desperation

i crave masculinity

in rolled sleeves

and blossoming knuckles.

i own femininity

in duality and the poems

i left in portugal.

my stomach boils

with the cain complex

and desperation i view

my past Selves with -

i reread old books

to try and write

the way i used to.

i write pages and

pages

of letters to Time

‘how have you been?’

‘where were you earlier this year?’

i want to make

french toast again.

i peel oranges

and tangerines

in one go all the way around

and then

i split half

and give half

to the version of me

no one could dare to love.

to be honest is

to be strong ;

( shrouded in lies like

ivy winding winding winding )

‘how did you fix everything?’

‘how did you apologise for me?

me and past Selves share

the oranges and

i ask 17 year old natasha with long

hair how

long she spent styling it

and she laughs for some

amount of time -

a deep intake of breath,

speaking fast speaking so fast

so so so so so

so so

so so so fast,

i am learning

every version of

myself

forgiveness crawling

into my bedsheets

and making them smell

so fresh and so promising

and

i haven’t met everyone i’ll love yet.

‘how did you let me forget? and still remember?’

‘why didn’t you leave?’

someone sits somewhere

(in a cafe perhaps)

and has no idea

that i will

one day cry

at photos of them as a child

and write secret poems about them.

they have no clue that i will

brainstorm gifts

one day and

secretly buy them their

favourite chocolate while

walking home from the bus in the

pouring pouring rain

(in july?)

‘you took my ribs out and healed me completely thank you thank you thank you’