Your lips taste like cinnamon
And I’d never tasted cinnamon before you
Now it’s inescapably a part of you
You are the girl with cinnamon lips
A soft spice of taste
After drinking your coffee
It reminds me on the days when you’re not around
I taste it
And oh –
But of course
There you are.
So, I’m looking to contribute to zines or websites or collections or anything that’s out there, just to see my name in print or on the world wide web. I know my last poem got a few likes, which was amazing considering I wrote it half drunk from lack of sleep at 5am, so yeah. But honestly, if anyone is collecting works, let me know, because I’d very much like to be a part of it. I like the idea of creating something beautiful and sharing it. You can email me at lottiexcore [at] googlemail.com – excuse the email address, I’ve had it since I was sixteen and thought I was hardcore. I’m not hardcore. I was never hardcore. Anyway. I will be adding more poems as they come to me, so please feel free to follow this blog, and I’d love it if you got in touch or let me know about anyone who might be interested. Thanks for reading! xx
I run with the wolves because what else would I become –
My skin is marked and my hackles raised
I bare my teeth to the setting sun
My feet are bloodied and my knees are grazed
I run with the wolves because I speak to the dead
In ancient tongues and blood rites past
In rubies, corals and all things red
In knowledge that I am, finally, the very last
I run with the wolves because the night seduced me
I run with meat caught in my teeth and sharpened fangs
I run with intent and promise of pure and simple deed
I run with aching stomach and hunger pangs
I run with the wolves because once I was a lamb
Devoured whole and an empty grave
I run because the waters have long since broken the dam
And because no, I still haven’t learnt how to behave
I run because when you’re running you can’t look back for fear of falling
I run because what chases me is more terrifying than any four legged beast
I run because I cannot face the morning
And darling, finally, I run because I need to be released.
i could be the best thing you ever lose
p.s. a thousand fuck yous
do you think
maybe, just maybe
there’s a place for us
nothing big, we don’t need
just enough to curl
up into a ball
like little children playing
hide and seek
we peek out and hope
that the world isn’t
and we can be alone
do you think there’s maybe,
a place for us
where we can forget everything that
and breathe each other in
like lapsing sighs
and you’ll turn to me
and i’ll see it then
because you’ll see it in me too
this great big something
made small but no less precious
by its observance
we treat it with wonder
because we are
in our small space
during duvet days
and nights when teeth gnash against one another
like broken splinters in your mouth
tasting blood and
legs restlessly walking their way across the bed
when blankets wrap around too tight
thrown off in the heat of the night
then reclaimed when the cold becomes something more personal
more intimate and hurtful
when you feel more alone than you’ve ever felt
and breathing seems so foreign and like a chore rather than a prize
i want you to know
i am here
i am here
and i will fight every demon
and i will sit by your side
your hand in mine
and i will sing with a broken voice
which dips too low and cracks too high
and i will sing to you until the sun rises
until your eyelids begin to droop
and i will be your dream catcher
i will fight it all for you
i want you to know that
i will fight the worst of it
because i may be small and i may be weak
but you make me strong and
you give me something worth fighting for
“You know you’ll never fuck me, right?” She says carefully, her tone light but her face serious.
“I never – ” I begin.
“I know, you never thought about it. It’s what every boy says. But I wanted you to know. Because people – people don’t always understand. They have an idea in their head, of me, of what I am and what I do. And I need you to know, I don’t do that. I don’t fuck around with people,” she’s serious now, every ‘fuck’ rolling off her tongue like a blunt instrument falling to the ground.
“I wouldn’t,” I say.
“Wouldn’t you?” She smiles slightly, sadly.
“Never,” I say, lying through my teeth. Of course I would, in a second, yes, I would, if only she liked me the way I liked her.
“Don’t make a liar of yourself. It’s a sad way to live a life,” she says.
“Then don’t ask me impossible questions,” I say.
“Isn’t that what I’m here for?” She asks, and I begin to wonder if she’s not entirely right about that.
Afterwards, I found her at the bar. I didn’t want to approach, I just wanted to observe. She sat there, in her messy splendour, one finger swirling the contents of her drink, moving the ice cubes back and forth in the glass, before lifting that same finger to her ruby red lips and sucking it clean. I looked around and it seemed as though everyone else was equally drawn to that simple movement, and that she was utterly unaware of it. She returned her hand to the glass, and fished out an ice cube, popped it between her lips, her eyes widening at the cold of it, before crunching down hard. She smiled, and I felt half the bar wince. So, she did know.
She started a club – of course she did. A collection of people connected by an invisible string that bound them together. She called it the Last Tuesday Club, though actually believing that the world began on the most recent Tuesday wasn’t a prerequisite for joining, more of a guideline. All theories were accepted there – and argued over in low tones and sometimes more heated debates. She’d collected a bunch of people who otherwise would go days without saying a word, and had given them a forum to speak in front of. I asked her, did she really believe it, that the world had begun last Tuesday?
“It’s not last Tuesday any more. It’s Tuesday, the twelfth of January, 2016. And yes.”
“But isn’t that a bit ridiculous? All the fossil records, everything historians have ever recorded, are you saying all that’s wrong?”
“No, not at all!” She said excitedly. “You don’t understand. Just because something is old, doesn’t mean it isn’t brand new. The same way people paint new furniture, to make it cracked and peeling, the same way our universe is still in its infancy, all jumbled together and confused. That’s why nothing makes sense.”
“But lots of things do make sense.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps there is more than we can imagine, and we’re just struggling along, half blind, trying to make sense of it all. Everything still happened, in a way, after a fashion, it just happened more recently, and all at once.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. How can you believe that?”
“You can believe anything if you want to.”