self-titled-poet

[self-titled-poet]

Mum, I want to end it all again.

It seems like trying is not enough

Everything I twist and mould

Crumbles in my grip.

It feels like everyday

Is crawling uphill, pulling behind me

A load I’m unfit to carry.

I’m so tired that summer daylight

Doesn’t sparkle, but rather annoys

As all I want is darkness to rest.

I am too old to keep fighting,

The naivety of youth washed away

And took my resilience with it.

Mum, I want to come home,

To have you read to me, and tuck me in

Like I’m a small, scared girl again.

—k.l

[self-titled-poet]

I have my mother’s curse

Of reliability and kindness

My whole childhood

I watched

As people took

Small parts of her

Although it was all things

She was more than

Willing to give,

They were never returned

Or equally repaid

And I vowed

That I would break

The chain,

Except the problem is

Curses are not designed

To be broken

So I sit and wittle off

Tiny pieces of myself

Mothering in ways

I should not have to,

At least not yet,

To people who expect

But so rarely give

I guess I am destined

To be more like her,

The mother I cried for

Hoping the universe

Could promise her more

-k.l

[self-titled-poet]

I saw him in my dream again

His features as clear

As the last time

I really did see him.

We didn’t speak,

But my gasp at his presence

Made him notice me.

Our eyes interlocking,

As the scenery

Pulled me far away

Whizzing off too fast

To ask him why he had

The audacity to show up here.

I think i know now

Why he appears,

Perhaps it is a warning

That something as bad as him

Is about to happen

Sort of like my own

Angel of doom.

—k.l

[self-titled-poet]

She told me again

That I’m not mentally ill

So I pull my sleeves

Over my wrists

To hide any marks

And smile while I eat

The Christmas dinner

I have been dreading

Then close the door

Behind me while I cry

Even though there is

Nothing wrong with my life

And I have no

Good reason

To feel as though

I am drowning

—k.l

[self-titled-poet]

He only takes

The parts of me

He wants

Or I guess needs

Which is why

Only part of me

Remains clothed

Since the only

Use that i have

Is my bottom half

-k.l

[self-titled-poet]

There are moments

That seem so small

Yet live with you

Long after they pass

Like nails pressed

Into skin long enough

To leave crescent moon

Shaped marks

— k.l

[self-titled-poet]

I often picture

What the world could have been

If I had not existed in it.

I think my mum would be happy

Somewhere quaint

Just her and at least two dogs.

I think she would have peace

And know calmness

Right by the sea.

I don’t think about my dad

Who knows where he could be

Probably drunk.

I think he would know loneliness,

If he did not trick someone else

Into being his caretaker.

I think about my half brother,

Although he’s whole to me,

Also knowing he is somewhere better.

I think his life would remain,

Somewhat unchanged,

Except for his teen years.

No screaming child

To keep him awake

Or clamber over his dreams.

I think about my friends,

And how their lives are most likely

Drama free.

I think they would be partying

With another girl

Who is probably kinder.

I think they would have sleepovers

And talk about boys still

But with someone who listens.

I think about my boyfriend,

Who is so kind and loving,

Finally receiving it back tenfold.

I think he would be with

Someone so beautiful

Who can cook and dance.

I think they have dark haired babies,

And his mother

Sits them on her knee.

I think that the world, overall,

Would remain unchanged

Without me here.

But I think the small space I hold,

Would be wholly different,

In only the right ways.

—k.l

[self-titled-poet]

My whole life

I have been a glass bottle

Filled with galaxies

Of emotions swirling

Round and round

The colours so

Bright

And the feel so heavy

But I have never

Been allowed

To lift the lid

In public, as

For some reason

The colours become

Blinding

And the weight too much

For anyone else

So I kept it sealed

Unless I am alone

Only then can my

True emotions be seen

Like a projection of

Purple stars

Dancing or swaying

Onto the walls of my room.

—k.l

[self-titled-poet]

If one more person

Tells me I am too sensitive

Or that I should

Brush things off

I am going to scream.

I do not mean like

The scream of a

Petulant child

Whose mother cannot

Tame him.

I do not mean like

The scream of

A scorned woman

Whose husband

Does not listen.

I do not mean like

The scream of

A solider

Running into battle

Knowing it could be

His last.

I mean like the scream

Of all artists

Where the paint

Is so thick

The story so beautifully

Obvious in the colour.

I mean like the scream

Of a writer

Whose love interest

Is named after a real person

Only to be killed off

In the last pages.

I mean like the scream

Of a musician

Whose upbeat tune

Is played over the

Heartbreaking lyrics.

The scream of someone

That cannot be heard

So instead is

Crafted in the nature

Of its own sensitivity.

—k.l

[self-titled-poet]

Sometimes I can’t stand

Looking at myself

In the mirror

There is something

So harsh and upsetting

About staring straight

Into the eyes

Of someone you hate

All her flaws illuminated

Not just the double chin

And un plucked eyebrows

But the sinister and dark

Unkindness behind

I try to not look

Unless I truly have to

So I never see

The sad cruel reality

That is unfortunately

Me.

—k.l

[self-titled-poet]

I had never experienced

Love from a man before

I didn’t know it was boundless

Stretching as far

As the eye could see

No task too heavy

For his strong hands to hold.

I didn’t know it was as sweet

And as warm

As the feeling of a

Freshly baked cake

Cosily resting in your tummy.

I didn’t know it could be gentle

Or even kind

With a safety emanating

From soft whispered words

Between pressed together noses.

I didn’t know that waiting for them

To return home

Was meant to be exciting

And provide protection

Safety and security

Once they hand was back in yours.

I had never experienced

Love from a man before

But now I know it’s purity,

Fondness and adoration

There is nothing I want more,

Than to know it everyday.

—k.l

[self-titled-poet]

There has been many times

I have stood in a shop

Staring at the blue

Green bottle

Wondering if i should

Buy the scent I remember

So clearly

About the man

That little else remains.

Except I can never decide

What I would do

As I couldn’t wear

The aroma day to day

And I couldn’t keep

It as a momento in my room

Too worried that

It staring at me

Might somehow

Summon him back.

So instead I squeeze

A free tester

Onto my wrist

Letting the smell waft

Up to my nose

For the rest of that day

Serving as a potent reminder

Of a ghost that once

Danced down my street.

Luckily, by the following day

It’s all washed away

And I can return back

To my safety

Having experienced

One last hit

Of a life

I safely escaped

Although there is nothing

I can now really recall

There is something

About that blue green bottle

I may never forget.

—k.l

[self-titled-poet]

To you I am enough

I do not need to be

Anything more

Or anything less

You do not expect me

To use my body

You do not even expect

To kiss me

If the mood is not right

Even if you walked

1000 miles just

For me

You wouldn’t ask

For anything back

Because you are

Sweetness

Nothing more

Nothing less

—k.l

[self-titled-poet]

I find clarity

In amongst the dime flicker

Of orange candle light

Whilst I shuffle a deck

Of tarot cards

Because nothing

Can speak more

Truthfully to me

Than the universe

Who’s job it is

To guide me to my destiny

— k.l

[self-titled-poet]

Every day I think about

How much I love you

And how much more it is

Compared to yesterday

And surely there is no more

I could possibly feel for you

By the time tomorrow comes

Yet every tomorrow brings me

More love than the day before

I hope my forever continues

Exactly this way

So by the time I am completely

Old and grey

The life around us is surrounded

By dozens of small pitter patters

Who all learned what love is

From this version of us

Who built everything

From nothing

But 2 friends, lots of dancing

And a brave moment of i love you.

—k.l

[self-titled-poet]

I often picture the girl

Who is only (just) 18

In dark eye make up

And shoes that hurt her feet,

Because that’s what

Grown ups wear,

In a pub drinking

Glasses of things

Only adults are allowed to drink

Surrounded by people

All (at least) double her age

And the man at the centre

His hand resting on her thigh

As he jokes about her

Thinking she cannot hear

How his friends make

Envied comments about

What it must be like

To fuck someone so naive

So inexperienced

Someone so fresh and tight

How she leaves

To go outside and put

A stick between her teeth

That chokes her

All because she wants

To know addiction

To learn why he loves this

But cannot love her

I often think of this girl

And how those cigarettes

Were so loosely rolled

Yet she would spend hours

Hanging out of

Her parents window

Swirling white rum in a glass

Puffing smoke into the sky

Practising making tubes of paper

Stuffed with dry

Sweet smelling grass

All the while

Watching the stars twinkle

She had no hobbies

No interests

Only him, and those parts

Of him she could pour

Deep into herself

To fill the nothingness he gave her

Something inside her

Drowned

Or burned

Or he suffocated out

Because not even a shred

Of the girl at 18

Existed beyond those days

I think she still wonders

Those places

Like a ghost trying to find

The things she lost

The things he tore away

The things he no longer remembers

But I do

I think about the girl

So freshly 18

Lost in the man

That had a habit of plucking souls

And shoving them carelessly

Into his denim pockets

Letting them roll around

Next to his lighter

The fully formed man

Who’s comments stay fresh

Haunting the places

They went together

As if it were yesterday

And not seven years ago

The girl who does all she can

To not be deceived by love

The way she was

But forgives herself for being

No older than a child

Who is trying still

To piece together hobbies

To learn to only wear flat shoes

And to be youthful

With colourful makeup

I mourn the loss of a girl

Who had so much potential

But i suppose only those girls

Are worth being ripped open

—k.l

[self-titled-poet]

It’s weird that I still remember your birthday and your favorite ice cream flavor. It’s like I try to remind myself of these facts, so I can prove that I’m the one that knows you best. But maybe I’m not. I don’t know your biggest fear or your greatest accomplishment. I don’t know what thoughts keep you up at 3 a.m., but sometimes I hope that it’s thoughts of me.

Excerpt from a book I will never write #1418 // moving on