small-blue-thing

I don't like autumn. I think November is worst; When the sky is fit to burst with all the sadness and madness in your heart. Somewhere between fireworks and the start of Christmas lights, Your chest gets tight and you just want to go home, You want to be alone, But alone makes you lonely. Here’s to knowing mornings are the hardest, When you find that everything you left Inside that box under the bed at the back of your head Is still there in the harsh glare of the alarm clock; Makes you stop, take stock and find your stride in the middle of the war You were fighting yesterday, the day before. Here’s to keeping your fa

At eighteen, I waited outside a room full of strangers, too scared to knock on the door and go in. It’s a strange place for a poem, or a friendship, or whatever this is, to begin, But we went in together. Clever. I was too scared to seem nervous; you were too nervous to be lost. We were tossed together like water and flour but rose into phoenixes. We found there was nothing that could not be solved with tea and Kleenexes And an ample supply of sardonic wit. Ok there were some things that didn’t fit, Could not be healed with chocolate or plasters But when the demons caught up you taught me to run faster. We made a good team, And I

I'm rubbish at beginnings, Start in the middle and work back, So I'll start at "I do" and go back to "will you?" Or maybe "hello", 'Cause I wanna go to all the places again, Throw myself off the ledge again, Just for the sheer thrill of falling. I wanna remember it all. I wanna remember The night we crossed the river, When I shivered like sodium street lights Reflecting and collecting half-written love letters I didn't know how to write then, But maybe one day I might, And knew I'd never been out of my depth before, Never had my words ripped from my breath before. I wanna remember the pier, Clear skies, hair and smiles flung w

This isn't how it really was. This is how I remember it. It's true and it's a fiction. The taste of a memory depends on my mood. My mother worked in a library until I was seventeen. For the best part of my childhood I lived in that place almost as much as at my own house. It was a red brick building that stood on the site of an old orphanage and workhouse (like something out of a Dickens novel) and it was decidedly creepy when all the customers had gone home and the lights were out. The library as I remember it had high glass windows at the front and back, freezing in winter and broiling in summer. My mum worked her way from a Saturday Assi