Be True

I’m going to raise rambunctious kids, all gum and gumption, spit; spirit like a Coke can exploding. Fizz but not much liquid, ultimately. Because mess is always less than you prepare for, and worry, thermal thick, defines days deeper than watches, and hearts can’t handle uncertainty. Mine can’t, anyway. Cliffhangers get to me. I don’t want to skip every exchange that makes this great like stage plays or Shakespeare or limited release movies which only play cities because small towns haven’t got time for, or all they’ve got is hours and it’s harder to schedule when silence lets your head breathe.

What I’d give to wake up without headaches, questions, regret, concern, my heart on a butcher’s shop polystyrene tray waiting to be bought because someone forgot to stick the sold sticker tight, so it sold twice. And nerve pain. I’d give my leftover dimes and Hello Kitty jewellery box filled with last year’s Topshop rings to find the sort of peace those 8 people in yoga class have, when all I can think of is dinner, ex-boyfriends, cinema times, puckered thighs and the lyrics of all Katy Perry songs.

If I raise kids, when we have them, and if, I’ll only have advice like, “Don’t date a guy ’til you’ve seen all 6 seasons of Sex and the City; skip the movies,” or, “Don’t do what I did, whatever that is,” and, “Let love make a fool of you.” And that last one, I’d say twenty times, even if it’s a lie and I didn’t do it, enough.

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You Really Know Me, Don’t You?

I stick in your head
like mother’s roast pudding
Brad Pitt’s hairline
celebrity runs
stuck on abs
the curve of augmentation.

And you owe me
learn in your sleep
like a night terror until
I’m cemented allegory
pass-on-able gossip
season 4 back story.

And you think if one day
I’m desperate like you
if I get encephalitis
I’ll consider it.

Sure. Sure I will, guy.
I’ll give it my best review.
know me

Well Enough Yet (NaPoWriMo #5)

On the phone,
Grandma says “Good”
when I didn’t fuck him, yet.
“Keep it that way,” she tells me;
I don’t know him well enough
to start something.

But what is left to do?

On day 1 I compared him to ex-boyfriends
kissed in clubs
he picked dog shit up
for my friend
and made my drink
with the last ice left
in the fridge freezer drawer.

So what else is there?

What next step to over-tread
like swimming lessons?


I will feign expressions, impressions, emotions, complete your work and pay for dinner but I’ll never tell you truths and my father’s off limits and my eye sight’s a number I’m not near revealing and your dress size is a bet that I’d place if it doubled money or split it and I could create you. Instead I watch you squirm wishing I was the twitch, the instinct which moves you, instead of the air conditioning.

Testing A Theory

I always thought unlikely happened, never saw it, and prefered it that way: it’s easier to believe something you can’t see, don’t know, sometimes.

Instead of laughing at your jokes I gave you square stares until you knew I’d absorbed you like Disaronno, pretty quickly into my bloodstream. I disagreed with you wherever possible, and even though banter or fake hate is a sign of relationship angst, I was more subtle than that. Business like. I was the pencil and you were the bitch.

You played along to a point until I couldn’t read every answer or underlying signal or subtitle and the plethora of meanings you gave out on any one day. The flutter of doubt sank me afternoons, post-midnight, whenever I’d watch Titanic (more often than I’d like, or you).

I hold tight, meditate on incomplete sentences and post-it note hand overs at end of night shifts you start as I leave or vice versa. If we switched bodies I’d make my move faster. The potential’s just hanging in the air like a 3 day old helium balloon, not spent yet.