All they do it talk, talk, talk
No thoughts are fathomed
Just spitting dirt and privilege at my face
"Respect your elders" they say
But how can I respect your lowering
Of my, and my gender’s, value
A 10 year old boy can wolf whistle at me
Whilst all his friends laugh
But I cannot expose my offensive shoulders
My mother condemns me for questioning
Why men are allowed to intimidate me
But I must kiss the floor they’ve touched
Every time you whisper sweet nothings in my ear they only last a few hours until I need another hit.
He was easily replaced. You were already in my soul but unfortunately undiscovered. Now you are my America and I cannot stop exploring you. I don’t know if you care for me.
You speak with such an intimidating wisdom that I am hesitant but every time a word escapes your mouth I want to be the first to hear it.
You do not see it and you do not understand that I am within your soul too. You are clueless.
Even after all this time it is still so difficult to consolidate my feelings. Distance has been my friend for the last month even though I treated it like an enemy for many months before. I hope it is over now. The record has been taken off repeat but people are still asking for it to be played. I once loved the feeling but now it drives me to madness and I am tired in every sense.
Pennies are rather like humans. They are all unique. All made at different times and all made equally. However, over time each one travels the world on it’s own journey. Through that journey they might be damaged or marked. Then, some others will sit inside a money box for years getting dirty and old.
When we look at pennies we favour the shiny, clean items. We do not wonder how or why that slightly older looking penny obtained scratches on its once clean copper skin. No. We have no interest for those that possess personality. We simply look for the most “airbrushed”.
We don’t just discriminate against age but also colour. The darker coins are dirty and ones are often avoided, even though they were all created equally with the same purpose.
So no matter the colour, age or quality of your penny always remember that those pennies add up to the same value whether they’re shiny or not. One day that little penny at the bottom of your purse could help buy you a meal or phone your family. You might need that person so don’t ignore them for trivial reasons.
All I can think about is how I have lost you. Again. I convince myself it will be different each time but here I am listening to your favourite music while you peacefully sleep but, this time, in your own bed. You’ve left this small, painful dent on my skin. Rather like the imprint your body would leave on my mattress in the morning as I would watch you escape out of my window and I would inhale the last of your fragrance between the cotton sheets. And as you climbed down the side of my house; you climbed into my head and refused to leave for days. Until one day you left me, so undisturbingly, that the pain of your lost presence was only recognised days later.
If I peel my lips I’m thinking about you. The sore sting of raw flesh reminds me of the pain you have caused. I am the metallic blood dripping off my cold, whipped lips.
Today is just another day where I haven’t told you I love you. My calendar is now based on how many days it has been since you kissed me. I keep convincing myself that these fantasies are normal and my constant need for contact is sane. It is far from it. I am living you and it is unhealthy.
It is strange how everyone is aware of my desire for you yet, you, the very person my feelings concern, are oblivious.
I keep thinking about how your fingerprints would fit mine perfectly. I keep thinking about your lips and tongue in that moment and how everything was harmonious. I keep thinking about how my own insecurities ruined what we could have become. I keep thinking about how I talk too much about you to my friends. I keep thinking about you warming my blue body up in the early hours of the morning. I keep thinking about where we could be by now. I keep thinking about how we could lie on your bed and listen to music. I keep thinking about the peace you would bring me. I keep thinking about how poison would give me the confidence to tell you my thoughts. I keep thinking about how you like her more. I keep thinking and maybe I should stop. Stop everything.
I let the taste linger in my mouth a little.
You barely spare a word.
This will remind me of you every time.
You burn my throat with dismissal.
How impressive is self-destruction?
My headache disappears.
You held my hand and we walked through the clouds of your mind.
You were so unaware of your sweaty palms holding my tingling fingers.
You left breath as silky as snowflakes on my burning skin.
You indulged in my eyes and I inhaled your presence.
You were so comfortably uncomfortable with your blemishes.
Today, I caught him staring.
I gripped the bus pole as the vehicle jolted and my eyes sought for his.
The blaring traffic outside was obvious
but his glare felt like a silent galaxy that I could float in.
I danced on his sweet lips and slept in his golden hair.
He orbited my brain and whispered lust all in one stare.
As he spoke, his voice echoed through my bones.
I longed for a stranger once again.
Today, I caught him staring.
Recently I have felt so vulnerable and detached.
I am so distant. I am so cold.
How can I be full of such paradoxes?
How can I hate people,
Just as much as I love them?
They scream the song in the distance. Sounds of slurred voices and birthday wishes mixed with crashing bottles and bloodshot eyes. The muffled chants resemble somewhat a pack of animals in the wild threatening their prey. In this case they are a herd of unaware tribal humans in a suburban town robbing neighbours of their peace. One must thrive while one must suffer. I pity the elderly inhabitants on my street. A thought for the lonely. A thought for the restless. However, I hope that nobody spares a thought for me as I rather enjoy the screech of the infamous London youth night life. The rough chorus of drunks begins to fade and I continue to flick through my book of Nineteenth Century Short Stories. All of a sudden; left alone in the melancholy of my own thoughts.