To Arabella


i am coiled like a snake on the kitchen floor,

i wait for you to swing open the kitchen door,

my breathing is shallow.

soon enough the screams that i have kept hidden under my eyelids

will start to reflect in my bloodshot eyes. 

my sadness traces a chalked outline of my body, like it wants answers,

i have none to offer, except for my mediocrity,

the overdramatic stage entry of my melancholy,

i find words but they’re too heavy, 

they feel like they’ve been used to describe apocalypses and burning monuments,

they sound too familiar and i’ve forever been afraid of strangers.
i am lost like a broken seashell along the shores of the sea of your all encompassing presence. 

i want to wait,

i want to live,

i want to try to touch every ray of the sun that drowns into your sweat and every moon that has stolen your shine;

but i can not. 

my fears aren’t at the bottom of your sea,

they are at the other end of it. 

so i make myself comfortable with the insignificance of my absence,

this unsolicited abstinence;

i only crave to touch your skin without you slipping away from my fingers;

have you ever dusted off sand from sunburned forearms?

it feels like i’ve been doing it for too long. 
i’m lying, crying, spilling blood all over the kitchen floor,

i try to picture you standing at the kitchen door,

hoping you’d remind me that i’ve missed seasons of your skin and i’ll tell you

i was busy making your side of the bed, just so you could collapse like a tidal wave against my toes,

but it’s late;

for me to ask you to return, 

for me to try to get up, walk to an old telephone booth,

call my past and say,

‘tell them you love them before they forget that you do’.


A size too small.


nothing ever seems to fit.
not those jeans you would have killed for.
not those dreams that play on repeat.
it’s a funny story you say as his hand absent-mindedly rubs against your thigh
and tell him about the time you tripped and fell into a drain
but like always, nothing fits
not his hand in yours .
not his laughter in your ears.
not his breath trying to fill the hollows of your collar bone.
you wipe your eyes on the back of your hand
a black smudge that you know so well that you don’t need a mirror
to see how bad your face looks or a tissue to wipe it off
then again, nothing fits
not your ever ringing cell-phone in the back pocket of your jeans.
not your grunge rock playlist with the soft murmur of the wind.
not the 23 reasons they gave online for being alone.
you search the dictionary for the one word you hate the most
the action of dying
the state of being dead
the end of something.
it still doesn’t fit.
not the definition Oxford offers you.
not the hesitation you see in the mirror.
not the fear you have of moving vehicles.
there is blood in your mouth
loud banging on your bedroom door
one word in your head, ‘exeunt’.
nothing fits still.
not your obsession with Shakespeare as you die
not the metal you taste in your own blood
(you thought you were a rock chick)
not your bad puns with the horrified shrieks from your mothers aged body.
nothing ever fit you.
not even you yourself.
but your picture somehow did
in the obituary section of the newspaper you never read
‘she was a happy child, but she wanted to be dead.’

I am War.


So honey, this is your final war cry.
Gather the trampled bodies from under the rubble;
tell them stories of fairies with blue coloured hair,
tell them stories of fairies that have disappeared,
tell them there were souls that bled only red,
tell them there were men that craved for bread,
tell them death is a monster living under their bed,
tell them all the things you’d never have said
had I not rained like a lifetime of pain over your city
of Jasmine and Swords and Lace.
Another city that I did not spare.
I am war.

So honey, this is your starry night sky.
Look up into a heaven that does not exist;
Pray for a miracle to save you from my wrath,
Pray for the fighters on the warpath,
Pray for some laughter in all this crying,
Pray for a voice that’s promising, not lying,
Pray for a day when your loved ones aren’t dying,
Pray for a home where debris isn’t flying
around and around and around, suffocating you.
Do you really want to live?
I have only death to give.
I am war.

So honey, this is your final goodbye.
Hug your mother but beware, don’t make a sound;
I know the secret word to get into your room,
I know the magic spell to cast all doom,
I know where you hide from me when you’re scared,
I know the news headlines before they are aired,
I know you cry whenever I come undeclared,
I know you cry all day, I wish I could have cared
for your tears and not the pockets of profiteers
that eat their dinner at the cost of your smiles.
Listen, another exploding landmine.
I am war.

So honey, this is your noose, your necktie.
Make sure you wrap it tight and firm;
Keep hanging till your heart stops beating,
Keep hanging, there are rules, no cheating,
Keep hanging even when your mother screams your name,
Keep hanging and then set this house aflame,
Keep hanging there is no life left for you to claim,
Keep hanging and your brother will do the same
and so will a thousand others like you when they hear me come
disguised as terrified screams
as the sound of broken dreams.
I am war.