"I wanted to murder him, but his body kept getting in the way." (a poem for you)

A new poem for you today, originally featured as an Editors' Choice in Brain Mill Press' Student Poetry Month contest. This is a raw lil piece, a snippet of collapsing thunder, but there's something I adore about it anyway. A hard ache, like a right hook, like the period at the end of a sentence.

Please do share your thoughts on this poem with me in the comments, my loves - positive & negative feedback are always welcome. This week has been full of squalor, my health dipping up & down, hands shaking like a hurricane, bones singing to pieces, nerves chewed to unrecognisable shards, & perhaps this is why I'm choosing to share this particular poem on this particular subject at this particular juncture. I hope there's a bit of truth here for you to hold. xx


When My First Boyfriend Learned I Was on Anti-Psychotics, He Laughed & Told Me He Always Suspected I Was Crazier Than I Let On

I wanted to murder him, but his body kept getting in the way. We learn to live with that sawtoothed loudness, caught halfway between the wonder & the wanting. & how I wanted. I wanted his eyes blue & razed shut. Wanted apology like unbent knee. Pulse cold, childish. How much can a thing whistle before all that’s left is air? Such a strange syntax we live inside. Waltz through aurora. Gulp down bullets instead of the pills that could make this all better. God, I am tired of writing poems about sickness. When he spoke, I heard my father: you know I only ever wanted the best for you. As if I were afraid of leaning into wounded. As if I couldn’t gut him & run, easy as birthplace. Easy as the voices finally shocked into silence. A kind of hook here, say it: careful, darling, you’re showing your hand. So many times my body has been more ache than human. In which direction must I search to find a name for the curdle in my throat? Slipping on melting beasts, forcing open memory’s jaws. & how I wanted. I wanted to snap that lovely neck the way a gun cocks into song. I wanted not to hurt anymore, my kneecaps halfway shattered, the dark consuming itself over & over again. Just once, I wanted reciprocity. I wanted not to be the crazy one. Just once, I wanted the sky to wake up on time & remind us of the little mouths with no names except erasure. I could have lived on that: every angle a limb could break. Every way his body yawned into my grasp, treading the bloodstream, light going limp, his eyes that swum & stunk of remembering.