Notes

poetry?
in which ash tries to be a poet

bognor regis, arun, west sussex


to tired to tell until it’s too late


you drop me down yet rest your crown, wearing a gown more costly than cars, yet still you craved the evening stars so you sent me on my way to see if i could save their bright light for to you i bow, but now i see the cost was free for me to leave you here with your scars, no need for me to drown beneath the wave’s blight, pulled under by your heavy bars, i stop my fight


when desperate pleas fall on ignorant ears, those without power would find it more fulfilling to spend their time kicking rocks and punching trees than to try bending over backwards to appease the privileged who sit idly upon ivory thrones, looking out over the lands, wrongly thinking that revolution is but a myth


i guess you’re writing about happy people for whom things are good. but that’s garbage, life isn’t happy

will, smile, friend
tommy, mocha, palace
phil, wobble, cup


your oldest friend — ash (oct 9th 2021)

i always find the thought of you lurking about inside my head, but i’m sorry, my oldest friend, what we had was never worth it

when you caught me climbing through my open bedroom window, it cut my heart down the middle, that fractured love now an old riddle

you said you’re moving on, not for effect, but for benefit. that means i can’t waltz back into you life whenever i see fit

and they won’t teach you this in school — i only know because i quit — but life won’t be that simple for us just because we’re privileged

so when you’re looking for my star sign in late January nights, i want you to remember there’s a reason i’m not by your side. you took from me what was my love, you strung it up to a bus, you called me on my old number to say i’m never good enough.

i never thought i’d wanna tell you that life up north’s been getting tough; i used to be so set on staying out of all your city stuff. but the lack of orange street lights makes me feel lonely and cold, and i’m starting to regret what i said about growing old alone.

if i wrote a letter for you, i wonder would it be that you burn it in its envelope or toss it out to sea? if your still so bloody stubborn, you’ll never read these words, but i hope that mindset of yours has taken a new turn.

shooting blindly in the dark will leave my pride the most wounded, but i’m here, i’m reaching out, i’m praying you still live in that old house.

this paper’s running short and my clock says it’s midnight. you have no idea how much i wish you’d stayed with me that somber night.

despite all the time we spent on petty fights, i’d sell my soul to satan’s son to go back now and make it right.

with my sincerest regards, and my woeful regret, i sign my title here: your oldest friend



fictitious values led my life grey — ash (dec 14th 2021)

and so you leave me,
my only notice akin to the subtle tinkle of a pin dropping,
the sound unnoticeable
until it had echoed around the room enough
to overwhelm my senses.

but oh,
am i deemed a sinner for now feeling lonely?
are mere children shunned for missing the sun in the winter?
you could never stay here,
you were always far too perfect for these lands.

but whatever happened to growing old together as one?
am i to assume you never were truly quite as fond of me as i, you?
forever was quite a short while after all,
but i will never blame you for mistaking its length:
nowadays i often do too.

next month falls our birthdays,
but i no longer find myself having the heart for celebrations.
so sixteen really is just another marker along the road towards death;
what prominence do ballgowns and sparkly drinks carry
if our dresses should not match
and our alcohol be born to dissimilar vineyards?
a bittersweet thought mocks the gift i already planed for you.

my family urges me onwards,
but even the dog seems sad when he looks my way.
the people down in town say only the sick stay in bed so long,
but the doctor can never seem to find me my ailments.

in the witching hours,
when i find myself most susceptible to bouts of delirium,
a thought framed in the image of you wanders through my weary consciousness,
and for a moment it feels as though you never left.
but then the angry cicadas fade back in to surround me,
and suddenly it feels you were never there.

my drapes feel as though a felon has been owning them,
and every time their cloth meets me in the morning-time,
i ponder if i can go on.

and all this to preach to the stars and oil lantern my grief,
for a letter like this,
though written for you, my love,
should never need to bear the eyes of another,
no matter how much trust i intrust in the reader.

a final goodbye seems so necessary yet so unattainable.
how can one ever truly send off their other half?
if only they bothered teaching us in class,
although,
young people like us should never need worry of death.

i hear your voice in every stranger in the house,
through the walls and flooring,
through the dusty windows i prefer now to keep closed.
my heart leaps every time,
though the leaps fall more to a stutter the more time passes me by.
too much of me wishes each time for it to really be you,
back from the river,
your small hands cold and in need of mine.

and to think the world knew us only as friends!
if i had it my way,
i’d scream my love for you from the rooftops every time i took a breath.
these people could never comprehend,
but is it truly such a crime for two girls to be in love?
if so then perhaps my clothes are right,
for i am a felon,
but no hell could ever keep me from loving you.

i know not what to do these days,
i only ever wanted to live life with you,
and now even my room feels like it’s missing more than just your presence,
but also your memory too.

why did you never tell me you were tired?
you know i would have fled my own family in an instant to join you,
living in a cottage,
somewhere so far from your troubles that you’d never frown again.
my deepest fear is you did tell me,
or at least tried,
and i missed it.
i missed it,
and so you paid with your life.



dribble dabble dip drop — ash (dec 21st 2021)

too early? too late? too long of a wait?
so near yet so far; we should’ve taken the car.
tomorrow is now yesterday and everyday is spent in pain.
oh come and forget the world with me,
place your hands on your eyes and on the count of three
let’s scream.

yesterday says tomorrow needs an egg to borrow,
but today says you once left the neighbor in sorrow.
so to make up we baked him a cake yesterday.
we should hope he accepts or we’ll be hungry in the next day.

mommy? are you there? daddy? hello?
your little kid’s all grown up now, don’t you know?
mother? father? have you been eyeing the news?
the detectives are all out looking for clues!
clues? clues! yes, for the kid you couldn’t raise
just shot up the high school in a merciless craze!

sooner and later, now and never.
my heart beats on through every season’s weather
and today marks 537 days i’ve been clean,
clean of my blades carrying my blood’s gleam.



the innate craving for aliveness — ash (dec 26th 2021)

today
i find myself
loving the people i used to hate
and hating the people i used to love
all for the sake
of self-preservation
though inside
i’d rather be dead
than alive



of myself — ash (jan 1st 2022)

i most often write
of people who are not real,
of places that don’t exist ,
and of lives that death steals.

though tonight i feel the time is right:
i’ll write of myself,
give you all some insight
into the person who tells the tallest of tales,
writes stories and poems and sometimes emails;
who thinks itself immortal every two weeks or so,
the Caribbean kid who’s never seen snow;
the author of all these fantastical stories,
the sophomore who lives through other’s glories;
aquarius, hufflepuff, 5-wing-4,
inpt with the blue bedroom door;
autistic, redhead, and lover of house pets,
15, though 16 before this month turns next;
the person who writes best when the sun isn’t looking,
who wants to learn music and also cooking.

me, i, myself:
what a wondrous thing to be!
that is until nobody’s left to see
the mess i become behind closed doors,
tear-stained, red-eyed,
and so, so much more,
truly, i am a one-of-a-kind
for better or worse.
but i’m learning to get better!
learning to deal with the the hurt.
learning to cope with the pain
after 15 years of life
almost washing down the drain.

so see?
this is why i don’t write of myself.
sure i’m entertaining,
but after more than one poem,
i can get kind of draining.
in the future i’ll continue to do what i’ve done,
i’ll write poems about no one who lives under the sun!
i’ll makeup fake stories,
lives and deaths, many and few,
here’s to the new year,
here’s to 2022!



you’re so easy to love — ash (jan 2nd 2022)

you told me once how you’d never been in love.
you told me later how you didn’t think you could.
and in return i asked why you thought so.
you quickly told me “i think you should go”.

months later and the nights turned cold and long.
we spent the daytimes walking through snow,
and the midnights huddled close,
keeping warm, voices low.

and on the year’s final night,
as the minutes fell away,
we grew drunk on some taboo feeling,
nearing not the first moment of change,
but the moment that ensured our lives could never be the same.

a minute on the clock,
eyes lidded from safety,
we sat hand in hand,
every thought passed hazily.

your eyes dipped down first,
my lips drew your face to flush.
you looked away,
i grinned,
and i cupped your face,
and pulled you close,
and when we kissed our own fireworks were sent flying.
the clocks stopped ticking,
the world stopped spinning,
but never has a moment alive felt so freeing.

and we were gone with ourselves.
as all of Britain cheered for the new year,
we slowly broke away,
and for a moment there was this fear.
but as our fingers shakily intertwined in the new day,
we let the world be, we let ourselves feel safe.

from there on in,
day out, day in,
you and i were named one,
indefinitely in love.

until someday near today,
in the past, down the road,
when you sat me down to leave me, crying.
why? i still don’t know

and now i have nothing yet everything left to say.
so many invaluable, precious things left to say.
things i’d tell you if you kept my number in your phone.
things i tell myself at night to feel less alone.
things i think by accident when anger dethrones sorrow.
things i swear i’ll tell you if today ever is tomorrow.

like how i miss you in my bed each and every morning,
like how i wish your absence felt less like a mourning.
like how i hope to finally move on one day.
like how i’m sure you’ve already learnt to be okay.

i can’t think anymore,
my mind is now a prison
where i’m chained another time
every time i think of you
or kissing you crimson.

another unreal thing you’ve somehow done to me:
it’s now hard to find sleep at night, you see?
because even after all of my washing,
every single night,
my sheets still smell of you
and that perfume you always liked.
sleeping well in my own bed again? i have doubts,
especially since i now spend most nights on the couch.

if there are 10 trillion ways
to tell someone they’re missed
i’d need 10 trillion more
because you’re worth more than all of it.

and if i wrote a word
for every time you crossed my mind
we’d need new dictionaries
and languages to suffice.

the deep caws of the crows make more sense to me now
than the chirps from early birds as the moon goes down.
for the sun is too bright
and the day is too busy
and the world is not right;
being alive leaves me dizzy
and needing to cry.
in summary, i much prefer the night.
(though when it gets late i find myself regretting That Night.)

it seems easier now to let my brain just rot away
and let my body waste for the rest of my days
and cry for someone other than myself
and live life as though i was always someone else.

perhaps i’ll write a best-selling book, just to spite you,
so in a few years when you and your next lover go book shopping,
my face will be plastered on posters along every shelf
and maybe then you’ll realize you regret leaving me by myself.

i feel crazy and crazed
when i make our song play
to sit down and cry to
and remember better days.

days like those ones we spent in the snow.
those last, immortal days leading to- well, you know.
especially That Night when we kissed that first time,
or even that night from the first four lines,
because all of those nights we spent in each other’s arms,
wrapped in each other’s touch (we could never get enough)
will forever be ingrained in my mind and the stars.

i still love you
and i want you to know i always will, forevermore.
it turns out you’re so easy to love
and no heartbreak could ever leave me more sore.
until our paths may meet once again,
wether in the store or at the end of the line,
i want you to know:
my heart will forever be yours,
because you deserve all the world’s love
(even if you are not mine).



the time thesis — ash (unknown date)

time’s up: you left it too late.
i just needed the home that you failed to make.
i can’t believe that i’m leaving,
it’s the end on the road.
i can see the world from up here
where i’m not ashamed to be alone.



the fate of all us cold people — ash (unknown date)

standing by myself at the edge of that dead-end cliff, my arms spread to welcome one last hug from the cold-blooded world i always sought out ‘home’ within, i closed my eyes and took in a breath, letting my consciousness be tossed unendingly between the powerful tides of my mind: this is where i learn, where i may finally understand, that this is all there ever was. this is all there ever was to find, to learn, to know. i killed my own mockingbird and hid its limp body behind my back, trying desperately to preserve its beaten down carcass so that i may one day stuff it full and present it to the waiting people as though my mission for purpose had been a success. i wish to enlighten the world of how doomed it forever will be, but i, being a human, a person of this pitiful world, am also doomed. my doom is to lie. to twist my mocking, silver tongue, so as to twist the wrist of those who think themselves superior to fate. in the end, i believe the doom of each man who finds himself standing, arms spread at the cliff side, is to know that knowing is the one thing keeping him safe and also the one thing keeping him in peril. either way, arms spread or one of waiting, safe or in peril, the finality of it all must always be death.

we were so close. we could’ve had it. why didn’t we have it? a home. all we wanted—all we needed—was a home. and we were so close. i keep asking “where did it all go wrong?” because when i look back and see us smiling, and then look over at my reflection, i can’t understand how the two faces are of the same person. we were so close. what happened to us? we used to be alright, but now? what are we if not ourselves, but after everything, who are we in the first place? i suppose we are just some kids who were close—so close—to being alright, to having a home. what..? where..? why..? we just wanted a home. a home. home. our home. and we were so close…

but now, do i accept that? can i? do i try and heal from this, try and go on to do better? or should i stand at the cliff and spread my arms, for the first time not hoping for a cold, upsetting embrace, but instead i open my arms for acceptance. now i know. we were close. we were so close. but now i know. i am human, i was always doomed, not just to lie, but to feel unsafe. to lie about being safe. so when i spread my arms for a final, cold hug, maybe it was just an act for the waiting people, the people like me who also deserved better. maybe i just always lied about liking that cold because my future, my fate, was bathed in it, and as one of the men who grew sick of just waiting, i sought out that home, that desirable safety, and always, i was so close. we were all so close. but now i know. i am with my arms spread, i am in peril, and as i chose, for the first time, to simply accept, the dead-end cliff gives me the cold hug i always thought was as chilling to all as it was to me, and take just one step. and now, as the cold hug draws me tighter in, i am closer than any of the waiting people have ever been. i am finally home, and the finality of it all must always be death.



the poem they wrote me (the pinterest poem) — ash (may 12th 2022)

it starts with this.
words like
you fat bitch,
you’re a piece of shit,
and
you need to be clean to be good.

they always loved to taunt,
to push and pull
as they pleased,
the owner of the last word
and the coldest tongue
looking down on her prey
as the sun wakes up,
the day still so young,
and she especially loved to taunt.

what are you so fucking afraid of?

the beginning of a bicker
brings about boldness,
Pretty Princess and her friends
playing party games,
too damn rich-drunk
to keep their eyes open
long enough to see that
class isn’t just something from school.

i never asked to be like this.

i feel trapped in my own life,
my hungry stomach and last spring’s clothes
piling in on my self-portrait
now which bears the tears from
all the foodless lunchtimes
spent in clammy bathroom stalls
and all the dresses that watched me from shop windows
that i cold never afford.

what goes through your mind when someone mentions my name to you?

the english teacher and i are close,
the both of us poor but,
more importantly,
the both of us authors—
she with her fairy tales
and i with my poems.
however, you needn’t be a writer
(you needn’t even be poor)
to understand how it feels
to be taunted.
to be pushed down flights of stairs
or to be locked in a locker,
phrases like
you’re going to die anyway
splinter into your heart
as your only loyal friends,
salty as the winter is cold,
come back to lick at your cheeks.

and as i wait for my other friend,
the english teacher,
to spring me free,
i sniffle in wonder:
how much anger can my little heart hold?

but it’s senior year.
this nightmare
staring “the sluts”
decrescendos to a lull,
these last four months
the finale of cherry lips
and curly hair,
but i know that they won’t be forgotten by me.
no.
not for a very long while.

it ends with this.
words like
i’m okay now
and
when will i forget?
consuming my final thoughts
when my bed is waiting to greet me
as i strip from my shoddy grad dress
and 3rd hand perch-like shoes.
i never asked to be like this.



pretty boy — ash (june 3rd 2022)

i wonder what it might be like to fall asleep on his shoulder

his laugh is pretty and it stirs my soul; butterflies, i think they call it

and his eyes, they’re so warm. his smile reaches them, crow’s feet crinkles drawing back the curtains of his lips

when he turns his head, his hand behind his neck hiding the rose of his embarrassment, and he looks at me? well, my daydreams are never dull

i wonder what it might be like to fall asleep on his shoulder

he plays guitar, piano too. he writes lyrics so pretty, so delicate, so strong, and he writes melodies that put right the wrong

he’s so tall—6’6” or 6’7”—and his hair, his curly brown hair. how i wish to make it a plaything of mine

pleasant with how he talks, with how he walks, how he acts. his darling mother raised him well, we should think. he takes my hand in the morning-time and leaves his kiss pressed to my skin, eyes locked with mine as he stands upright once more

i wonder what it might be like to fall asleep on his shoulder



one of us — ash (july 2nd 2022)

i know how this song goes,
the somber tune with lyrics like the daytime:
a falsity true unlike myself.
empty is such a filling thing to be felt—
funny.

when not shall i think of you?
a date should do quite keenly,
though my newest fear is how far off it may fall.
i know how this song goes.



the arsonist, the pyromaniac, and their son, the firefighter — ash (july 4th 2022)

a boy i used to know died today.

he was a darling child,
as sweet as his eyes were bright,
and as warm as the flame that was his family.

he was in my class at school,
we had the same friends.
he always seemed so sure of himself—
more than i could ever be.
the burning confidence of his person
a lamp moths adored to no end.

he often lost belongings to house fires,
always wanting to be a firefighter one day.
sadly, he never made it through training;
despite what his friends said,
i didn’t find himself strong enough.

this boy and i,
we had the same name.
we shared the same birthday
and even the same lopsided smile.
the people are saying
he died in his bathroom,
trapped there by another house fire
and without a way to safety.

if you could ask him,
he’d tell you that he must have fallen asleep.
what he wouldn’t tell you
is that he didn’t want to wake back up.

a boy i used to know died today
and it’s all my fault.
i saw him in the mirror the moment the final pill was swallowed,
the raging of the house fire seeping through the bathroom door
as the little boy’s eyes pleaded,
already knowing the outcome.

the boy’s final thought was
“does this make me a murderer?”

today i died a murderer:
i killed a boy i used to know.



strawberry lemonade (at least it was here) — ash (july 16th 2022)

we are 16 years old
and we are best friends.

between me and myself?
even the fog of downtown feels warm when we’re walking together.

you do the cooking
and let me do the cleaning.

between the two of us
surely we can make it.

you pose
and i’ll take the picture.

between today and tomorrow
there is exactly three hours of bittersweetness to be felt,
because tomorrow i’m getting on a plane.

i am 16 years old
and i am scared.

between me and myself?
this isn’t worth it.

home is where your family is
and it turns out mine is a lot farther north than anyone thought.

our feet shake
but we aren’t scared:
we’re quite happy, in fact

i don’t think my feet will be shaking when the last plane lands in 15 hours.

i love you
and i miss you
and i wish i could tell you all of this before i get on that plane home tomorrow.

i have your number memorized
and you have mine in your phone.
you’re just one call away,
but plastic and metal are a far cry from your sofa in nova scotia.

we are 16
but we might be 17 by the time we next meet.

i’m scared
and i love you
and you are my home.

just please don’t let me get on that plane.



upon these lands — ash (august 18th 2022)

“march, o march!”
and there are people doing so, silently,
the sound of an old anthem
once unthought of so deeply
heard clean and clear
as we march

the battlements are now old,
how their wars left the land seemingly not so
as the mud of the meadows shows more truly than the grass does even now
as we march

the flag of our nation
—and the flag of our fallen—
watches from above,
it’s colossal size a reminder of
what was never meant to be
as we march

on foot, on horseback,
exhausted and over-worn,
the setting sun of the isle bathes our hurt souls with its golden accolade,
the continuity of beauty a reminder that
a heart is a heart,
no matter whom it beats within
as we march











the silhouette of each of all my mistakes

the loved, the lost, and the long forgotten

i hate how this house feels more like a home when you’re not around

my enemy who knows me like how i wish to know myself

perfect pandemonium

and if by the end of the night they’re in the kitchen fighting again, at least i can say i told you so

a good head on his shoulders and a heavy crown on his head