Grace

It's not very long before
They start rolling out the free
Bottled water. "Sparkling or-?"

Still we're here. A standstill,
A brief cloud of momentum
Paused. An onward feeling halted.

We get sporadic updated from
A faceless man who has the grace
To sound sad. No one else.

A man opposite me jokes
To his near-by stranger that soon
"Drinks on me!". How funny.

Meanwhile a person is lying
Dead on the rail tracks beneath us.
A human. A child. Once.

Fishergirl

(For my niece)

A taut line tugs between our hearts,

A fish hook lodged deep in my grey flesh

And when you leave me it snaps.

The lump in my throat balloons into

A full neck brace and the snot is not

Pollen induced. I blink to try and

Keep the waters well within their borders

But the tide is rising, relentless,

Reaching far in-land and bursts its banks.

I can't help

How much I love you.

Us moon babies are born from

The same flower. We see the same,

Talk, fight, laugh the same.

Sometimes you catch my gazing

And face betrays heart. I am guilty.

Caught red-handed, I hear

The click of a torch, I see

The stark bright white orb glaring

And I babble with bubbling fear that

"Yes, Officer, it was me who murdered-"

Whoever. Adoring you, the way I do, feels

Dangerous, a crime, and you

The all-ignorant victim of my love.

All you see is fun, sun, bogies, emojis,

Fountains, mountains, unicorns, newly born

Magic and spells, rock-pools and shells,

Cats and dogs and rabbits and hippogriffs,

Ponies and unicorns and dinosaurs and just a whiff

Of wisdom beyond your years. Of concrete strength.

So off you jump, fishing rod dangling and

Bashing from the straps of your rucksack.

And though this pain is deep and sharp,

I stop struggling, flapping, flailing and splashing

And just float in my ocean of love for you.

Crumbs

I keep collecting crumbs -
They really are the crusts of Love
But hey, they're all I have.
Some of them have been dipped
Green in mould, some really
Put the crumb in breadcrumb,
Some stale and some sink into the
Creases of my brown paper bag,
But I won't get rid of them.
They're all I have.

I'll know the morning when it comes,
The sun breaking through my window
Will whisper
When it's time to scatter them,
Throw them to the high winds and
Feed the birds
Spread the word
Flap the beat of the chant
Pulsing through the sky
Spray the broken atoms of
A Thing-Like-Love
And voodoo-like, it will take
The pins out of my heart.

Woods

I wonder if there's any way out of here.

There’s only two shades of black:

Air black and tree black, you

Can't move more than a metre before

A root uproots you,

Trips you up, smirking and

Sinks back into the soil.

The trees reach far, far

Into the sky, meshed overhead

And twined together, locking

Hands, to mess you up.

To try and make you forget

The sky was ever there.

There’s a patch of sunlight I've been chasing.

I remember that, I was told to

Find the light, and I’ve tried

For however many days -

I figure when I find it,

If I stay ever-so still,

It will beam me out of here

Some powerful alien spotlight.

If I really squint, I can see

The branches spreading thin and sparse

Across the remnants of an indigo sky.

They look like

The fringes and frays of a

Worn out broken black cloth

Sold creased up in the 50p bin

Down the Market on a Saturday.

No, they look more like

Spindly fingers creeping and crawling

Reaching for something in the air

But held back by their age and evil-ness.

Their eyes in their nails,

Glancing down at me with

Sharp and tired disdain.

Perfectly silhouetted.

Will I ever be

Out of the woods?

I've been here a while now,

For however many years.

But when I find it…

That perfect sphere of golden light

When I find it - it will -

Will melt away the dark eyed branches,

The tricksy scheming mirthless roots

It will beam light into me

So so so bright

So so so hot

So even if I never find my way

Out of the woods

At least, at the very end

I'll be warm.

Warmth

I'm having a right lols of a life,
And the novelty isn't wearing off:
That you can be this full of joy
With no one being in love with you.
But I...
I'm in love with everything
Light, sunshine, friends, warmth
So
Much
Laughter
So much comfort
In my own little body
In my peaceful little head
In the smiles I rally around the Southbank
In the complete abandonment to Time,
To the World.
I so unfaltingly trust you.
And with this much hope,
This much space in my head,
What can't I learn?
What can't I do?
What could go wrong?

Guy

There's a burning bubbling in my heart
A deep bonfire deep
And people throw themselves on,
Willingly, smiling, glinting.
They're curling and shining in the flames
Bright plastic wrappers of faces
Morphing and melting and
I can't see who they are anymore.
And who's the dummy?
The Guy pinned at the top?
His face stays put, the flames don't dare
Reach him, they have other meat
To devour. They swim his way,
Nudge each other, remember their orders,
Chuck a knowing glance around, retreat.
God these flames are hungry.
But his face stays put.
Who is he? Why don't I
Recognise him?
I close my eyes, swim down in my veins -
Rivers, tributaries, ox-bow lakes later and
I've made it. My heart.
Juicy and slimy and not baring
Any resemblance to that dim
Place I refer to covered in skin,
The place I hold. Squeeze.
My heart. And He -
He looks me dead in the eye
Thick in the joy of my flames.
His eyes flow into mine,
I can't look away, can't break
The neon glowstick UV fluid between us.
I don't want to.
It hurts, having a fire in your heart.
But he has locked me in, and
I think I'll keep him there.

Froggatt Close

(Written after my mum moved out of the house I grew up in)

I seem to have floated into a lilac room upstairs in 4 Froggatt Close. Not too large, not too small. It’s a room that says “This Is My Personality” in what this girl thinks is a subtle way. A sword over here, quill over there, discarded flower presses, photos of friends arranged meticulously in patterns, pencil scribblings on the wall next to her bed. And yes, lots of lilac. Lilac seemed like a good idea.

I can see a girl sitting on the rooftop out of her bedroom window. She glances sharply round at me, but the distortion of light, shapes and reflection mean she can't see me. Or maybe I'm invisible.

It's cold, she's got a scarf wrapped tightly around her shoulders and her type-writer balanced precariously on her knees. Her bedroom door is tightly closed, locked, though the lock is a flimsy one - hand screwed on one desperate Sunday. Now it looks drunk, or hungover, lopsideldly wobbling and clinging to the door frame like a pissed bouncer still trying to do its job.

But out of the window another world awaits. The sky, the trees, the pure scope of space. And there she writes. Sometimes thoughts, feelings, books, poems, sometimes rubbish.

She is overwhelmingly aware of how unattractive she thinks she is, but there are no mirrors on the rooftop. She is almost out of body, beyond herself, only her mind exists. Here, she can close her eyes and be anyone, think anything. Her head is full to bursting. It is all Lyra and Will, Frodo and Sam, Kestrel and Bo, Jane and Rochester and it is words that gives her meaning. Words that make her cry and throw into chaos any notion that this world holds enough in it for her. And when the thought often - desperately often - occurs of her poor physical self (she is a teenage girl after all), the same conclusion floats in providing some comfort: "I am nothing to look at, but my mind is all sprawling, whizzing fireworks.”

The school day is a distant memory to her now because being alone has power. And when people see her at school, a strong throng of friends deep, getting hyperventilatingly hyper with giggles and fun and frolics and who'd know? Here she is a different she, the same, all one. She dreams of an all-encompassing love that will surely wrap around her tighter even than her scarf is doing now. So strong, so firm and cup-of-tea-comfortingly warm, she will never feel the cold again.

She knew even then that she was not the young people that older people referred to. At school, she carries a miniature leather-bound Romeo and Juliet in the inner pocket of her blazer (closest to her heart), occasionally retreating to the toilet just to re-read a passage. And then back into the chaos, the laughter, the nonsense.

She's shivering, but she doesn't mind. She can hear her mum washing up with the window open in the kitchen downstairs, singing snatches of Tracy Chapman. Usually the same line or two caught on repeat. The wind blows a particularly flamboyant gust at her and time takes on a wave-like undulating quality. She knows this stolen hour can't last; eventually her body will catch up with her stubbornness and goosebumps will prevail. As nature intended.

Until then, it is just... stories. Stories. Stories stories stories. Stories that weave like ribbons of colour, dancing like crazy and when they snap away from the ground they tap inside her head.

I am her. And she is me.

And I am coming back to you.