Deadbeat Kids

we could run from these deadbeat towns
we could run to the horizon, and watch
the silhouettes behind us shrink until
they're nothing more.

we could pack our things and leave tonight.
we could run away from the world we hate.
we could rush away, catch a train, catch a
plane, until ants are all we see.

we could run to each other, fall into each
other's arms, cup cheeks, mesh lips. we
could join bodies, entwine our legs,
interlock our fingers.

but we never will.

we're just a couple of deadbeat kids
stuck in our deadbeat towns
living our deadbeat lives.

and nothing will ever change

Don't Let Me Catch You Crying

 You say that you care, in passing, when we talk.

It fills me with happiness and it makes me feel

strong; like I’m on top of the world. It makes me

smile, and I laugh a little because you’re the best

person I’ve known.

But then you go offline all day. You want to play

your game, and you can’t be bothered to message

me back. Your words, my ink. You care, but you

can’t even be bothered to talk to me, the person you
"love".

I feel more and more alone as each day goes by.
I get scared; I can feel you slipping away as the

hours tick by and I don’t know what to do. The

logical thing is to talk to you about it, I know.

But I tried.

I tried to talk to you. You had a panic attack.

And then told me it was my fault. And you didn’t

understand that it was me crying out for you. That

I was begging you to come back and talk to me like

we used to.

Darling, my health is deteriorating, and you don’t care.

I could die soon, and you don’t care enough to send me

a single message.

You would know, if you sent a message, asking how I

am.

Darling, I’ll be six foot under soon.

And I better not catch you crying -

I better not catch you saying you miss me

You had your chance

You walked away from it.

useful

i want to lay down
i want to close my eyes
i don't want them to open
ever again.

i want to be six foot under
buried beneath earth and roots
flowers growing on top of me
using me for food.

it's all i will ever be good for
people use me and leave
people use me and nothing
else.

so let nature use me.

let me be of use.

Home (2017)

The chill surrounds me and slips into my bones despite the blanket wrapped tightly around me. I relish the tightness that forms in my bones almost the moment the cold knives touch me. I smile and I look up at the sky above me. It's dark blue, illuminated orange by the numerous street lamps on the streets. Clouds block my view of the stars and my smile turns to a frown. I yawn and shift positions. I feel my knees lock into position and I find I can't remember how long I've been sat in this position. There's a painful throbbing above my left knee, tension trying to release itself, and I ignore it. I don't move. I barely breathe. I turn my gaze skyward once more and inhale the fresh air. Or as fresh as air in a shitty village can get. I realise I can't feel my exposed skin and poke at my arms. Pain explodes in the area and I sigh heavily. I know I should go inside. But it's two in the morning and peace has settled over the crappy world I live in. It would be a shame to pass up on staying here for a while. It's nearly three in the morning and I blink the bleariness from my eyes. As much as I love the feeling of cold enclosing me and making everything painful, I refuse to fall asleep outside in nothing but a shirt, underwear and a blanket that offers little protection. I sigh and eventually stand on shaky, locked legs that hurt to walk on. I take a breath and open the back door. My dog blinks at me, disturbed from slumber as he heaves a sigh. He rolls over and settles back down. I step inside and shut the door, locking it behind me. I stumble back to my seat on the couch and collapse there, wrapping the blanket tighter around my body. My hand finds the remote, and the poor rated horror movie begins to play in the dark again as my thumb hits play. I try and focus, but the plot is so bad, I end up staring at the wall. It's four in the morning now, and I stare at the clock in disbelief. Where did the last hour go?
I'm sure it was only a few minutes since
I last looked at my phone, before I began to look at the
curled black flowers on the wallpaper my mom chose to decorate the feature wall in the living room. I check all the clocks downstairs, but for sure, an hour has passed. There was something liberating as I sat back down. I spent an hour doing nothing but stare at the wall, and there are no consequences for not doing work, not doing chores, not focusing on my upcoming deadlines. A laugh bubbles from my lips as I focus on a new cheap horror movie. It's not long before I fall asleep on the couch. Tired from disassociation and heartache. It's how I became a nocturnal animal. Every night I stay up late for the time where there are no consequences. Nothing pressures me, just the soft beep of my partner replying. I know I don't have to run to reply to them, know they're okay and they're safe. It's a strange feeling, never having to be concerned and worried all the time in a conversation with the person I'm dating. It's also liberating. Every night, I stay up and do what I want to do. Not what the world wants me to do. Not what my mother or my college wants me to do. It's just me. My only company, the soft notification of my partner and the dog that stayed up to protect me and sleep on the rug, curled in a ball. It's quiet. It's welcoming. It's Home.

Broken Halo

Currently Listening: Happier - Ed Sheeran

I can admit that I was happier with you
in my life. I'd light up with joy when you
finally messaged me back and my
friends saw it too. They were happy I had
someone in my life to help me animate.
Then things changed.

You broke away piece by piece. You hurt
me again and again and stood there,
saying you did what you did to stop us
from both being hurt. You stood there,
pretending to be a saint when my
reactions showed everyone you were
merely nothing more than a devil.

You hurt me again and again and then
had the audacity to act like a saint when
faced with your crimes against me. To
say that I was in the wrong for finally
getting angry and having a go at you
after being hurt for months on end.
You dared to.

And it left me feeling like I was nothing
but an angry mistake. I couldn't trust
those closest to me. I broke away and
said nothing. My friends asked me what
was wrong and I showed them the
screenshots of our conversation.
Anger brewed in them too.

My mother scowled when she heard what
happened between us. She was angry. I
began to feel like my reactions were okay,
that I was allowed to feel like this, even if
the majority of people sided with you.
I felt human again.

Recovery is hard and you dragged me
away from all the progress I had made.
It broke me down and made me feel
alien. You're attempts at ridiculing me
worked, until everyone found out.
People began to despise you for the
things that YOU had said.
And you dared.

You dared to say I was telling people with
the intent to make people hate you. I
didn't care what people thought about
you. My friends wanted to know what was
wrong and I told them my side of the
story. If they thought ill of you, then
perhaps, you should look at you own
actions.

You stand there and act like I'm the devil
when everything that happened came
from your actions and your words. The
things that happened between us was
because of you. I'm not saying I was
always in the right. I know I wasn't.
But don't paint me to be the devil
when you wear a shattered halo on
your head.

Life

I sit here, a cup of coffee by my side,

and a cigarette burning between my

fingers as I stare at the sunlight

brightening my garden. I sit by the

back door and look up at the clear,

blue sky and a smile slips on my face.

Winter has been bid a farewell, and a

come back soon, and the sun has come

from behind the grey clouds. A bee

buzzes by me, hovering over the weeds

that have begun to grow between my

gravelled lawn. They seem happy.

My dog lays in the sun, bathing in the

warm rays that beam down to the ground

and she looks at me with a lazy glance.
I click my tongue and smile as she stretches

out. She’s too bright to look at, white in the

startling sun that seems to burn my eyes.

I let my glasses fall from my nose, and I

allow everything to become a blur. There’s

a brown shape, hopping across the pathway

to my gate, and I can only imagine it’s a wren,

or maybe it’s a female blackbird, finally

off to explore for food now that it’s warm.

I remain where I’m sat, smiling softly. The

sun beams are stunning and I can’t help but

smile wider. My feet are warm, probably

tanning slowly. The world is begin to

wake from a hibernation that comes

annually, and I feel like I am too.

Spring is here, and it’s time to celebrate.

It’s time for warmth.

It’s time for brightness.

It’s time for l i f e.

Faded

The prompt for this was "You are a kid's imaginary friend. He's growing up. You're fading away."
Based on my own experiences as a trans person, this formed into my mind and I had to write this poem.
Please be warned this has a transphobia trigger warning.

He has always needed me in his life; I’m the one who is strong for him, the one who holds him up.
I am there when others kick him down, and ridicule him, when they tell him the things that aren’t
true; the things that no one like my boy wants to here. I am the one to wipe his tears when he lays
in a pink bedroom, never changed since he was a child, crying himself to sleep as he struggles with
his life.

What do you even struggle with, I hear people ask him, as the days become a never ending blur. You have good grades, you have a house over your head, everyone loves you, people want to be you and
you’re upset? How selfish of you. The words make his tears grow stronger, but only when I am the
single person around him. I hold him in my arms and remind him of all the things he wants, but can
never have.

See, the people around him don’t realise that he has plenty to be upset about. Distraught even. He has
chronic depression, but no one knows why. They don’t understand the pain of having to wear the wrong
school uniform, or to be looked at in the wrong way, or to be terrified to be kicked out of your own
house. To be stuck with this secret about who you are that you can never tell anyone, or risk your life
in the town you live in.

The people around him don’t understand when he frowns at the wrong name, the wrong pronouns,
the wrong life. They’re comfortable in their bodies, and they could never grasp what plagues him,
deep in the night when the days have been rough and the people have been harsh. They’ve never been
too harsh, no no, don’t get the wrong idea. They just don’t know and they can’t know, his life would
never be the same.

So I am always the one he needs in his life, the only one he can ever rely on. The image of what he wants
to look like. Tall, bearded, masculine, instead of his small, petite feminine frame. He answers to she,
when his soul yearns to answer to he. He uses a female restroom, but glances at the men’s as he glides
through the door. He knows that if he did, he’d be yelled at, probably beaten up, or at the least, removed
by security.

One day, I give him the courage he needs to speak out. He finds his parents, sitting at the kitchen table.
They’re laughing and smiling, and he nervously smiles as he sits down. Mom, Dad, I need to talk to you.
They nod for him to continue, their smiles unwavering, and their heads tilted. He takes a breath and he
says it out loud. Mom, Dad, I’m not your little girl. I’m a boy, and I’ve know this for my entire life. I
want to be who I am.

The silence deafens him and then he flinches as his mother stands. You are my little girl, enough of this
talk. You are a girl, you were born a girl. Get off the internet so much, you’re learning bad things. His
father says nothing other than stop being so pathetic, grow up. He slowly stands and returns to his
room, heart heavy. I’m there, of course, sat on his bed to give him support. For once, he doesn’t look
at me.

That was three years ago and now I float here, unmoving. I watch him everyday as he drifts through life,
unhappier each day. He frowns more than he smiles, and his parents send him to therapy. He fakes
smiles and wears his dresses, like the perfect little girl his parents want. He keeps his hair long, and lets
his mother plait it. She takes him shopping for skirts and stocking and he swallows the lump in his
throat.

I faded, that day. The day his parents shunned him. The image of what he wanted to be, the image of
what he needed to be. He couldn’t look at me any more without feeling ashamed, without feeling wrong.
I’m still here though, at the back of his mind, like an old comfort blanket waiting to be found again. And
when he deems the time is right, I’ll be here to encase him in my arms again. For now, he’ll wear the
dresses, and be a little daddy’s girl.