Burn it down

Someone once cried into the dying night.

For candles and wet witches to light
or wait for the wildfires to catch
and save their life

or kill them first.
They would burn in a white fire,
like that of a broken girl’s eyes
waiting for her heart
to be lit up like a cigarette.

Wishes and dreams betrayed them,
the fire took over

but somewhere out in the lost forest
someone else cried out,
over her stolen innocence
and forgotten life,

so, the dying night
became day instead.

Bleeding Through

Bury me in ash
while you cut my throat,
water the roses with my blood
and fertilise the sunflowers with my bones.

Dry me out until the skin is gone
and my heart has turned to stone.
The rip it out and eat it
while I lie down on my own.

Go far away
swim into the sea.
With my heart in your hand
and my blood in your mouth.

Come back one day
and raise me from hell.
I shall sit up from my shallow grave
a shadow of a girl.

Lost in state on dead.

My Love

Lay your head on my stomach my love,
kiss my hips, then bite to the bone.
Glide your hands up my thighs
then at their meeting plant the most beautiful rose
and leave it there to die.

Rip out my heart
with your blunt fingertips;
then suck out all of the blood
until it is just a rotten apple.

Put your lips on mine
until all my breath goes into you.
Put me to sleep with a beautiful melody
and poisoned cranberry juice.

Take my skin in your lovely hands
and rip it off piece by piece,
pull my veins and tie them in darling bows.

Then leave me alone to bleed,
before you dare say you love me.

I can hear the firing squad coming

Give me an armistice,
put a red cross around my neck,
lock me down in the cellar,
until the shelling begins again.

A pistol in one hand.
A machine gun in the other.

I dance on my veins
as I block the blood from the tower,

they say a solider never leaves the war ground,
not truly anyway.

A part of their mind attaches to the bullet they shot over no mans land,
then gone
forever.

My bullet is a lighter
and my poppy is made of a knife.
The red dye bleeds down into the shower
while a pill tore apart my stomach.

Birthday Dreams

There was a thunderstorm in my room
they day of the broken chimes,

the ending dream broke through
and you woke into my nightmare,

I am Ted Hughes
listen to the way she speaks;

it’s like the tapping of my feet
on the hell in the floor,

I heard the blackbird sing
a poem of the queen

like a mocking one
wishing it was trapped and free,

I am Ted Hughes
I killed the love of my life

or did her madness curse
his life, until it suffocates mine.

The Lost Girl

The lost girl is free to run around the world,
surrounded by forgotten tears and broken dreams;
with her glitter stained bruises
and nails painted with cigarette smoke,
she walks alone, a damaged little girl
everybody knows she’s ruined to her core.

The lost girl can do what she pleases,
takes what’s given to her, looking out for love
in pools of glass shards;
dancing to the beat of a broken heart,
her eyes too dazed to make her way back home.

The lost girl is getting younger each year.
Regressing into a little child.
Needing a saviour or a saint
to get her out of deathly dreams.

The lost girl is in a broken-down car.
Driving to her utopia;

she’s about to crash.