Shining

Some days I am an elevator

filled with blood

and when anybody wants to use me

I bleed right in to them

as they run away screaming

and I close my doors for the last fucking time

I swear it, the last fucking time

until somebody else presses my buttons.

Some days I am the mirror

watching you pick away at yourself

staring until you look like a mosaic 

made of tiles of self loathing and disgust

and I want to reach out and tell you

you're beautiful

forgetting I am the one doing this to you.

Some days I am an unwashed duvet

intimately protecting someone for a night

when they don't care that I am disheveled 

until they wake up in the morning 

with a cinder-block for a head 

and a laboratory of corrosive chemicals for a stomach

and they never need me again

Some days I am the crack of sunshine coming through the blinds

making the day worth getting up for

a beam of warmth within myself

the subconscious part of me telling myself to wake up

make it through today, I will keep you warm.

I will drive you to work and feed you

and I will comfort you whenever you need it.

So please wake up.

Sound

When she was a little girl she used to hear shouting and crying all the time.

She would hide under her blanket with her fingers in her ear and wish that the world was silent.

Every day she would go to school and people would ask too many questions she wouldn't answer.

They thought that she didn't because she couldn't they didn’t realise it was because she wouldn’t

because all she wanted was silence.

When she started going to doctors there was no more shouting,

Just the almost unbearable sound of her mother crying as there was nobody left to shout at.

The doctors saw she was in her own world and put her on a spectrum,

Because the mind is a piece of glass that does incredible things with light,

But can only do so much with sound.

The first time loud noises ever made her feel anything was the bass in a dark crowded room,

Everybody was shouting at each other because it was their turn to shout.

The shouting was better than the screaming because once you scream you never stop.

Everybody was talking over her and even when she was talking she was talking over herself,

Because her mother told her never to talk to strangers.

Distance makes the heart grow fonder but she’d never met silence to distance from it

And these days she was not entirely sure she was fond of the unknown

So she found comfort in the sound of the stray dog barking outside her home

Because she imagined it was calling for its missed owner

Find me, find me, find me.

The world let her mother down one last time as they lowered her coffin into the ground,

The rain sounded like static making her think she was losing signal with the world

She doesn’t know if it was a good or bad thing that everyone around her looked slightly relieved

She was dying long before she was dying, and it occurred to her now that her mother was silent

all she wanted was to hear her crying.

Smashes of empty bottles, creaking of a car door opening, Car door slamming,

Rev of the engine, Boom of the stereo, car horns honking,

Splashes of rain interrupted by squeaking of windscreen wipers

Buzzing thoughts interrupted by screeching of tyres, crash, screaming,

Car alarms, sirens. Beep, beep, beep.

They’re called senses because they help us make sense of the world,

And the world had always been somewhat overwhelming,

They told her she was lucky to be alive despite the damage she did.
No amount of sign language was going to make anything make sense again,

Because now her world is silent, and its deafening.

Six word stories

i. Be nice all the fucking time

ii. Someday you'll cry, and I'll smile

iii. I am worth staying awake for

iv. if you're happy, then I'm happy

v. I am being ironic, I swear

vi. Hearing about peoples dreams is boring

vii. Kiss me like you're a vampire

viii. Dark comedy with strong female lead

ix. Don't cry, it's not considered attractive

X. You tasted like an ashtray anyways.

XI. You make me afraid of dying.

Whatever

umbrellas in the sun,
bikinis in the rain,
meds for your happiness,
and bruises for your pain.

Withheld breaths and graveyards
crossing fingers, telling lies.
Trying to cross the road
after you've shut both your eyes.

The warning on the cigarette packet,
are promises you hope.
Ad hominem straw men,
"it's a very slippery slope."

Girls with angry faces,
heart clenched like a fist,
the best feeling in the world
is not wanting to exist.

Perfectly poised gentlemen,
calling women bitches.
I for one, do not care
as long as they like my pictures.

It doesn't matter if you're thin
if you can't let go of your thickness
and yes the world will keep on turning
even if you get motion sickness.

Routine

She has the same routine every morning,

She wakes up, sits on the edge of her bed and looks out the window to see what the weather is like. She believes she can always judge how a day is going to go by what colour the sky is. Today it is a pale grey. She decides to be optimistic and call it silver, that would mean today would be okay.

She puts on her slippers and her dressing gown and shuffles towards the door. It occurred to her, as it does every morning, that there is really no need to close her door at night as there is nobody else in the house.

She shuffles to the kitchen and presses the switch on the kettle, when nothing happens she realises she hasn't turned it on at the wall. This is another thing she does every morning.

She makes herself a cup of tea, she dips the teabag three times for luck before she squeezes it with her spoon. She pays special attention to the way the tea flavoring spreads through the water, like smoke.

While she is waiting for the tea to cool down, she goes into the cupboard and gets a bottle of cat milk, it is only when she looks into that corner of the kitchen she remembers that Charlie isn't there anymore.  She shakes it from her mind and goes back to her cup of tea. She holds it by the handle and shuffles through to the living room, her hands are shaking dripping tea down her pink fuzzy dressing gown. She has flashbacks of when her daughter bought it for her. That was the winter her heater broke and it took two weeks for the council to send someone round to fix it.

The heater is fixed now, but she still likes to wear it because it is special to her.

She sits down, slowly, and puts the cup of tea on the table next to her. The remote is on the left arm of the chair where she left it. She turns on the TV and waits, half an hour until her show.

She sits through a hospital drama, in it a young girl is lying on a hospital bed and the doctors look at each other and try to look like this is second nature to them now. “This is the third overdose we've had this week, I swear this city is hopeless.” The senior doctor says as he leaves the room to see the girl’s mother sat outside. He is only able to get out the words “I’m sorry” before she waves her hand shushing him and thanks him. The mother keeps her composure as she walks outside to get some air. She goes and finds a quiet spot behind some bins and bashes her head against the wall screaming.

It suddenly occurs to our protagonist that this is very heavy viewing for a Sunday morning. She checks the clock and it's only 15 minutes until her show starts and another 20 until the home helper turns up to make her breakfast.

She patiently sits through adverts for central heating, life insurance, drug awareness and Tetley tea. Every time an advertisement finishes she glances back at the clock checking how long it is until her show is on.

She edges forward on her seat as the opening tune comes on and a young brunette smiles at the camera. “Good morning! Its Ava Christen here with the weather.  As I’m sure you've all noticed we have a lovely silver sky today. With any luck the showers of the past few days have left and it’s not much longer until we have some nice sunshine! I think we’ll all be happy once the showers are gone and we can enjoy the sun!”

She hears the door burst open and is frightened for a moment before she remembers the home helper is expected around this time. The home helper bursts into the door with a shrill “helloooo Siobhan, how are we this morning?”

“I’m good; I made myself a cup of tea this morning.”

“Siobhan! Now you know fine well you’re not supposed to use the kettle by yourself! You should have waited for me”

“I wanted to have a cup of tea for when my TV show came on, look, that’s my daughter you know, she is a news presenter.”

The home helper looks at the TV and furrows her brow

“Siobhan, the TV isn't on”

“Yes it is! Can you not see the news is on? That girl with the brown hair, Ava Christen, that’s my daughter. She’s a news presenter”

“Siobhan, your daughter isn't on the TV. The TV isn't even turned on. Do you not remember?”

“Remember what?”

“Your daughter died of a drug overdose 5 years ago. Your memory hasn't been so good since that day because you gave yourself a head injury outside the hospital. Age hasn't helped mind you. Your tea must be cold do you want another?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? You want breakfast? What do you want for breakfa-“

“No.”

The home helper stands up and goes into the kitchen, Siobhan can hear the clanking of plates. She hates it when people don’t listen to her. She runs her hands up her arms to feel the fabric of the dressing gown and she holds herself as if she wants to keep the memory locked inside with her.

The home helper brings in a plate of scrambled egg and tries to make light conversation, but Siobhan ignores her and doesn't take her eyes off of the blank TV screen. Eventually the home helper gives up and leaves sighing heavily.

Siobhan doesn't eat the eggs, in fact she doesn't do anything that day. She doesn't even leave the chair. She just sits watching the blank screen all day.

When it starts to get dark she heads up to bed, she changes her night gown and shuffles to the door, she thinks to herself she needs her sleep tonight so she is going to shut the door to stop her cat Charlie from coming in and waking her up licking her face.

She slowly sets herself down in the bed and gets herself as comfortable as possible under the covers. She realises how hungry she is and wonders why the home helper didn't make her breakfast. Mid concern she falls asleep.

She has the same routine every morning,

She wakes up, sits on the edge of her bed and looks out the window to see what the weather is like.

Drunk on the internet

Disclaimer: This poem was written using http://what-would-i-say.com which is a random status generator using everything you've posted on Facebook. I basically just let it write this (skipping the more nonsensical ones.) The finished product I thought sounded like drunken drawl. Enjoy!

Its getting her go, god bless us, all checking my underwear in Ashington, getting drunk 24/7 Paige disposes of hearing their names Paige disposes of you truth and thats my problem is nothing to give me Making new trend of girls proudly declaring they’re not Nothing in I can add to break it it doesn't MATTER yeah I'd say so instead of accepting that I don't think I don't know what to you no, it does them It’s getting my own happiness. I don't mean. I don't ask. I don’t speak. I don't make fun. Drowning in old enough, I don't want human blood. I don't know what I am somebody said they love how did You will feel kinda crappy for complaining about, no matter what is it. I don't care. Whats worse is I want everyone. Can't wait for every time We will discuss this Finally getting my own place if I don't Oh wow look at work Paige disposes of my friends. I don't know what we're doing, I cannot wait for something you God for anyone who lives Oh yeah, I hate myself. We will discuss your repeatedly aggressive emails at work. slithers out the window without your shitty cardboard tasting cereal. I don’t lose. Its getting changed in pain I don't have If you were and this is all.
Paige disposes of you.

Walking home

"It's only when you leave a room full of talking people you realize how deafeningly loud silence is"

I first noticed my shadow,
watching from the wall,
walking down the dark path,
Judging, dark and tall.

Sometimes you have a good shadow,
looking out like you're a mothers son,
sometimes you have a bad shadow,
I woke up with the wrong one.

I saw my shadow disappear
or at least, from where I could see
but I knew that since it was not there,
it was now stalking behind me.

I was distracted for a moment,
as I walked past an old payphone.
with names etched in the metal,
the phone sat all alone.

A layer of grime lay on its walls
and, probably, within.
I felt the grime all over me,
I felt names etched on my skin.

I felt like the cold metal
and my brain, the lonely phone.
as if right now I had no change,
and all I want is to call home

I crossed the regrettably empty road
and watched the dark grass glisten.
I can still hear the payphone ringing,
making it really hard to listen.

This is where I started to run
and I swear not out of fear,
I just realized how slow I walk
and that I did not want to be here.

I run as if I'm being chased,
or maybe I'm doing the chasing,
all I know is I'm running from something,
that I can't comprehend facing.

I run down the familiar roads
that are silent as a dial tone.
I run through the gate and through the door,
I just wanted to get home.

I had felt her

I had felt her,
her stare on the back of my neck
in English class
crawling up the nape of my neck
and choking me until I couldn't speak.

I had felt her,
perfume climb its way into my fibres
after I asked her to be my girlfriend
electricity shooting up my arm
and jazz music in my head.

I had felt her,
lips brush against mine
throwing me off a guard I didn't have
while she shot arrows into my heart
bleeding all I have for her.

I had felt her,
smile travel through the air
as I lifted her veil
and promised her something
I had promised a thousand times before

I had felt her,
warmth on our honeymoon night
a mesh of flesh and breath
silent insecurities
could read the 'do not disturb' sign

I had felt her,
as she nearly broke my knuckles
squeezing my hand
as she brought new life into the world
I told her she's doing well
while I hold the bitter puke in my throat

I had felt her,
tears when they all left for college or marriage,
decades seem like days
when the sun is always shining
as it was with her.

I had felt her,
as I held her weak hands
and told her how much I loved her
as the heart moniter slowly stopped
and I felt her, leave.

Indigo

Wearing red lipstick

Like the killer of men
And if she cant kill them
She fucks them again
Shes got a little black book
Full of desperate sinners
Like bloody handprints
On the bathroom mirror

When you are with her

you're somebody else

she wants you to fuck her

like you hate yourself

She's got something in her pocket

if you're trying to get high

and thoughts in her mind

if you want to die.

She asks me to stay,
she hates being alone

and I always do,

I never want to go home.

When you are with her
you're somebody else
she wants you to fuck her
because she hates herself

Noir

"There's a word for women like you. But it's not used in polite society. Outside of a kennel"

I don't know how we got here

I don't know what we did

I keep catching myself standing

here, looking at you kid.

I saw her standing by the jukebox

cigarette and what not

I asked her what she likes to drink

she replied "whaddya got?"

It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship

and we played as time goes by

she told me to fasten my seat belt

because we're in for a bumpy ride

Music was playing in the distance

pitched at not far off regret

I thought that things were dangerous

but I ain't seen nothin' yet.

She leans in a little for a kiss

"I'm ready for my closeup"

then she tried to sit on my lap

while I was still standing up

I soon find out shes not a drinker

Turns out she's just a drunk

She wants to die wrapped in carpet

In some handsome killers trunk

I tell her if I fall for her

Then love truly is blind

Of all the gin joints in all the world

Why'd you walk into mine?

Her Bette Davis eyes were screaming

"Do you know who I am?!"

And I tell her that quite frankly my dear,

I do not give a damn.

Items

He was a boy
made out of newspaper
with his feelings on his sleeve
he was fragile
and when it rained
the ink would blur
and he was unreadable
he worried people would see
how easily crumpled he was
when he walked places
and every stare created a fold
that even when unfolded
left a mark, that could not be fixed.
The headlines of his heart
were old news now
and his words are last weeks issue.

She was made of glass
of course, she was easily breakable
but she swore next time
she would cause damage.
She was fiercely defensive,
an eloquent feminist.
Maybe that makes her strong minded
but she hoped nobody noticed her
staring enviously for hours on end
at the Church's stained glass window.
She had read online how
if you burn glass it will melt
and you can remold it.
To think her mother thought the lighters
were because she had a secret nicotine addiction.

Freezing

I once met a guy
who had good taste in books
he made up for in brains
what he was lacking in looks

he was good with his tongue
he was good with his hands
he laughs at bad jokes
and pretends he understands

I ask if he wants me
he says that he might
I lift up my shirt
"you can look if you like"

and when he looked up
I lifted my shirt
I opened my ribs
and showed him my hurt

I told him its cruel
that he could be so nice
because instead of a heart
I've a block of ice

I showed him my pain
and I asked if he felt it
I gave him my heart
and told him to melt it

my rib cage is empty
my thoughts uncontrolled
he told me he can't
because he too is cold

I wanted him badly
I wanted him mine
I was the kids tongue
he was the frozen stop sign

But I back away slowly
watching my breath
and I ran away
before I freeze to death.

Space

They say you can never actually touch something

there will always be an atom sized space between you and anything

because that's how things work

the thing is sometimes you feel it and sometimes you don't

I am increasingly aware of the billions upon trillions of atoms between me and each person

so far away, a couple of feet in front of me

so far that their words get lost in the distance somewhere and never actually touch me

everybody is just a blur in the distance they are so far, so many centimeters from me and I feel every atom.

The closer you get to me the more atoms, the more centimeters I feel crushing me 

smothering me until I can't breath

and every single breath is so loud I think you'll hurt me

when you kiss me I try to remember that nothing can ever touch me because nothing can touch anything

the atoms are down my throat and in my stomach and the electrons are bouncing around everywhere

you're the closest thing to me when all I have is space

Impenetrable

The most amazing thing you ever did for me,

was make me a world class detective,

I searched every word you ever said for a clue

as to who you were, what you want.  

You made me a world class scientist,

I could examine everything you said under a mental microscope

and draw conclusions from the test results of your tongue on mine.  

You made me a world class philosopher,

making me question myself and why I'm here

whatever you think of me is therefore what I am.  

In the end you were nothing

and I was a world class detective, scientist and philosopher. 

The honeymoon period

My hair was greasy.

I hated having greasy hair, I wasn't the most hygenic of people but I hated having greasy hair. I could never relax until I washed it.

It seemed a really silly thing to be sitting worrying about at a time like this. I scooted more towards the edge of the bed which cause my nightdress ro rise up. I heard him move in his sleep and quickly pulled my nightdress back down. It was a bit silly of me to be so prudish, all things considered.

I then noticed the amount of ash waiting to fall at the edge of my cigarette. I'm pretty sure you aren't allowed to smoke in hotels but judging from the cigarette burns on the sheets and the yellowing of the once white lace curtains I doubt the owners cared. That in mind, I dumped my ash out onto the floor.

My whole body ached. A deep ache from my joints to my soul.

This is definitely not how I imagined the day after my wedding being, then again last night wasn't how I imagined my wedding going (that I remember of it.) I hadn't really imagined it much. I was one of life's loners Always had been. The idea of being married to me meant being dependent on somebody and being dependent on somebody to me just meant disappointment.

So what was left? I didn't have much in the way of things. I had enough clothes to survive on and if I still had my shitty job I would still have shitty money to pay for shit. That was meaningless though, what did I really have? My body didn't feel like mine, I felt old and sex has a way of making your body feel totally unfamiliar after wards. I didn't even have my own name anymore. Not to say I didn't know his name, my mind was just spinning too much to think.

I mean, he was a nice enough guy. He himself seemed like much of a loner so we kind of left each other alone a lot of the time. Which, I think, we were both fine with because we knew we were there for each other.So we weren't really alone. I guess I saw him as someone I could hold hands with through the darkness I had recently found myself in. 

I'd been thinking so much I didn't even notice the tears that were now dripping down my cheeks and the fact my cigarette was no longer a cigarette it was just ash on my lap. 

I felt him stir again in the bed and prayed he would go back to sleep because I could not deal with facing him right now but I heard him sit up and rub his eyes. I waited for him to say something, make small talk. I dreaded that; I think he knew better because he sat there for a good five minutes and didn't say or do anything. He just watched me.

I then heard him lean over and light a cigarette, when he moved next to me at the edge of the bed I saw he'd lit two and he handed one to me. I took it and started smoking without looking up from the floor. I didn't want him to pity me or feel like he had to make things better because I knew better than to think he could make things better.

We sat there smoking not saying a word to each other and I could feel the silence gripping me by the throat and I felt like maybe I should say something but I had nothing to say and my mouth was far too dry to say anything anyways.

After a few minutes he went over to the window and wrestled it open, sending flakes of white paint all down the net curtains and flicked his cigarette out the window. He then sat next to me stroked my arm, so softly I couldn't help burst out crying. It was a relief though, that I didn't have to say anything, that I didn't have to pretend.

He seemed surprised by my sudden emotional breakdown and moved his hand around my back then embraced me tightly rubbing his face into my hair and he sat like that until I calmed down, he knew me too well. He knew I would have my cry for about 5 minutes then I'd be up to talking.

I turned to him and said "I'm so sorry" though I'm not sure what for. I mean I really didn't do anything wrong to him recently. Maybe I was apologizing for crying on him. Or apologizing for being such a mess of a human being.

He just laughed and slid his hand down my arm, to my hand and squeezed it. The sun shone through the dusty, greasy curtains and I could feel its warmth. I smiled, inside and out.

"I need to wash my hair, I hate it being greasy" I said squeezing his hand back, smiling up at him.

Life out of sync

its kind of like you have no voice

or nothing you say matters enough for anyone to hear

and you feel so much and so powerfully that trying to verbalise it is impossible

so it just sounds pathetic anyways

and you're always always vulnerable

to the stupidest of things

like you have no clothes on

and every stretch mark or vein is magnified

so you look like some sort of anatomy model

I guess its lucky my favourite colour is purple.

I wish I never had to talk

and people could just know what I meant

also, I wouldn't have to open my mouth so you wouldn't see my braces

and I could position my jaw just right

so that I don't have an overbite.

I don't mind contradicting myself

as long as people know I know I'm condradicting myself and that I don't mind it.

Sometimes I feel like I'm more of a Picasso painting then a person

but apparantly people find them beautiful and pay alot of money for them

even though they're all mixed up and wierd.

I think thats pretty cool though,

that people recognise that sometimes the things worth alot are mixed up and wierd

I read somewhere that everything is broken and has cracks in it because thats how the sunlight gets in

I once wrote something about what it would be like if you could hold love in your hand

and you could either break it or give it away or whatever

and something about getting married and waking up in a shitty bed and breakfast

but I don't remember them so well

and I doubt people would read them anyways

theres a wierd sort of stigma attached to people who write things.

Anyways, I like things that don't judge

like pets and little kids.

But the one thing that never judges you is a bed

and I get why Tracey Emin did that bed piece

because theres not much you have such an intimate relationship with

and where you can lie there in your cheap underwear with all the purple hues

and still feel like the most beautiful thing ever

whatever beautiful is, it doesn't matter.