[using-this-as-a-diary]

i am the mirrorball,

the last resort,

the filler friend,

the second string,

the supporting act,

a participation trophy

or a silver medal,

a second place prize when

you can’t get what you want,

you will settle for me

until something better comes along.

i will spend my nights alone

and look pretty in dresses

but never as beautiful as

as the girl standing next to me.

and i will be content with that,

you will call on me like a dog

and i will always come to your heel.

there is nothing i can do about that,

not everyone gets to control the narrative,

some of us weren’t born to

play the leading role

[using-this-as-a-diary]

the oppressive heat of a dying summer,

cows lazily grazing,

the fields passing by the train window,

my tshirt sticking to my back,

a bottle of water and crisps in my bag,

towels hanging,

clothes just drying,

mountains all green

and countryside welcome me home

as i leave behind the city,

the regular commuters with their

phone calls, their emails and their business meetings.

and i leave behind the scorching footpath,

the love of my life

for a lonelier, smaller existence in the shadow of a couple dozen trees

[using-this-as-a-diary]

i have never liked august,

with its hot nights,

too warm to be properly autumn

but still technically not summer anymore,

with its audacity to burst in the door without knocking,

without letting july say goodbye,

taking centre stage with the bug bites

and back-to-school ads.

maybe though,

i don’t like august,

because it is the month i spent without you

and it made me fear for a whole summer,

there would be a summer in the future

i was sure of it,

where i would not be held by you.

[using-this-as-a-diary]

managing for the sake of managing,

i can accept the help that’s given to me,

just because i can do it alone

doesn’t mean i have to.

you’ve showed that much,

the willing hand,

the strong arm,

the stable shoulder.

[using-this-as-a-diary]

you sleep next to me as i write this.

i can hear your soft snores,

see your chest rise and fall with each breath.

you’ve kicked off the blanket,

later you’ll say i was hogging it all night,

later i’ll say you’re probably right.

right now i realise this is good,

i realise i don’t want anyone else,

i realise the way you snore annoys me but there’s no other sound i want to hear.

you’re scared i’ll leave,

i’ve got a history

and so do you

but with our backs pressed together,

because it’s too hot to spoon,

i think this is good,

i think it’ll be us

[using-this-as-a-diary]

vague recollections of my school years

a window looking out onto the courtyard,

an evergreen outside, a green leafy plant on the windowsill.

counting down the minutes,

then days.

glancing at a watch,

because the clock is five minutes fast.

chairs scrapping against the carpet

and chewing gum on the underside of desks.

picking up papers, consulting timetables,

laughing so hard you cry.

crying in a bathroom, suppressing a panic attack.

scratchy jumpers, no tights, rolling up the sleeves of your shirt.

school shoes that made your heel bleed,

hand-me-downs,

handouts.

school jacket you never quite grew into

and steep wooden stairs.

knowing you will never be this young again

[using-this-as-a-diary]

i spent that summer smoking,

with the window open,

and drinking my weight in beer.

i looked at my window,

and took it all in,

the tree that fell after being struck by lightning,

the one that nobody bothered clearing,

the low hanging telephone wires,

the lamppost,

people’s back gardens

and the sounds of cars.

i wrote terrible poems,

i wrote,

and wrote and wrote,

hoping to capture it all,

the fleeting of my adolescence.

[using-this-as-a-diary]

is this healing?

i passed you on the street today,

you didn’t recognise me,

i’m different now

than i was two summers ago.

i got better,

then i got bad again

then i got here.

[using-this-as-a-diary]

you look so good at night,

even better in the morning,

when your eyes are half open

and you pull me closer,

murmur something i don’t hear

something i don’t think i’m meant to hear,

akin to a prayer.

i don’t believe in god,

i dont think i ever did

but you say that faith keeps you alive

while i wax poetical prose.

[using-this-as-a-diary]

you’re black leather straps and dark jeans,

i’m brightly coloured flower patterns.

you stay up all night,

i sleep well into noon,

you’re tall and quiet,

i’m short but manage to fill up a whole room when i speak.

you like your cards close to your chest,

and im ready to show all my strategies.

you’re the middle of the night,

a bright full moon,

a well-kept secret,

a deep, dark, grimms brother forest.

and im a hazy afternoon,

sun coming out from behind a cloud,

a standing ovation,

a field with cows grazing.

they say that opposites attract,

and when i’m half asleep,

delirious from the sound of your heart beating,

laying on your chest,

while you run your fingers through my hair,

i know what they mean.

[using-this-as-a-diary]

i am a soft lover boy,

i’m a squeeze your hand in the dark,

a kiss you as the lights go out,

a hey, saw this and thought of you type of boy.

i’m a let’s watch this in bed,

a here, hold my heart for a moment,

a please don’t drop it,

a kiss your cheek as we’re walking,

a here try some of mine type of boy.

i’m a hopeless romantic boy,

a i got you chocolates,

a you didn’t have to do this

a love letter with a lipstick kiss type of boy.

i’m the kind you bring home to mum,

the type to hold and to keep,

cause as long as you want me,

i’ll be here

[using-this-as-a-diary]

i got better,

for a while.

i flossed twice a day

and i got out of bed as soon as i awoke

but then i read that book you gave me,

it was years ago now.

but i remembered

how you never really saw poverty

until you saw me taping my laptop together,

instead of buying a new one,

how you never saw rebellion until

you saw me light a cigarette,

how you never really saw me

and when you did,

how i broke your heart

[using-this-as-a-diary]

a boy tells me i’m pretty,

i tell him i’m not pretty enough to

be wanted that way.

i never have been so,

why would that be any different at 18?

i’m not sexy,

not pretty,

not beautiful,

i’m ill-tempered,

switching at the flicker of lights,

winding up like spring

and i’m tired.

Too tired of being second best,

of being seen as this.

[using-this-as-a-diary]

i can’t write about you,

i couldn’t write about you

when we dated

and now that you’ve broken my heart on a friday in january,

i still can’t write about you.

i was always scared you’d lose interest,

wake up in the middle of the night,

see me laying there and hate me for it.

i told you this,

you looked me in the eye and told me you’d stay.

you didn’t.

[using-this-as-a-diary]

in another world,

you stay the weekend

you don’t send me the breakup text,

i dont sob so hard i can’t breathe,

i laugh instead.

i know there’s a version of us somewhere,

happy with a family,

because i never wanted the ring,

but if you asked,

i would’ve said yes.