took
and took.


you will never be anything but this
bleeding and retching and
shedding skin and shrieking

your body is a prison
and all you do is caress it softly
as if that will break its walls

your boyfriend doesn’t hit you
but sometimes you wish he did
because that would mean
you would be able to escape

stupid dead girl's poem

I’ve decided
I don’t want to be this anymore.
dull-ended and unbidden
Pale, hazel-eyed and tiny
On another stranger’s doorstep.

Another night spent
Using someone else’s shampoo
Or lying on a ping pong table
Or passed out near the highway
Will surely be my undoing.

I wish I was more like you.
Freckled, sweet, above me
Caring, like a mother would
Yet simultaneously unyielding.
Solid, I suppose.

I wish I was solid like you.
Because sometimes I feel myself slipping
into the same stream that took my father,
took my first love
will eventually take you.

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