The things I love that are not you do not diminish you.
The things I love that are not you are not a mirror
reflecting flaws and failings back at you,
They are the peculiar part of me I only share
The things I love that are not you make room for you.
The things I love that are not you welcome and adore you,
only to be spurned and distressed
by you; a cuckoo in the nest.
Your intention to dethrone
with tyranny and contempt,
the things I love that are not you
will lead to banishment
will only serve to clip your wings
and ground you in your shame,
lonely would be usurper,
never wholly mine again
I am intimidated by the things you love that are not me
and I can not love or understand the things you love
I can only
When it rains in spring I imagine the water seeping into underground spaces,
little pockets of hope where seeds wait, wanting.
We are not quite enough just yet.
But with these few atoms and the tilt of the earth
we slide into existence, all vigour and vitality,
We emerge and for a moment we are prefect, potent, potential.
I go a little crazy in January
every year it’s the same
I blame SAD, but I really don’t know
why I fuckin’ hate it so!
The claustrophobic sky just won’t
give up it’s blue,
only fuckin’ grey will do
in this godforsaken month.
And i feel that every aspect of
my life is shit and not worth squat
and i fight the urge to bolt from it,
And part of me feels January
is the month of revelation.
The rest of the year an illusory
trashy paperback stack
Then January arrives
with a truth, that’s hard to deny.
I’m fuckin’ counting the days until you are gone,
I can do without your cruel candour,
your honest bullshit.
Let me live in blue skies,
in fragrant daze,
and the solace of lies
It waits at the end of dread,
that path I tread
and each year I said
I would no longer dread.
That I’d give it a miss
I’d no longer kiss under that parasitic branch.
Yet here I stand,
with a fear in my gut
that my life is a sham,
that all that I am
for the rest of the year
is a careful facade
for although I try hard
I always end up
in line with the rest
of the herd
and at best
I’ll utter a protest
an unheard request
that we pass it by,
but a lovers sigh
is hard to deny.
and so at the Plain of Lethe
born again, renewed,
to traverse the year
the ineluctable path
that will lead me
When you are born, naked and howling into the world
Immediately they cover you up,
and not long after, they shut you up.
Life then becomes one long struggle
to be seen and to be heard,
but especially so,
if you are born a girl.
Your breath on my neck catches a strand of hair,
butterfly wings against my skin.
Your arm, heavy against my chest
Like a secret.
Your hand lightly cups my shoulder,
Fingers flicker like flames
As you begin to drift.
My arm against your belly
As we rise and fall.
For a moment we are in synch,
I hold on to a pleasure
that slowly recedes,
Our breath separates
and we continue on alone.
I was alone and happy in my own universe,
And then you found me, hiding in clear sight.
‘A penny for them’ you said, and I smiled and gave them up.
All of them.
Am I truly lost in You?
For out Here I don’t know who I am!
Exposed to the scrutiny of your understanding
I am insubstantial,
I search for my reflection, but see only your mastery.
Love has diminished me