A mirror, a memory
Swallowing sedatives, with drinks made of caffeine

My recollection is forced into silence
From social disproval and cultural indifference

And I patter between the moments,
As if lava lines the floor
I’m triple checking the stoves of
And I’m double locking the door

And I’m scrubbing my skin with soap, until it bleeds
But it’s never quite clean

And I wonder if I’ll make it
Even a few hours more
There’s a hunter at the window
And he’s banging at the door

Watching my actions,
Like I’m on a tv
Connected the dots between the choices I make

And it doesn’t hurt me, or tare me to pieces
I’m left with a humming, mumbling pain

And it feels as though you’re watching,
Making notes in the corner of the room
And I feel you in the spaces I write
Silently forming every tune

SPOKEN:
Today I float From moment to memory,
I am sat in my kitchen,
Then my lower school
I am playing guitar, then I am sobbing on a bed

And my isolation morphs into different genres of terror,
Coz this flat is my flat, until it isn’t
This bed is my bed, until it isn’t
This life is my life, until it isn’t

The walls are closing in,
My hands warp and change from mine to his
There isn’t enough air
There is too much air
Am I spiralling? I am spiralling
Circling my own sanity

My disorder tells me I am dying,
She crawls through my ears with tundrels of aggression
She slips down my throat into my hands
Runs fingers over scars
And ask questions I beg her not too

The internet tells me to reconnect with nature,
To walk in a field,
To plan things and watch them grow
I live in a city, surrounded by people
Metal boxes and grime
I have no money; no will power and no routine

I am here, 18th of march,
And then I’m 18?
I’m 14,16,12?
I am no where
I explore my room from the corner near the wardrobe
Watching myself sat hollow on the bed
Bed
I am 9 and I am crying,
I’m 17, I’m fucking
I’m 14 I’m cutting
I am 21
21, it’s 2020 I am here. Here I am

Wondering through a street in the Netherlands
The cobblestones are uneven, the air smells cleaner than back home
I make eye contact with a man

I’m 11 now, or 12?
I am sat in a classroom
I pinch the broken skin on my fingernails,
He comes up behind me

I am at a gig, the music’s too loud
I can’t see the exit
I feel heat enter my cheast
My head feels hollow, too many people

I am sat in the back of a car; I watch the raindrops on the window
And make competitions of which falls the fastest

I am lying on a bed, the room smells damp
There is a CD playing harry potter, and I hear him snoring

I am back on my own bed again
She is drawing circles on the palm of my hand
She’s calling me, asking me to come back