april 2021

I’ve been gone for 8 years, and that isn’t to say I had a presence here to have been gone, but I *loved* posting stuff here when I was 16, and having somewhere I could go. Here’s one from last year.

There’s isn’t much left of what I am that I have to offer freely.
There’s always some magnitude of remorse, some guilt I cannot abide.
Always some angered reflex, joking bare. Riling.
Even in the sweetest of moments I have to take back the parts of me that aren’t citric, that are rampant in their sugary silver lining,
And I have to make them a lie.
I’ll never be able to bare my truths. You wouldn’t want to hear them, and I cannot support them.

Some people simply do not want to hear about the soft little spectacles of cocaine that I accumulated and made a hit that wouldn’t have been enough,
All those dust particles. All those many hundreds of speckles, and still it wasn’t enough.
And it wasn’t just those, either - some people simply do not want to hear about the sex you’ve had. The dicks you’ve endowed yourself on in empty carparks or the sex you’ve had knowing full well there were more eyes in the room.
Some people simply do not want to take that dive into Scarborough bare meadows where people have angrily trailed in their marsh-worn souls.
Sometimes it’s a travesty to have lived and sometimes it’s a travesty to have stopped. I’ll always want to f**k the reverse of whatever it is,
And either way,
There isn’t much left of myself that I can take to the harbour and ask to have fixed up, so what is this all about?