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Title

“Listen to Bowie with me?” I ask to nobody in particular,  whoever answers yes will satisfy me. 

“Bake a cake with me?” I ask nobody in particular,  nobody wanted to listen to music, but everyone likes cake. 

“Watch a movie with me?” I ask nobody in particular,  if they don’t like music or cake, they must like movies.  “Read a book with me?” I ask nobody in particular,  if they don’t like those other things, this is all that’s left. 

“What’s wrong with me?” I ask nobody in particular,  I finally found something they want to answer to. 

“Can you leave me alone?” I ask nobody in particular,  now they don’t want to leave me in silence. 

“Why did you do this to me?” I ask nobody in particular,  they’re back ignoring me now. Obviously. 

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TW: SH

you need food and water  to live  like you need oxygen  to live.  And starving yourself of these things  makes you want them even more.  I need those blades  to live because the feeling of keeping myself in line is all I have  to keep moving forward.  The need to do it grows and grows  and I suddenly stop caring about relapsing  because my favourite grey t-shirt is now rose. 

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I tried this time,  truly, honestly I really did try this time around.

My friends were always nonexistant but I thought I’d make an effort  to stick with these people  this time around. 

I laughed at their jokes  and comforted their woes  and prayed that it would be enough I really did try. 

But as the leaves begin to die  I find that once again I’ve been tossed discarded like a coffee filter  a platonic summer-fling.

And going into September I am alone once again with no hope but to make it through the year in one piece. 

I will try again,  although I know it is futile. But my mothers face last time I gave up is something I wish nobody to see. And I’ll try again for her because  I could hate her for a hundred years  and never wish her the hurt I hold. 

I’ll try,  for you.

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i call this, i got a grade 8 in re gcse and cried unhappily

My god isn’t benevolent.  My god isn’t omniscient.  My god isn’t omnipotent.  My god isn’t a dick. 

They don’t love everyone,  not everyone is worthy of love.  Those who need to be, are damned to hell.  Not homosexuals because they are gay, or  people who skip church on Sundays, or  single mothers who were never married, or  the people who have to steal and cheat just to survive.  He hates the rapists, the racists, the murderers, the abusers,  the homophobes, the sexists, the people who you idolise for  being the worst people on the planet.  My god hates you all. 

My god can’t see everything, they don’t know everything.  They didn’t see this world we have been placed upon turning to a dystopia.  They didn’t know that we would ruin the grass and the trees. Tainting the air.  Killing each other. Hating each other. Hating the world.  They didn’t see into the future full of smog and false promises.  They didn’t know we would be fighting for our lives against the rich people who swore would protect us. They lied.  My god couldn’t have known we would turn on them. 

My god hasn’t got much power at all.  They wish they did, to stop us all. Prevent us from falling apart.  They would have destroyed the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs  because they had more sense of a community than the messed up game of sims they are watching us play right now.  They would have put us in a pool and taken away the stairs.  Drown out the toxins that us people are. We’re parasites.  My god wants the power to stop us. 

My god thinks we’re dicks.  My god thinks we don’t deserve what we were given.  My god wants the trilobites back.  My god wants to sit in the clouds watching the seas form.  My god feels nostalgia for a pre-historic paradise on Earth. 

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I was brought into this place without a say in the matter and now I live to please those people who want me more than I want them.  They have expectations of me that they themselves cannot meet,  it weighs down on me light a knapsack full of bricks. 

Academic prowess is my only value in this place,  I only have any worth if I am getting the best grades.  Numbers and letters have more meaning than the sixteen years of life I have obtained.  It fucking sucks, man. 

This place is overrun with hypocritical tyrants  whom each think is special because they have the ‘high ground’.  But all that makes them special  is the ability to make an entire generation of teenagers suicidal.  Congratulations, you have the blood of a million on your pro-life hands.  Congratulations, you have the power to make or break us all.  Congratulations, you have damned the world you’ll be leaving us.  Thanks a whole fucking bunch.  Pricks. 

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burden of my memories

My memories are an archive  dating back to my third year  like a library has mountains of books  I have memories in excess. 

I play them back like movies  on an old fashioned projector in my mind as my own cinema  full of hints and gateways into who I truly am. 

I cannot see these memories they’re not tangible, visible, believably existing but they run on wheels in my aphantastical mind taunting me, flaunting their phantom-like being. 

Somedays I pray for a hit on my head knocking the thoughts from my mind  with my memories caught in a current of blood  drowning. Finally, dead. 

My camcorder eyes could be bought off my hands  or stolen, I would prefer them stolen.  I need no money as a reminder as a way to compensate me.  Just rid me of this fatality. 

Take my memories and watch them  burn them and scatter the ashes in hell.  Rid me of this turmoil.  Set fire to the archives. 

May my memories die, eternally. 

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death upon romance

I believed you loved me once,  a long time ago when you saw my mountains as  undulating greenery; full of flowers and streams.  You loved those nature walks.  I believe you loved me once.  Life was simpler for you back then,  I was merely an aesthetic I was you’re easy scapegoat. I was yours; solely. Solely yours.  I lost you long before you discarded me throwing me away like burnt toast Not good enough.  It was a death upon romance,  I am Juliet and you are the dagger. I believe you loved me once.  But I don’t remember how it felt  to have your heart in mine. Hand in hand.  I don’t remember the goodness  the purity  the love.  I forget if I ever loved you. Or maybe I just convince myself I never did  because its easier than accepting the bitterness  of it all.  When my mountains got too rocky  you told me you left your hiking boots in the car and I let you walk back down. You didn’t come back. I believe you loved me once.  I’m sorry: I wasn’t enough to keep. 

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i wish

Damocles’ sword swings above my head  I wish it were closer, enough to hit me  I wish I didn’t want that  I wish I were born again  My mother grows flowers in her garden  I wish the wolfsbane would be slipped into my tea  I wish I didn’t drink tea  I wish I were born again A shooting star falls from the sky  and I don’t wish for anything  So I’m left unchanged and unhappy  I’m left with nothing  I wish I were born again  Knowing what I know now  So I could do everything differently  And pray my mind fixed the cross-wires during the process  

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a haiku for you :)

my sweet, honest friend my life is solely your own  enjoy it for me

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new favourite poem

Gone over time

Overtime I was taken in by the softness of your tone The kindness of your words The consideration you displayed as you seemed to not only listen but to also hear For the first time I believed I was heard and understood I allowed myself to delicately unfurl like the first rose of the season Each delicate part slowly unfurling Reaching toward your care and attention Overtime I shared my hopes, my dreams, my heartaches My fantasies, initially being so deeply buried within me, were gently and beautifully unravelled You taught me I was beautiful Worthy That my dreams were within my reach Overtime I took down all my barriers Let you see the me behind the l laughter and smiles I shared my confusion The parts of myself that torment and ridicule me Overtime I surrendered my reluctance to need another person You taught me that was acceptable Necessary Initially I needed you for little things Tiny details I am not sure if I was testing my wings Learning to fly on a sea of trust Or if I was determining the depth of your sincerity I only know that overtime When I grew to love When I unequivocally trusted you Like Icarus, I soared on the heights of that freedom I flew in the freedom and majesty of our relationship Until the time when I turned toward you To find you gone In the depth of my crazed search for you In the midst of the frenzied understanding of your abandonment I flew too close to the sun And now Like Icarus and yourself I am gone.

Delightsofmysoul 18 May 2022

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parasocial.  me and the moon we are just that.  i am enamoured, entranced, captivated, fully bound to the moon  but she has no idea of my existence  my whole existence revolves around her  i thank her for controlling the oceans  i thank her for adding love to the inky sky i sleep under  she doesn’t hear me  because i do not exist to her  it’s kind of funny. the one thing i love most  knows nothing of me  cannot know me  its parasocial.

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I loved like the movies and books told me to They said it would be great That I would feel empowered and enamoured  My trust in them was adamantine I loved and I have no words  Did I enjoy it? Did I hate it?  I have no idea what I feel for this feeling  But, love Love is something I wish I could kill for  Be killed for  Shakespeare showed us love  He told us that was love  My love isn’t Romeo  I’m not Juliet 

I have no room for a love like that. 

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loosing

I am good at counting but they do it better.  They look the part, smart.  They’re praised, saints.  I loose track and start over. But counting is bad for us both. 

I’m good at painting but they do it better.  Their blues blend better, bluer.  Their greens are pink.  I use red. For blue. For green. For pink. But painting is bad for us both.  I’m good at daydreaming but they do it better.  They can get lost in their world.  They know where they left off and where to hop back in.  I repeat the same dream. Over. And over. And over.  But we’re both missing life.  I’m bad at hiding but they wish they were worse.  I’m seen as a problem, I need to be solved.  I’m seen as broken, I need to be fixed.  They’re seen as a goal, they’re put on a pedestal.  They’re scared of the heights they’ve reached.  We both want to be. 

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food for thought

Numbers were my friends,  my safe place.  I was good at maths and I liked that Until I didn’t.

I enjoy counting  but my skills have been put to bad use.  My causation is shameful. 

I no longer factorise or differentiate  I subtract, divide and kill myself  I heard the phrase food for thought  and ate away at my brain  because taking things literally is what I do best  I heard the sound of mockery from the food that I ate  and cut it out of my life like a bad friend  But I was the one talking crap 

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im not good

do i owe an apology? have i been doing something wrong? because no matter how hard i try to be kind  my mind doesn’t follow. 

and somewhere along the way i stopped fighting my evil deeds  and the fire inside me spreading the warmth of good burnt out.  eve ate the apple and it went straight to my stomach.  lucifer lives in my cerebrum hell is haunting my pituitary gland and stunting my growth  emotionally . I have been robbed of my pure heart and the insurance payout was coal .

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let flowers grow

I am carbon. That’s all I am. I breathe in oxygen and then I’m CO².

I am what is killing us all. I make the sea levels rise; I hurt the ozone layer; I am killing us all.  So,  I stop taking in oxygen  and I breathe pink lemonade.  I make the only thing I’m killing myself.  I am carbon. That’s all I am.  So lay me down in the grass and let flowers grow. 

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solitarius lupus

Full circle. Full fucking circle. Remus Lupin couldn’t have come further to the beginning than when he used to take wrong turns in Hogwarts and end up back at the common room. It was as if the universe were throwing him dead-ends, pushing him down routes that would lead back to where he started; alone and waiting for death. 

Before meeting Dumbledore and attending Hogwarts, Remus had no one. Sure, he had a mother who had been ill for most of his childhood, dying once he was old enough to feel grief. And he had a father, who couldn’t look at him without wanting to fire a silver bullet into him. A dead son is better than a wolf son he always thought. 

Upon enrolling at Hogwarts, Remus found his home. He found happiness. He found the Marauders. Marauders. It never rang the same unless McGonnagall was handing out detentions or James was trying to impress Lily. Punishments and girls was all that they were good for; two things an uptight, gay man really did not need. 

Those seven years were solace compared to his life now. Thirty-six and no friends left, no family to cry about it to, and no hope for the future. Cyclical. 

He looked in the mirror in his bathroom and sobbed at the man he had become. Every morning as he brushed his teeth and every evening when he would pretend as though he brushed his teeth twice a day. He just stared, hoping that Sirius would walk in through the door and stand behind him. Wishing that James would burst out of the shower and pretend to have apparated to the wrong bathtub. Longing for Peter to have come to him before Voldemort could ever have infected his mind. 

But, as he looked into the glass there was nobody else there but him and his sorrow. His shower curtain was closed tight and his door was locked, Peter was somewhere rotting he hoped and nothing good was going to come for him. 

Full fucking circle. 

Maybe Sirius was talking to Hope in wherever they ended up. Couldn’t have been heaven, from what Remus learnt in history about witch trials God hated magic-folk. And it wasn’t likely to be hell either considering Sirius was a saint compared to the demons don there. So, wherever they were, at least Sirius could finally introduce himself to one of the Lupin clan. 

“I miss you.” 

It wasn’t aimed at anyone in particular. He missed everything and everyone. He missed himself, the thick curly hair he used to have and the dopey smile he used to wear. He missed his lover and the shit he used to say. He missed his best friend who was too young to have been killed; her face still haunted his sleep, the blonde girl being killed right before Remus’ subconscious. He missed his partner in crime, she had too much left to pursue, her role as a mother barely getting off of the ground. He missed his confident, the cheeky grin he wore and the everlasting cracks in his glasses. He missed his reading partner, he wondered if it was hard to flick through a book with a hand made of metal. He missed his life and he was sure as hell not going to miss his death. 

And so Remus headed out to battle for the final time. Back on the grounds of a solace place. Where he rested after so many full moons: where he would finally rest for good.