I won’t let you contain me
And I won’t let you believe this world is yours.


Fuck tears and other pointless things.

I know that you hate yourself. I see the look in your eyes when you look at yourself in the mirror and I know you don’t see what I see. I can tell she’s made you feel like you’re nothing. I can’t even explain how seeing you cry makes me feel. It makes me hate her more than I’ve ever hated anyone.

Sometimes I get angry with you because you’re with her and she doesn’t appreciate you. I know she doesn’t tell you how special you are and how much you shine. You deserve to be told, over and over until you finally believe it, until you finally realise you deserve to be loved and looked after properly by someone better. You don’t understand the effect you have on people – the effect you have on me.

Please let me make you happy. I promise I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again.

You just need to leave me.

You’re fatally flawed, yet you have me floored.

Lies and subtle hints get me nowhere from what I’ve seen
Time to get out of here before I say something I actually mean

(I really like this. I wrote it a few weeks ago on a bus. I need to add to it/include it in something.)

I’m sitting on my delayed train staring listlessly at my reflection
Guy opposite me has the paper over his lap to hide the fact Page 3 gave him an erection
I just really want to get home so I can watch Obama win the US election
But my train is delayed by 4 minutes so now I’m gonna miss my fucking connection

Oh TFL, oh TFL
Why do you make my life so hard
Is it because I’m a student and I don’t have a piece of shit Oyster card?
Would it be such a crime
If I asked you to just make sure to make your fucking trains get here on time?
TFL, I hate you

(This got a great reception on Facebook.)

Was this inevitable?
The sudden realisation that you’re the thing I’m going to miss most?
The frustration, knowing I’ve been moronic, that this is hedonistic and will never result in something platonic.
Was this a test I didn’t pass?
Shall I come back when I’m less needy and zealous? Less greedy and jealous?
I admit I can turn heads;
But I can’t compete when you’re breaking necks
And breaking hearts
Is that cliché to say?

It’s surprised me really, to see I haven’t changed that much
Still have trouble with my anger and lust, always get in the car when the driver is drunk
But it’s no good
You can give light and love and youth and hope
And all I can give you is words
That I’ve memorised like I’ve memorised the syllables in your name
And sing them to myself in my head when I can’t sleep because you aren’t breathing beside me.

Passion that will never be realised
You’re blind and naïve and I can fool you easily
By just telling you that I’m just fine.
And just telling you that no one lays like you do.
But no one lies like I do.

(I can tell I’m gonna chop this up and rearrange it because right now I hate how it flows and how it’s not really lyrical at all, but I just had to get the feelings down first.)

It hasn’t been right for a while now. We both know it, we just refuse to accept it. So we tread on eggshells, both of us desperately trying to avoid the elephant in the room, paralysed with fear that one wrong move will make the other leave. An insincere compliment, a frigid embrace; keep the other happy, convince yourself you’re happy too. However bad the familiar is, it’s not as bad as the unknown.
At the same time, there is an element of security and comfort, something that may actually be genuine. Your presence puts me at ease, your touch seems to make me feel safer even though reaching for your hand has become little more than a reflex now. I silently thank you for merely being one of the few people who doesn’t make me pray for the end of humanity every time I see them, and I begin to wonder if this is what love really is.
Then I remember how things used to be. The fearless rush of the first few months, the apprehension and lust, the words we couldn’t quite say. The tears of anguish, the late night fighting, the words we later regretted. The crippling jealousy, the unspoken hatred, the words we apologised for later but secretly meant. I think about how readily I’ve succumbed to you, convince myself that it’s all your fault, and I try to muster enough emotion to hate you for it. But nothing comes. It would seem that with every emotion extinguished we are now left with the remains, remains that neither of us are ready to let go of in the hopes that someday we’ll feel something again.
Things aren’t the same. We grow number and more apathetic by the day. There’s no real excitement anymore, no real energy. Even the arguments are the same tired arguments, same difference of opinion, feeble attempts at reigniting passion that just isn’t there anymore. We’re just chipping away at each other, destroying ourselves out of fear. And it’s all because we’re so, so scared to be alone, that we’ve failed to notice how utterly uncomfortable we’ve become.