::: April in England :::

stone walls crushing me
trapped between these lies of windows
a migraine
the sunlight pounds through my skull
drilling me through the street
so tired of distillaries
can't I get a real drink?

the rivers here are caught under bridges
like ugly little trolls
I wonder if they're hungry?
so oppressed by buildings
it's clautrophobic
spring in the city
hidden behind open doors and railings

I look to the sky without grass
and smell the heat to come
in all the built rocks
so oppressive
chipping at the marble that surrounds me
flattens me like cookie dough
find my shape and cut me free to bake

::: Doubt You :::

having a mild-mannered affair with your reflection
my self esteem is based on the colour of your eyes
your secret love confessions mean the world to me
well, this is where the paper trail begins to bleed

it only starts to work if it drips below the surface
fading delicately through all these self-assurances
a lie of buttermilk and sweet kisses never granted
not that we actually wanted them in the first place

you couldn't think to know what I want you to say
it doesn't matter all that much, I'm just a dreamer
these images escape my lips before I can edit you
falling onto the floor in tiny splotches of faith

there's dirt on this floor that needs to remain
hidden beneath the fallen sheets and always dark
mixed from blood and crushed souls to give birth
but that's just how it needs to be, and always is