ade

‘cause we’re the kids,
your kids, the kids
falling into the
streets.

blaming those who
fell,
for letting us 
fall.

writing poetry, and
doing something
with this decay,
before we grow up,
and shut up,
and forgot we
don’t know it
all.

they say there’s 
war on the streets
but the war
is the streets.

set foot outta
school and 
I’m seventeen,
fucking around,
like I know shit,
fucking guys I think
will give me
some shit.

I complain that
my hearts broken,
but at least this way
I understand.
if you stick your
dick into everything
you’ll lose it:
your mind.

so I’ll keep
mess, mess,
messing around

till I’m so tired,
I’ll stay on
the last guy 
I fell on.

boxers on inside out,
sore from the back
seat of his car,
and I stink of cum,
and I know it all.

your life’s a war,
until you fall.

and when it feels like the grounds gonna shake, jump.

he told us all he was
happy, that he was
fine

and i believed him.

then one day he smiled,
touched my thigh
and got me hard

but when i went
in for my kiss,
he was gone.

his lips were
still there,
and his skin,
his hands were
definitely still moving,
and laying on top
of me, i could feel
the fast tapping
of his heart—

but it was too late,
you’d slipped away.

your mask had simply
crumbled.

I woke up,
and the room was cold,
and the air was stale.

our skin reeked of sweat,
and our clothes of smoke
were scattered.

I was sore,
and you were soft.
deflated after finally
getting our fucks.

the whole thing
seemed pretty grey,
but you were in my bed
and I was in heaven.

so your life is sure,
so sure,
cock sure,
I’m sure of who
I am.

people are just cards,
on my deck,
I’ll shuffle and
remove.

fuck and excuse.

then you meet,
just one guy.
one horribly
messed up &
useless guy,

and he breaks you
down.

see’s every crack on
your skin, and
takes you
apart.

scatters you,
and works his way
in.

and he takes his goddamn
time building you
back up.

four weeks to the day,
if we’re counting.

leaves pieces of himself
in the mix,
changes my words,
and the way I feel,

and sometimes though,
I could swear he built me
back up around
himself,

and he’s just living
inside of me, hit 22
and decided to
steal my life,

and now I’m not sure,
but I’ll write him outta me,
straight out my system,
in time.

then when I’m sad,
weighed down by
him, or the next
guy.

the next fuck,
the next cheap and wrong
love—

I’ll read this to myself,
and think:
‘By god, you wont always
need a man Adam,
and remember
young hearts heal’.

the clock’s come
full circle again,
and my heart’s
blue again.

told myself
‘breathe, relax.
do what they do,
the world isn’t
ending’

but it is.

we prepare for war,
and the big melt
or the big freeze,
that big nuke
or the big
depression.

and we haven’t realised,
the world’s already ended.

it happened years ago,
it happened the day
i fell into love,
both times.

it happened yesterday,
and today, an hour ago
and when i picked
up this pen.

it’ll happen tomorrow,
even if i’m happy
to you.

the world has already ended.

i can’t figure out what he
sees in me,
i’ve picked myself apart,
my self-esteem can’t
take another turning
of a stone.

if he likes that i’m
a slut, there wont
be a day in which
i’m not bent over.

if he likes me
because i’m skinny,
then i’ll never
eat again.

if he wants me to
stay angry, and rebel
then i’ll do it.
i’ll set it all alight
and drop out.

if he asked me to
give up writing,
by god this pen
won’t touch paper
again.

he said it’s only
been two weeks
and he already
half loves me.

what do i have to do,
for the other half?

Fucking fuck sake fucking shitty fucking bastards fuck fuck fuck.

had a lovely new year’s eve, spent it with gavin and his friends which was really sweet. it ended on a more than pleasant note, and we slept till 3 today until he had to go to work.

they never prepared
me for this,
the poets, the parents,
the exes and the
one off’s.

they didn’t prepare me,
for the fall.

i thought i knew men,
like the back of my
hand.

i used to get them
wet with the lick
of my lips,

and i’d say all the
right, do all the
right, touch all the
right things.

but this isn’t beautiful,
this isn’t as brilliant
as i’d hoped—

by god, it’s monumental though.
i can’t even write anymore,
i’m swapping shapes, no
consistency.

he’s fell onto me like
a headstone, from the
clouds

and now that we’ve begun,
i’m counting down the days,
because realistically it’s gonna
end.

we may last a few months,
a year - a few at best,
but we ain’t gonna marry,
and i’m already mourning us.

the time that we won’t
have together, it’s killing me,
he’s killing me.

give it some time,
they’ll find him at the
head of my body,
face of an angel

and he’ll read
‘here lies Adam Liddle,
the poet who couldn’t
bare to love.’

and it pulls you
right down,
clings to your legs
when you walk

and you have this limp,
like an amputee
because something’s
missing.

something is always
missing.

gavin, and his hands,
his naked back and
the way his beauty marks
form a diamond.

the way his eyes
are ever so slightly:
ever so perfectly crooked,
and always so full,
so full of everything.

i can never quite get
close enough to him,
in his arms,
or on his dick,
holding hands.

it’s never close enough,
i would tear this skin right off
and break away these bones,
just to get closer.