Author: pillow talker

female poet writing about adulthood and the masks we wear

Colin Firth on my commute again

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Chug chug chug

There are looks and then there are stares

And wide-eyed candy floss pink blushes

Contained in dim lit, smoke studded carriages

Stuffed with meat and bodies and faces and breaths

Some of which aren’t as sweet smelling

As the dulcet tones of Elizabeth Bennett

Or Mr Darcy and his linens (I presume)

A meaty marathon of viewing this weekend

Has urged me to start saying “I am not 27”

Just like when they say they’re “not 16”

Or “not one and 20”

Because it sounds more abstract

A guessing game

And I’m sure I would be looked at quizzical

But I’d probably enjoy it
As that’s the kind of shit I get off on.

Cafe de los reyes

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Oh coffee cup

Symbol of wealth, fragility,

Can’t get my kicks, can’t start my work,

Until I’ve sipped you, slurped you, talked dirty to you

Oh wonderful crutch

In my palm oh so much

Once a day when the dawn is yawning

And the desks are filling

I’ll dodge the queues

Trek upstairs to abuse

That frothy little mouth of yours.

You’re a white girl’s wet dream

A bolt of electricity

That mini panic attack shooting through me

As idle hands make their way around the city

They stumble onto you

And wrap around like an octopus

A rite of passage for the working youth

That I’ll fill with sugar to claim that boost

Because I can’t stand the taste

Of this drink that has such a place

Such a presence

In society today.

Minor occasions

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I’m sorry I didn’t ask you how you were

As we tumbled down the stairs

Like soldiers in formation

I’m sorry for not tapping on your shoulder

And saying howdy how’s it going

Instead of staying silent

Humming like a torch’s bulb.

You see my hair was sticking to my cheeks

Stuck something silly like a tangled mess of hay

And my face was clogged with sweat

From the day’s struggle and strife

I’d picked at my fringe and prodded it sideways

Toppling over my eggy forehead

In a bid to reduce what I saw in the mirror

A ghost, a thief, a terrifying mirage

That burned holes in my outer shell

And poured its poison through them.

You see I wasn’t in a fit state to speak to you

I didn’t want your first impression to be

A slippery, oily mess of a girl

So I left you to glide down the stairs amid a sea of strangers

While I stayed back, coolly

Deranged and broken.

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Your eyes flickered

Shooting bullets into mine

Every time I looked over

Fast paced, dashing daggers.

A murmur muffled by booze-soaked blossom

Falling into cups

And words laced with promise

Spilling into ears

You asked me about her

I said she wasn’t shy

And that if you felt so inclined

You ought to ask her for a dance.

But you didn’t

You stayed by my side

Staring wistfully at the tide

Of luscious tufts of hair

Talking through your mouth

And not your heart

Didn’t seem fair

To me, to be lured into your lair

And then learn you were promised to another

Whispers of her her her

And ponderings of another girl

Yet the staring still continued

And I became subdued

Rushing to the loo like I did when I was 16

And feeling like the gooseberry.

Times haven’t changed all that much

Though older, wiser

I still feel crushed

And feel my self esteem take a tumble

When I learn he’d rather rumble

With her and not me.

Friday TCR

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And she sat up there

Words like rose petals floating from mouth to floor

And I’m just perched here in awe

Having travelled an hour and a half door to door

To listen to words that are honey-like

Dripping into the mic

Sweet and inspiring

Forehead perspiring (don’t all of ours)

And I’m fearful for tomorrow

For the fruits it’ll bring

A dark shadow sewn into my skin

Brain etched in a fog

Burnt out by the London smog.

After the gig I paced up and down Tottenham court road

Like a wildly indecisive runner

With too much time on her hands

And a stomach full of Dr Pepper

Couldn’t bring myself to go back in

And bare my soul to someone new

Whose job isn’t to listen to me natter

Burst my thoughts forth in glorious splatter

So I trudged to the tube and hissed at tourists who wouldn’t move

As quickly as my marathon legs

Short and strong

I made the hour journey back home

Walking up a dimlit alley I’m fearful of tomorrow

And I’m laced with sorrow

It permeates my core

And leaves me sore

But strong all the same

For ever more.

Over and out

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I guess we grew like weathered flowers

And I guess I grew a little bit taller

A little bit faster

A little bit more soaked in your potion

Than you were in mine.

And it sometimes hurts to know you’re not that bothered

And other times it angers to know this was only for a season

Little did I know the season would sizzle

But be short lived

And little did I know it wasn’t quite going to work

Past the months of bronzing and barbecuing.

And I gave a piece of myself to you

Opened my doors wide and beckoned you in

And I’m glad I did

Despite the attachment I formed

Like an octopus clinging to your legs

Suckling on your teet

Stuck to your words which you threw so spaghetti like at my walls

They stayed there stuck

(They still are now)

A reminder of what’s possible

And what may be better than you.

BHB

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I nearly bit my tongue off

When you asked me questions

Of no meaning, no substance

Forced like unwanted suggestions

About where to eat, what to do

How to travel, when to move

Staring over the barrel of a deceased coca cola

Eyes ploughing into me like needles

My responses grew weary and feeble

Conversation like too much hard work

From the very start

And tiptoing into the twilight hours

A train ride that should have been hushed

A meal that made me blush

A sentence too many that was more than enough

How can I stand to be me

When a day out is just pain

And I’m the only one to blame

My ineptitudes, my shortcomings

My overactive brain

With its excruciating bubblings.

When you realise he’s maybe just not that into you and everything slows to a snail’s pace and you start tearing your hair out and balling your eyes out.

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The journey has come to a screeching halt

From pedal to floor

I heard its thunderous roar

As it stopped dead in its tracks.

Panic ensued

Anxiety came

Asking myself “what is this game?”

Because we’ve started shuffling cards, dealing hands

And I’m no longer chugging along sands

Of limp, moth-eaten metal

No carriage to rest or settle

Just an abrupt shove into a passerby

Flung from my seat with emotions awry

Buckle up babe it’s going to be a bumpy ride

From here on out

With this particular duvet-lipped guy.

When I realised I’d fallen

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As we rolled past the river

The monuments

The gold-clad beasts

Shaking, bathing in the glow

Of the water’s edge by Waterloo

Your duvet lips spring to mind

Permeate the creases of my brain

Invade my thoughts with a pick axe

Cutting down the others

I’d been growing

Like sweet nectar.

I melt beneath them

Chew on their plumpness

Get high on their juices

Those rolls that seal me

Like an envelope

Your loveliness cuts through

And bubbles beneath the surface

As the train tracks roll by.

I think of you when the night curses

And the day yawns open

And when my phone buzzes

And my body yearns to be touched.

Stubborn

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You’re bright and flexible

like a glow stick

how strange it is

to be enjoying the journey

the part most people want to skip

the part people lose their heads about

panicking

screaming thoughts into pillows

spilling questions into Reddit’s holes

– not me

and yet today marks the first day

we haven’t texted

in more than a month

we’ve been on this cycle

like a haunted washing machine

since the day you added my number

– this spin cycle didn’t feel like

it was going to end

but it has

and now i’ve only to hang out

the clothes to dry

let the moisture evaporate

like piss on a hot tin roof

strip back the fabrics

until they’re mere fibres.

Assessing the damage

– could i be doing it

for the chase?

might i have refrained from messaging

because i have nothing to say

– could it be a test?

or maybe you’re on a date

and maybe i’m on a date

and we’re both rocking

on somebody else’s genitals

(i’m not. i’m in my pyjamas

banned from the living room

hiding from stranger things spoilers)

you: probably reading or running

or wondering about me

– not feeling like chasing?

that’s fine.

i remind myself i’ve given away

a part of me to you

provided you with a swipe card

chipped off a chunk of my soul

and my body and handed it

to you like a piece of late homework

the lucky recipient of a quivering

maladjusted morsel of a girl

who doesn’t receive many guests

who is open for business once a year

whose tectonic plates rumble daily

(but rumbled by themselves

never shaken by another)

you have a small part of me

which i hardly ever give out

like those rarest of pokemon

those rare droplets of rain on Gran Canaria

those times my great uncle

digs a hand in his pocket

and buys us a meal

those moments on the tube

when i feel sweat-free

those days when i can actually

look at myself in the mirror

without wincing

and so it’s not to be sneezed at

this gifting malarkey

but i’m happy with my recipient

this tadpole i plucked

from the dating pool lucky dip

– i’m happy with my choice

even if it ends poorly

and leaves my heart sore

(or soar?)

because semantics make quite a difference.