Echolalia I inhaled glue dust to mend my insides, nauseous and wrong, ailing and failing against my better intentions of knowing and understanding. I am stored in a sock drawer between cigarettes and cheap porn, bottom rung, squeezing my insides to better myself. Everything is transitory, I will not ail forever. I am in need of a warm heart and flesh pressed into my spine, my aura, chest rising and falling like ebbing of waves, caressing the needy shore before the jealous#moonhides herself from prying eyes. Caress me, oh ebbing waves, heart on heart and melting into me gently like echolalia.

Enamored I wish things weren't always so complicated. Broke my own heart, my spine for the promise of young inner same city lust. I am not capable of being. It's unbearable. For as long as I can remember I have counted my stars, crossed my heart and held my breath at passing ambulances and free-lance mobile phone photographers on my morning commute. And still I'm alone You, another city away, emotionally blackmailing my candy heart into oblivion, ceasing any former feelings I may have had, lost to a bad taste in my mouth when I'm drunk and thinking of you. And then there's he- Articulate in his lust and always plaguing my thoughts, scaring me at the prospect of being with someone like me, near me, with me. Fuck. A concept I can barely grasp as I clutch to what lingering sexuality I have before I announce that I have become Morrissey, A-sexual and bitter to the world. New love holds so much promise but they always move away. I don't want him to I want him go stay with me and wind his arms around my torso so I am not so enamored and lonesome in the middle of brisk winter nights and ebbing onto bleak mornings, black coffee and tangled limbs. I am a clusterfuck of emotion and vowels, consonants and constant reminders that even though there is a silver lining, mine always fades to reveal the burning, harsh copper underneath. I can never polish what was never mine to bear.

Transporting I am not naive. Always relentless in my journey towards caffeine in my bloodstream and non-fatal overdoses of feeling. Imagine a world where words were contraband, in a dustbin with the Americanisation of a dream and common sense. I am the over-thinker, competing against sugar tongues and acid lips. Words can never be contraband. How can one fly without them?

Coping Pt. I I am begrudgingly the most selfish person I know. I run from my demons in spite of responsibilities held down to my place of birth (without a wider berth, if you will.) praying that no one will sit next to me while I seep sadness and exhume a sense of guilt. I've had and loved and raised two tiny lives for 6 months, not born of my womb but gifted in a turn of kindness, happiness. I've loved It will Be hard to say goodbye But At the promise of my father's improved health I will bite all of my bottom lip until it cracks and bleeds on my teeth, then I will cry, weep. Miss those little bundles of hair that kept me so happy I can barely fathom. That chapter of my grief is over now. I will be alone in my sadness again. All alone. Always.