On the days of unbrushed teeth,
In the sanctuaries of our beds,
Please help us to accept our wisdom
In the glory of our grossness.
Tag: journalling
05/11/19
Give me that hot robot love.
Oil-slicked parts fitting together perfectly,
Tasting all of you with my cog-teeth kisses.
You and I are electric, baby.
04/11/19
We sit in empty offices
Performing empty tasks
For empty people
With empty minds.
Day by day
We feel ourselves empty
Still promising ourselves more.
02/11/19
No unit of time captures precisely enough;
No combination of words adequately conveys:
The severity of my missing you,
The richness of my love.
01/11/19
Welcome yourself to Yesvember.
Accept one month of possibilities
Knowing that success is in trusting yourself.
So many worlds can be built in thirty days.
23/10/19
I clutch hard.
Wet eyes bulge wide.
I choke;
Mat hair,
Rip skin,
Bite flesh.
I suffocate. I drown.
Culprit and victim.
Every single time.
20/10/19
Sitting on drafts.
Long-necked, leggy and awkward.
Skeletal structures,
Suspensory ligments,
Giving way to flocculent notions.
Let prehensile tongues masticate
The roughage of verdant words.
Counting the days since you
Day one without you:
I burrow in schematics of electrical things. In trying to understand them, I hope I can forget you. I fail in both regards. I choke myself with ruggedized cables. I fail a third time.
Day two without you:
I surround myself with people who are not you. I remember that there are people who are not you. I eat a buffet lunch. I sob into a shakey sleep, fingers grasping the palm of my phone.
Day three without you:
The people still are not you. They are offensively not you. I salt my Caesar salad with tears at the table. I learn that grief is unappetising. I acknowledge that this is grief. I push my plate away. I hope I lose too much weight.
Day four without you:
I drive. I drive as far as I can. I have to stop to pee. I whisper promises to trinkets in shops. I abandon them before committing to the checkout. I delete your number. I switch off my phone.
Day five without you:
I try not to write about you. Nothing rhymes. I turn my phone back on. I reply to my mum’s messages. I wait for a text from an unknown number.
[29/09/19]
29/09/19
There’s a lesson in this, I tell myself.
Desperately trying rationalise meaning;
Burrowing for golden nuggets of sweetcorn in my own shit.
Messy either way.
26/09/19
Awed by your apparent inability to listen and unwillingness to understand
I wonder how we can possibly be of the same species.
Maybe we’re not.
