The Liar

I feel it for days
In a million ways
But the outburst won’t come.

I feel it for weeks
As I lie under sheets
But the outburst won’t come.

I feel it in the seconds
When I’ve just learned a lesson
But the outburst won’t come.

I feel like it lies
When I look in your eyes
Because the outburst won’t come.

I think it’s a liar
Because I do feel the fire
But the outburst won’t come.

I think it beguiles
Because I love that smile
But the outburst won’t come.

I think it deludes
Because it’s stronger than blues
But the outburst won’t come.

I’ve felt it for years
But there are no tears.
The outburst just won’t come.

Collision Course 

Halley’s Comet comes around
Whenever he wants.
He visits the Earth,
Says hello,
And Earth smiles back,
Always.

Halley’s Comet comes around
Makes Earth feel loved,
Makes Earth feel special,
Until off he goes again
And Earth remembers
She’s just a weird rock.

Halley’s Comet doesn’t ever stop;
He won’t be tied down.
Earth is too constant,
Too stable,
For Halley’s Comet to stick around.

Should Halley’s Comet decide,
That the Comet life isn’t for him anymore,
He might circle back to Earth
And settle down
But let’s think,
How well could that go?
Boom.

First of the Month

It’s not even one of those
Deafening silences
You hear (or don’t) so much about.
It’s more like
A muffled mumbling,
Constant,
Frustrating
Because it never makes its way
To the surface,
Never gets louder
And never dies out completely.
It’s like seeing everything in watercolour
But not in that
Pretty William Blake style,
But simply for the fact
That it’s so fragile.
It’s barely there
But at the same time
It’s there all too much.
It’s just an incessant
Irritation
Irritation
Irritation
You get stuck on.
Everything kind of fades
Even more than it already had
Because the only thing in focus
Is how fucked up you are
And how much you hate yourself
For the things you did or said
Last week,
Last month,
Seven fucking years ago.
Who knows which incident
Your brain will choose to fixate on today?
Who knows?
Who knows?
Who knows?
Unless I tell them
It’s not really all that clear,
Because “high-functioning suicidal”
Is a thing, you know,
And it’s scary to know
That at any point
If I lose my willpower,
Like I have done before,
I could just let go
And be
No more.
No more.
No more.

Part V – Burning

I tried so hard to get her out of my system. I tried to get as far away from home as possible and start fresh where nobody would know me, but life is a cruel bitch and I’m not the only one who wanted to start over. She seemed quite pleased by this, said that she was finding moving so far a bit scary and she was glad there was a familiar face. 

She’s sitting on the kitchen counter, singing terribly, only stopping to giggle at her own wailing; my hands are shaking, trying to unwrap the stupid stock cube. I end up chucking it in so awkwardly that boiling water splashes onto my hand, it scalds me, I wince. She stops singing and jumps off the counter, her eyes widen, she brings my burnt hand to her mouth and kisses it. Her lips are as soft as I’d always imagined. 

I pull my hand away and turn back to the pasta, finding myself leaning back against the counter she was sitting on, my knuckles white from having to clutch it so unexpectedly. Her arms have snaked around my waist and she’s looking directly into my eyes with an expression I don’t recognise. Her lips are as soft as I’d always imagined.
Fin.

Part IV- Leaving

I’ve literally had it up to here with mum. So what if I was five minutes late home last night? Five minutes is hard the difference between life and death, is it? Okay, that sounds stupid, a lot can happen in five minutes but it’s not like we live in the bloody slums. Surely they should just be grateful that I’m not an idiot who comes home literally off her face like my sister.

I don’t know what I’m going to do about this whole Ben situation, I can’t believe I kissed him. Well, no, I can believe that, but I can’t believe he thinks I’m his girlfriend now – it was literally just a silly kiss at a party! I don’t care how much you look like a Ken doll, I don’t want an actual relationship, especially not now as we’re all about to literally disperse across the country.

I can’t wait to get to Dundee and finally start the rest of my life. I know it’s far and that’s a bit scary but what’s the point in leaving home and literally only going half an hour down the road?

Ben’s just sent me literally the hundredth message this morning, it’s not even eleven yet…I need to speak to Holly, like, now.

Part III – Shame

I hate the bit just after you’ve put the slice in, waiting for it to pop out again. I always set my toaster to two minutes (I only found out those numbers were minutes and not a heat thing a few months ago, my whole life’s a lie, I swear!). You can go through everything from the night before in two minutes. I just want to hide in the house for a week, is that too much to ask?

If I write this down I can’t forget it because it will be physical and tangible, does that make sense? Even if I burn this page, it’ll be written into the ashes for all eternity. 

Bloody hell, that was pretentious.

Alright, here goes, my disgusting confession: I got off with Stephen. In my defence, it was his birthday and I was drunk and…fine. I’m a “slutty drunk”. Whatever. I just regret letting down a mate. Poor Paige, I didn’t even notice her leave. I left her on her own all night, the poor sod. I was meant to be her wing-woman.

And now I’ve burnt my toast. For fuck’s sake.

Part II – Blank Canvas

I’m not sure why I’m sat here in the dark, the lights work perfectly – not all of them, the bulb in the kitchen’s bust but otherwise there’s no real excuse. I’ve got painter’s block, you see (is that a thing?), and to get rid of painter’s block you’ve got to sit in the dark, apparently.
Tom’s making a right racket upstairs putting all his stuff in the drawers I called dibs on, probably, and I’m sitting here, in the lounge, in the dark, writing out my thoughts like they’re worth anything to anyone.

There’s a nasty orange light coming in from the streetlamp; it’s not nice at all but it’s the only thing stopping the room being pitch black. I appreciate street lamps more than most people. I find myself in this situation far too often. I suppose you think I’m a nutter, “just get up and turn the light on”, but I don’t want to, honestly. I don’t want to move at all. All I want is this bloody barrier between my thoughts and all my creative bits, wherever they are, to piss off so I can just get on with it.
Tom’s coming downstairs now, I know how this is going to go “why are you sitting in the dark, Jen?”, I don’t know, Tom, why am I sitting in the dark? Does anyone know why I’m sitting in the dark, because I certainly don’t. All I know is that I don’t want to be the one to turn the light on, I wouldn’t mind if you switched it on, Tom, but I can’t do it myself. For now, I suppose the streetlamp will have to do.