When you suggested meeting again
the next day
I thought to myself
‘OK I’ve hit the jackpot
he’s keen to see me again
so I must have wowed’
Didn’t stop to think
‘did he wow me?’
Tag: love
Texts like dopamine
Living for these horny Monday nights beneath the moonlight
going from Mazzy Star to Supertramp and Aerosmith in between
writing down my feelings, letting them spill out onto the page
as neighbours eat ramen and melt minds with screens.
Lava lamp doused in hot pink, room bursting with colour
and trinkets glowing in their places.
Your messages trickle in and send beeps to my brain
(and something else to my pants).
Dinner with friends and heartbreak.
She has suction-cupped herself
to this balding commitment phobe
words tangled like spaghetti
smacking against her mouth
as we bow our heads over Bao Buns
in Borough.
A feast punctuated by a clamour of solidarity
as we bite into lumpy discs of fried chicken
and ferocious nods, laughs in odd numbers
the desperation of dating
and the deafening roar of ‘he’s not worth it’.
Shady dreams
Dancing with the idea I might like
That tousled fro
Those 121s that drip with laughter
And those pre-sleep minutes doused in the hot flames of a fantasy.
Distressed by the thought
Of upsetting you
Of playing second fiddle
To another
Of watching you sidle up, delicate hand outstretched
Helpful words cascading from your tongue.
Playing with the idea of biting your earlobes
Jaded, sepia hours spent in an apartment
You cooking, innocent
Turning dangerous, unable to bear the air ablaze with passion.
Crooked arms and tangled feet and bodies slapped together like ham onto bread
Wet from the heat, hot wafts of wheat.
Smile sticky with sweetness
And good intentions
That curtsy before me in every catch up.
Fizzy Sundays
Sun pours from the sky’s kettle
making everything drip with warmth
outside there’s a rattle and a clang
the window shakes with the passing of buses
sitting inches on the pavement below
burning their rubber into the road’s pores
burping up toxic gases
that I’ll beckon into my lungs when out for a run.
The Sunday air is quiet and creamy
writing from my bed feels eerily perfect
ahead of a week of probable worry
mind ready to melt
like an ice lolly
body like a train chugging towards burnout.
Dirty puddles
I’ve been sitting in this chair
for what feels like eternity
this crusty, scabby armchair
with spiders’ webs for decor
and the scent of mustard-soaked dirty socks
dripping their Dijon all over the fabric
they might end up burying me in this chair
epitaph reading “Killed by The Game”
long sleeves fingering the armrest
gripping on for dear life
like I’m on some sort of rickety ghost train.
I’ve spent more time waiting for you
than I have queuing at Tesco in my whole life
I was promoted quicker
I graduated quicker
than the time it’s taken you to reach out.
Hungry regret is eating away at me
rage bubbles like bone broth
loneliness creeps in
offering up its bitter taste
(if that’s all you bring to the table, then forget it)
I’m on this eternal cosmic pogo stick
yo-yoing to and fro to the rhythm
of that beep, buzz, ring.
I’m full of what ifs, I’m bleeding desperation
and fumbling about for reasons in my mind’s dust
completely invented, untrue
you’re about as clear as clouds
leaving me to create my own weather.
All I can say is it’s stormy and wet
and I want to leave this armchair
before I start to decay
loneliness keeps me locked in
while the floor floods with a sea of what ifs
the eye of heartbreak drawing closer and closer
and swiftly punching me in the jaw.
Notes 29/8
I don’t think it’s crazy to yearn for that dalliance
Me who always shunned settling
Forgot about the ecstasy lining the stomach
Of that faded firework
Burning brightly, licked like a lolly
The sleepover invitation
Fibbing to the folks
Getting dressed up at the step mum’s pad
Lies that taste sweet as Pink Ladies
Guilt tripping me over, loosening my laces
It’s just but it’s loathsome
Difficult to pin down
The in between time, the shuttling back from dating alley of lover’s beach
The eternal guessing game
That clips my wings and stunts my feelings
That hamster wheel forever rolling, stuck in its mindless mesh
And what if I want to get off?
What if I’ve had enough?
Thudding to a stop, wheel burns a mark in the pavement
And what if I want to get back on?
Stepping back into this scrambled wheel yet again.
A year has passed and you’re back in my DMs
you got your foot in the door
yet again, a beautiful ghost at it
once more
starve you, I tried
there’s whispers you care and you
want to make things right
but I throttle those whispers
they slip lifelessly into unconsciousness
I’m lighting my tongue on fire
just talking to you
but it’s not the same adoration
lingering like perfume
in the air
not the
drop-everything-lets-text-back
frenzy that once furrowed by brow
made me mad with “love”
drunk on lust
in fact
I couldn’t give a fuck.
Sort of a love letter but not really
To myself,
I do not give you permission to message him.
No matter how twinkly Thursday night’s sky is or how uplifting Friday’s morning is, you’re not to reach out. You’re not to slide into his DMs with a flirty quip about how your peach is the same size and does he still live in Notting Hill or has he gone home home.
Are his family fine? You don’t care. Is he working? You don’t care. Has he cut his hair recently? YOU DON’T CARE. (Except if he has cut his hair, that makes him a tenth less attractive so let’s just imagine he has cut his hair and it went horribly wrong and he now looks like Phil Mitchell.)
When loneliness curses your name, yanks your hair, spits in your face, you still don’t have permission to reach for your phone. Oh but we had something special – oh but you didn’t. You had rough and tumble, frothy, hazy delights last summer where you travelled two hours to see him.
The current situation – you know, the one where you’re sat at home, wondering about boyfriends and getaways and how much you’d need to earn to afford one of those studio flats with the spiral staircase leading up to the bed – does not permit you to punch yourself in the face romantically. It doesn’t mean you need to start treading water after starting to swim again. It doesn’t mean you need to mow the lawn of introspection, not when things are just starting to grow.
Starve yourself of flirtation, make do without a flurry of grade A bullshit “if this is still a thing in March we should go on a bike ride in the countryside” messages and learn to live and love yourself and not the dreamboat, duvet-lipped figure of irrelevance.
Texting games
Sitting opposite a delicious meal
Spaghetti lips, wet and enticing
The fragrant fumes of a day’s speech ricocheting off your gums and then into the air
Catching at my nostrils
A bottle off the bat
A full one to kickstart the evening
An alien concept, a boy buying a bottle
And not quibbling over price or harping on about halfsies
We sucked it up like thirsty daisies
Mowing the lawn of first date etiquette and conversation
After our tongues played we said goodbye
Then comes the part that leaves me scrambled
A banquet of texts that just doesn’t arrive
The what ifs and waiting
Checking my phone, fully in the throes of dating
Perky alcohol sodden lips visit my dreams
But the phone doesn’t beep or buzz or chime or whine
I’ll text him today if he hasn’t texted first.
Talking to my pillow. 