Tag Archives: sex

Waking up in a stranger’s bed again
Half under a duvet
Creased from the remnants
Of pseudo love
You don’t remember my name
And don’t care to ask
For fear of shame
But like everything about myself
I had put it away
The moment I wandered your hall
And agreed to stay

With the morning came its light
And I somehow caught your eye
From the other side of the bed
But the passion had
Died as quickly as the night
And no words were said

You’d got what you wanted long
Before my eyes awoke
To those unfamiliar walls
Which I couldn’t now recall
But I’d outstayed my welcome
So I left with the promise
Of a call
I would never get

I walked out the door,
To the open air that wreaked of reality
And I promised my self no more
Never again
Will I be caught
Under a duvet
Without a name

But I get home to a text
From another guy
‘What u doing tonight’
I reply
‘Not much you?’
‘Fancy a good time?’
And without even a sigh

I’m gone again


Talk to me about anything
Except what could have been.

For my mind is crawling with
False memories of you and me.

You took me to the prom, and
Told me I looked prettier than

All the fields that had ever
Soaked beneath and through our naked skin.

Our hands, tied together, would pirouette
With every kiss I would never forget.

I pressed every petal from every flower
You gave me so they would not rot.

Talk to me about anything.

Except what was not.


I am not me.

As nobody is them.

I am every minute you kept me waiting by my window for your arrival. I am those moments of anticipation that add up to hours. But I am also the disappointment when there was nothing left to hold on to and no longer anything to wait for.

I am my teacher’s faith. I am the time he told me I was going to get the highest grade in my moments of despair.  The confidence, the doubt and the marks were not -in fact- mine.

I am every telling off that has cursed my ears and crowded my mind.  I am every ‘No Smoking’ sign and every slander of ‘slut’ which, in turn, keeps the world from touching my lips.

I am all the novels, all the films and quotations that fill my shelves but none of it is truly mine.

I am a jumbled compilation of everything that I have witnessed and believed so if I call myself ‘myself‘-

I’d be lying. 


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