All the things you don't know

this being my humble attempt at writing juvenile, schoolgirl emo poetry.

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You don't know, I've been
playing with knives here. You
don't know. A game I keep
on repeating, impro-
vising, building on and on in different
words and moves, trying
to reach the bone
marrow, so it hurts; and I still
can't feel my insides throb
against the blue blade
in response.

In the car beneath your window
I've been choosing my men - some
with their fingers long, like music,
a few with eyes like deception,
some of them like shamans, raising
the dead with their words; crawling,
aching to touch.
The charade tires me sometimes.
In the car beneath your
window, I sit and watch
your mother, your baby
brother who smiles like you, slow,
infectious like poison, he dares, and I
despise his guts. In this car
beneath your window, I've been
waiting for you to come pull the blinds,
on a powercut evening so you can see
the sky behind me is purple. On a power-
cut evening, a candle in your
hands, your eyes flickering light. Your eyes
like deserted streets, like the dirt
in your soul, the fertile
dirt I want to mix into my
body and become
flowers, trees.

When these books these bars this Friday
night music fail, I've been
keeping my eye on you, swinging
your way down the corridor
the sun right behind your head, your hair
wild, flying, your body
like wildflower-
beds, you become the fuckin' Saviour - the boy
with the red guitar.

And you don't know, I've been hallu-
cinating nights here, entire nights
of writing mad poetry to you. You don't
know, boy-child, protected, adored,
that I walk through the shadows at
dusk, streaking them violent
blue, waiting for storm.
You don't know.