they talk about the masculine/sublime/the feminine

you are every bit as beautiful

as the truth of your lips.

there i was searching

for some pearl of wisdom

i found between your thighs

venus,

a womans touch.

'i wonder what we look like from a birds eye view'

'perfect' i said.

someone please recreate me as sylvia plath's long dry pen, i want to be that sentence that you take a moment to breathe in, that leaves you dizzy trying to remember what it was you just read.

you are the deepest point in me
if you'd only touch me
i dont want to measure in time
i will measure in your distance

i will travel in the memory

of your breath

against my skin

in the shower

i will sneak a glance

at your reflection in the mirror.

do u think when we live together things will still be the same?

i reached my arms around her/its always something/she said/as she inched away/my arms were still airbone/like/i was waiting for something/to/lift me.

i cried in a room of boxes, fleta malting all over me. and i thought, well.i never thought id cry. i never thought id miss a pair of ballet shoes, or a text book. or my mess i never use. i never thought id wonder what to do with socks that are too small and torn for me to wear.

in two days i fly the nest.

darling, in our years together, we discover i can fit my arms around you perfectly. i can curl into you no matter how far you turn away.we write poetry on our bed and you try not to laugh when i stumble over the big words i use when i write about the way i feel about you. you sing to me your stange past that mystified me when we first layed next to each other; and i dig into you, and i learn every wink and every memory you draw on my palm. we watch movies i never thought id bring myself to watch and you look down your nose at my snobbery and i kiss your freckles and bury my face in the covers so you can't see how much im smiling. we teach our children something i could never teach myself and they are perfect, as our love, and they are happy, as we are. you cook for me and i try to cook for you, and i eat from your mouth every pure and devourable thing you have to say, and i lick from your skin something of soap and nectarines and home. we greet every predictable tear with a shoulder and embrace our firey passions as necessary, carthatic, as a means to a beginning.as a means to our forever. we are friend, lover, mother, wife. we are unknowing, we are unbroken. in our years together we discover those times when we didn't kiss, when we brushed against each other unwittingly, are as beautiful and explosive as the hours we made love in. i see that when you shower in the dark you give me more light to search for you. you become used to every bad habit i overcome becoming another for you to recognise. i get used to the idea that i can never get used to you when you are ever changing. you are ever beautiful. in our years together, we grow, we relapse, we learn, we forget, we love, we fight, we make up, we fight again, we are indescribable, we are hopelessly in need and disgustingly in love. we are always.

i sometimes think of my life as a folk song sweet with the whine of a wronged womans guitar. in each twang of each string of each glostening aiiiiiii can over relate to something of longing desire. i used to see myself in events, i used to see myself in a used tissue. i buried myself in some disjointed melody crying to the off beat, strangling myself with an overused chord.

love creeps, jumps at you from dark corners. Startling, the least expected of bumps in the night. It grabs you by the throat, pulls you around to her mouth, and holds you closer than you ever dreamt you'd know.

in this heart where things are taken heavy things are sliding sweetly lightly through my knotty hair i can feel your sweat on me or is that my own im beating quick the tapping of heels on an empty street your eyes are tired when they meet me. your eyes are a journey when you kiss me. we dream of a two story house with more bedrooms than we need it makes my stomach turning struggling to fill itself in redemption shudder clean sheets and tupperware parties singing in your studio with my mouth shut dancing in the living room with new furniture on the new sheets. leaping through i can feel something i recall my parents once told me was happiness this is where we join each others paths so wavered and nervous so unsure most decided i kiss you with open eyes treasure that smile and we're moving out. and we're moving in.

i bite my lip
and i can taste blood
on my tounge.
like when i taste you;
i savour every pearl,
press you into me
our fingers impetuous,
impending
molden in kisses
in dark places
and in holding your hand.

a single red drop in my white carebear underwear; a reminder i am woman, i am roaring in my implicant complacency to be. Men see themself in a squirt of creamy substance that trickles and dries unused. i see my future in snow white lips as red as blood on snow, life looming, life pulsating.

my stomach is growing-i can feel the skin expand as i breathe wonder if this is what its like to be pregnant, aware of every hidden movement and growth, slowly growing in my self content with the way my body can suddenly change on me.

my parents have been married for 25 years. 'and i never stopped loving her' he said. except for that time he cheated on her and told her he was leaving for another woman, i thought.

every 3 minutes and the time it takes to breathe in / the time it takes to stop myself from crying i look out the window for her. i know i shouldn't expect to hear from her but i always do anyway, and in between the depth of time where im looking out the window and when im looking at the screen im glancing at my phone, im thinking about her driving by herself in the rain, a scene near the end of the movie-just before it all gets resolved and she kisses me. any moment now, im thinking, any moment. she'll come back. 'are you ok?' my mum asked me. im ok. i don't care if we fight forever. i will spend the rest of forever fighting for her. she'll come back.

EDIT

or i'll come running.

i called someone at work whos name was Sappho-she probably didn't know who Sappho was-not some 'who am i what does it all mean' questioning- but SAPPHO. I can feel my heart lift at the thought, which shows how strange the things that excite me are, but it does make me dizzy with the thought of old poetry and all that comes with it. So gorgeously enriched-and I have to say enriched though it's long and sweet unbareable-enriched with history; with delving for some universty lecture written at high school standard, connotations that find me related, realised. It is in her writing, not that lesbian undertones, or the historical spectacle that captivates; that which surrounds each subtle phrase and circumstance, but the honest, timeless, way anyone is able to see themself in a poem. Even a poem written by a greek lesbian, thousands of years ago.

i soon realised the way i write is completely predictable and exactly like everybody else. which is a lovely metaphor for everything, really.

a man with a flashlight
apologised.
i had my skirt above my knees
crouched over her
my breasts covered
only by her mouth.

against cement
she asked me
to have a baby with her
and she promised
she would never leave.

we were drunk
and helpless
to each other,
i couldnt remember much
but yes
i couldnt remember much
but her
but forever.

messy love,
i forgot that hours earlier
id been pushed to the ground
we made love on.

her kisses were torrent
love crossed
with the burn of anger
intrepid
with everything that had happened.
it made her forget
the tense feeling
that came
with loving someone
indefinitely,
when she threw things at her lover.

this very cute little kitten just slammed itself against my window framed in my view it was waiting to be let in. that same cat ran down my hallway and ate my cat's dinner last year.

curved in to the small of your back
cattipillar fingers
make light
pick the sleep from my eye.
it's a long train ride
to think
of the minute
and infinite details
you carry,
chocolates on sticks
and toy koalas,
your anger,
your kisses.

theres so much of me in you

if ani taught me one thing
(though she taught me many)
its that i am more than
and then some,
i am a whirpool
that sucks me dry.
i am my own disease
til my own mother tells me
i am disapearing.
i am all things good,
and worse
different if not
the same
i am the dim lighting in my bedroom
turning off my switch,
locking shut my door.
there i sat,
looking right at me
thinking
she is the reason
they are unhappy
she is the fault
in her tv screen
she is poor punctuation
in a poem unfinished.
she is that very tear
waiting to escape.
i have sung along
and understood
that i am puzzling
and infinite
in the girl i am.
i have listened
and waited
and danced
to find myself
(happy)

3 houses down
a cat died on the footpath.
eyes like my wifes,
i ran to my mother
and cried.
all dogs go to heaven
cats just lie
still
as streets,
as a sunny day.

some strange red-haired woman hit on
my woman on the tram
guess im not
the only one
who sees how beautiful she looks
in that brown hoody
and nike cap.
------------------------

give me something concrete.
what if i give you; my right shoulder
it leans slightly when im overwhelmed
unbalanced.
what if give you the time it takes for me
to get out of your car,
the cracked part of my upper lip.

back to 45kg and mel's beginning to look at me like i might still be beautiful. im beginning to find it a little less difficult to administer every day feats of strength like opening a bottle of coke. i look a bit less like a junkie and more like a woman. i can feel the skin of my arms rubbing against my body and im starting to feel a bit sick. but im getting there.

have noticed a pattern-i can't write any more.
which means i am moving somewhere beyond expression

the twitch of my nails by my wrist my stomach turns over i throw up ani di franco loops in the circles i am doing this to myself

hypocondriac make believe pyscosis typical bisexual lesbian teenage i am just like everybody else

i always pick at my nails when things get tense. my cuticles red raw and ugly. i think, its maybe me that's the nasty habit.

i want my cat to stop malting everywhere. i want a job that pays well-though any job right now would be nice. i want to be motivated enough to just get one. i want my hair to fall the way it does when my hairdresser does it. i want to write a poem maya angelou would be proud of. i want to be able to dance with out caring what anyone thinks. i want to dance. i want to act and not have to wonder if thats really what i want. i want her to see me the way i see her. i want to be genderless. i want to be without sexuality or any thought of sexuality. im a mel-esbian. i want to be thin. thinner. i want to not care any more about my weight. i want to understand why in the past couple of weeks ive cared so much. i want to stop waiting for something to make me happy, and just be happy. i want to bleed all over the silly ethnic carpets my mother payed thousands for. over the wooden floorboards. i want to stop blaming things on my cunt and realise its probably just me. im the cunt. i want to remember my mistakes clearly and not make excuses. i want to be forgiven. i want to disapear. i want to be noticed. i want the woman i love to want to live. i want to be loved, or left alone or something. i want to understand the difference between want and need and i want to get rid of the way my lips curl upwards to the left when then, i dont want anything any more.

now its just me waiting.
every second
spinning
to a halt.
every footstep i tread
cracks in an instant.
i think
if i can prolong
the silences
and tears
i can draw myself in to your image
---------this out a little longer.
i think
if i could find the words
to just tell you I LOVE YOU
-----------------im scared
-----------------i dont know who i am
-----------------you dont like who i am.
-----------------do you LOVE ME?
-----------------do i?
we still wake to find each other,
your side of the bed seems
the other side of the world.
once i couldn't tear you off me.
once we talked for hours
now its always me interupting
----------------me talking back.
now its always me with nothing to say.

today i ate one scone a bowl of coco pops one custard donut and a bag of twisties. it takes a lot of effort to eat all that food and now i just feel sick and huge. and i didnt eat because i am hungry or for the taste but because she told me i have to start eating more...apparently i look like i have fucking aids or something disgusting/and i am not beautiful.

im addicted to reading certain blogs. this way at least i know im always listening. hopefully they know it too...

a certain one i love opened up more than ever by revealing his name...and at some ridiculously tall height with long red hair and a very short skirt, he looked more beautiful than ever, because he actualy looked comfortable in who he is.

my minds playing tricks on me
it talks in riddles
streets of poems
beatnik rhythms
side stepping out of time
recluse in me
wants to stay jumbled for a moment
where i can remember
how safe i felt
in a scalding bath.

my night

life
like
dont run with scissors
someone always ends
up getting hurt.

you should
always
drink water between
gulping down your insecurities
look after your phone
your self
and dont forget
they are looking at you.

she said 'think of me when you need comfort'
all im thinking right now is
one night and one day
is a very long time
to just be thinking.

i cant remember
sitting on the tiles
by myself
blurblurblurrrring
in and out of some decency
drink in one hand
and im in another outfit
fun happy party girl
resembling something of my former self.
stuuuummmmbbbbbling.

i would like
to stumble
in to her arms.

my pace quickens
i am running to find my comfort.

whinnnneeee

It's about time i made this thing readable...if i wanted to string together my moments of nonsense as done, i could've just written one very long stacey ann chin-esque ani difranco stained poem. or i could just have a journal 'dear diary my life is such a mess'. if the whole point of a blog is to post my efforts in a public -if somewhat annoymous way- perhaps its about time it became a little less-here's where im temped to use 'centric' though i'm having a hard time thinking of any other prefix other than phallo, and im still struggling for the word i want-internalised. i guess in a way i'm too scared to show the full picture of things, i don't want things to seem unbalanced i don't want to depict anyone in the wrong light. so i hold back, even if it doesn't seem it. i over dramatise situations, or i under dramatise because im too scared to explain the truth of how i'm feeling or what's happening, because maybe i feel like it doesn't matter if i miss tim or i love mel, or i'm sad or delirious or happy or anything. in dot point form i just seem like another fucking whiny teenager wannabe bisexual party brat. so lets start again, think about something other than forced poetic descriptions of self, and try for once to be real. and now im using words that are too wanky and sentences too long, and im running together my thoughts-makes me sound crazy/beautiful...in a way...mel thinks i am immature. i over react. she thinks that because i have no answer to her 'im not meaning to lecture you' talks that i am just too young to think of a comment. that if she grabs the skin where im beginning to leave far too many scars (i feel like early last year and i've told her too many times how unhappy i was then) then i will stop-then i will be reminded how foolish that hurt is. i wince, because i want it to be me who causes that pain. i cum when she slaps me in bed. i cry when she refuses to hold me. i laugh when we're alone together and we remember all the silly things we've already done. i breathe when she kisses me. i die (in the absolutely ridiculous metephorical and sometimes not sense) when she threatens to leave. and when she tells me she'll always stay.

and here i am again. making a whole lot less sense then ever.