Author Archives: kitsnotes

About kitsnotes

Gay piece of shit that writes gay-ass poetry sometimes

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My sunshine girl!! Full of light and love and warmth,

I wish that I could describe what I feel when I see you

But unfortunately I am just a star

Meek and cold and stiff,

Desperately trying to shine in the darkness, to compare to your fire.

 

“You are so extra.”

I say it jokingly but I wish I could complete the sentence:

“You are so extra, and I love that about you, I love your honesty,

It’s so rare!”

 

The last few seconds are ticking away,

And as the final chord of a year is struck, you pull me away,

Out of view.

Just beyond the door frame,

You grab my shirt and I am pulled into a kiss that ends in laughter

and the word “Stop.”

I see the hurt flash in your eyes and once again wish I could complete the sentence:

“Stop putting yourself at risk, your family is in the other room

And I don’t want you in any danger.”

All I want for you is love and happiness,

And I am so incredibly scared that I won’t be able to give you that.

 

So much hiding.

Quietly moving away at the sound of footsteps down the hall,

fingers on lips,

Frantic kisses,

Snatching every moment.

It ends in smiles each time, but love,

I know there will be a day when it ends in tears.

Somebody will come in with a surprise,

Catch a glimpse in a mirror,

Hear something they shouldn’t.

Sunshine girl, you leave your doors open for all to see,

But one day,

You will start to close them.

 

Stage 2: In which we realise our faults

Sunshine girl, I am sorry.

I didn’t mean to play a song that would make you cry.

I didn’t mean to ramble about insecurity and intrusive thinking.

I didn’t mean for you to break down in my kitchen.

I just wanted you to know

What you’re getting into.

I wanted you to know that I am not who I make myself to be.

Frankly I’m a mess.

You will never be able to compliment me without my dismissal,

You may end up awake at 2 in the morning trying to talk me out of stupid things.

I will need reassuring

and reassuring

and reassuring

And it will be tiring.

But something that I maybe didn’t consider was

that maybe I don’t know what I’m getting into.

If I am a mess, you are an avalanche.

And I worry for you every day.

I find myself dissonant.

I want you to be happy.

But sometimes that’s something I can’t give.

 

I was watching you play guitar today.

I had never seen you so focused, in such deep concentration

That I could see the systems spinning around your head.

It was almost as if I were looking at a crown of stars.

You look at home with a guitar in your hands.

As though all is suddenly right with the world.

It makes me happy to see you so at peace.

 

This was going to be some kind of great love poem that I was going to show you.

But you probably won’t see it now.

Thank you?? For letting me feel something?? Because when it was good, it was so good.

I love you

I miss you.

But I don’t want you back.

I may as well put this somewhere instead of leaving it to sit.

 

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I’m trying to understand the human condition

and so type “suicide” into my search bar

I need to understand, you see.

When close to death, when they think they’re ready for death, when they think it’s near,

I think that is when we are at our most human.

Because it’s raw and ugly and a ruthless natural process.

And it happens because the chemicals in somebody’s brain got fucked up.

That fascinates me.

Or it used to.

I think maybe now I understand.

I’m beginning to.

Recently I’ve been drifting.

I don’t feel like there’s a purpose to anything anymore.

And the world is so big that is scares me.

It’s swallowing me whole.

And it is so, so big.

Its strange because

I can remember exactly when it happened.

It was two days after a girl had left.

She said she wasn’t sure she could love,

And that I loved too much

To the point of suffocation.

Anyway.

Two days afterwards.

I had a packet of pills in my pocket in the hopes that I would go numb.

It hurt. It was painful.

It wasn’t anything heavy, not even behind the counter stuff.

I just kept taking them and taking them and soon none were left.

That night I went home and nearly threw up, but

It felt good.

Because it was physical, something physical to explain why my head hurt.

That felt logical to me.

I wandered through the hallway of my house,

Stared at the ceiling in my bedroom,

Went into the garden and sat in the cold.

It was so vapid.

But it made sense.

For that next week I drank

And made sure that at every opportunity I was drunk.

Now I just drift.

I wait for things to pass by.

I’m waiting to find something to live for again, wondering

“Was that girl my lifeline? Has it now snapped?”

Dangerously floating into things that scare me,

Narrowly avoiding everything by fractions.

Now I think I understand the need for death.

It’s a logical end to a chain of events.

It isn’t always a cry for help

More of a shout into the void.

A need for an answer.

Or a logical solution.

Maybe writing this makes me just another shout.

But noise has to go somewhere.

 

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The day my Ouma  was finally burned,

(Oh wait, is that inappropriate?)

The day my Ouma was set fire to-

(Still too on the nose? Ok.)

The day my Ouma was able to leave her physical body so that she could transcend to some higher plane of existence that we still have to debate over, despite it being thousands of years since it’s conception, or rather the conception of the idea,

(Better?)

We listened to Toots and the Maytals.

(How is that better?)

It wasn’t that she ever really liked Toots and the Maytals, in fact I never heard her even mention them. We just wanted to listen.

Allow me to tell you about my Ouma.

As I had known her, she was a bitter old South African woman.

She didn’t talk to me often.

Whenever we went to her house, she and my dad would sit together for hours

with cups of coffee

on two old battered armchairs

in their old family home in the middle of Birmingham.

The floorboards creaked under even the lightest amount of pressure

The carpet was at least 20 years old.

She had an odd kitchen,

Very tiny with a hatch that opened up into the living room.

There was only one video that would play on her old TV,

A tiny box that sat in the corner.

The video was “Ice Age”, I think.

She had bought it just as VCR was dying out, deciding she needed something for the grandkids to watch.

It worked.

We loved “Ice Age”.

The conservatory didn’t have a floor, just concrete.

It was covered in white paint form an accident that had been left unattended.

And the garden!

Huge and circular and beautiful.

I remember that she tended to it every day.

Even in winter, it was an explosion of colours.

I remember running around it for hours and hours,

learning how to tend to it,

memorising the name of every flower.

When I think of my Ouma, my first impression is bitterness.

But when I really think of her, I think of

Avocados and

Breadsticks and

Jigsaws and

A strange old house.

There was laughter in that house.

And there was laughter in the car,

As we drove back from the funeral.

Listening to Toots and the Maytals.

Remembering the light and life found in a grey place,

And a house full of memories that would never be ours again.

 

(Really not sure about this one so I’ll leave it without tags. I’m not even sure if it counts as poetry, I just followed a train of thought without really planning.But anyway! I hope you all see at least a few redeeming features in it.)

 

 

Dark

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Outrageous.

They are telling me to be less pale.

Can you believe it?

Telling a girl to change the colour of her skin

Years ago, they told me:

“Be white! The shade! Colour your eyes in black!

You must be our perfect

China doll.

We do not want a ruddy pink face.”

As though it was somehow “unflattering” to be seen with my pinkness,

As though it was insulting to own a face freckled by sunlight and burned by mirrors.

A face that had grown and changed over thousands of years of cold

And wet

And dark.

“Dark.”

Now they are telling me to be more dark.

And I look upon my Irish face and ask them “how?”

In return, they hand me tinted moisturisers,

Contouring kits,

Bronzing beads

And a handful of false hope within a spray tan.

So I begin my quest.

I moisturise,

Contour,

Bronze.

And with a resigned sigh, I spray a chemical across my body in the hope that I will be acknowledged.

And I look in the mirror that burns me.

And I see orange, followed by more orange with a dash of newfound insecurity and two new green eyes.

I look up to the sky

Ask whatever gods

“Why do they want me to be this way?”

In return they send me a gun and it dawns.

 

I think back to those years ago,

Imagine being told:

“Be white! The shade! Colour your eyes in black!

You must be our perfect

China doll.”

And looking in the mirror

Only to see a dark face.

I imagine being told for decades and centuries:

“Be white! The shade! Colour your eyes in black!

You must be white!”

I imagine being pushed into a box,

And pushed away for an “unacceptable” colour,

All the while being told:

“Be white! The shade! Colour yourself white!

You must be white!”

 

And I finally imagine

Staring down the barrel of a gun.

Being questioned by a man with a

Ruddy pink face.

Being asked what I am doing

Why am I acting so suspicious?

I imagine telling them

 

I am not white

And I am doing my weekly shopping.

 

 

I am not white

And I am driving.

 

I am not white

And I am a child with a toy.

 

I am not white and for that reason, in the corrupted blind eyes of your justice I must be punished.

 

I look once more into the mirror that burns me.

Behind my fake orange.

With my hands I scrape it from my face and feel a different burning.

Shame.

I am so sorry for what my skin has done.

I am so sorry for the pain that white has caused.

I am so, incredibly sorry that while people die, I complain about my colour and act as though I am the one that has been inflicted by the greatest injustice.

 

I wish to start again.

 

So please,

Be unapologetically black,

Be unapologetically Hispanic,

Unapologetically middle eastern,

Unapologetically Asian,

Unapologetically indegineous.

And I will bashfully try,

To be apologetically white.

 

 

Obituary

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Here lies a song

It was strummed,

Plucked,

Pressed

To create a shrill dust.

Every soft note as dull and clear

As the last.

Here lies a song.

It was sobbed over

And joked about.

It inflicted fear and rage

And left everyone who listened light

And giddy.

Here lies a song.

It was written underneath a cloudy sky in a bedroom.

The chords mapped out as light screamed through the window of dawn.

The melody was shaped in a thunderstorm,

And the percussion was a river.

Here lies a song.

A song that was never written.

A song that was half-written.

It is nine minutes long.

Will you stay?

Will you listen?

 

Another list, of fear

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My friends and strangers I am scared.

I am scared of holes in clusters

I am scared of insects in swarms.

I am scared of great heights,

But more than that I’m scared of falling.

 

However there is a difference between phobia and fear.

Phobia is the extremity of aversion, the knarled twist in your stomach.

Phobia knocks on your door, asks to come in.

Fear asks nothing.

You cannot hide from fear.

Fear is the slow creeping, the harsh jolt of a realisation

About one’s self.

It always finds you.

It always wins.

 

So what do I fear?

I fear that I will die out before people know my name

I fear that I will never live up to the expectations of others

I fear that I will one day hold no use to anybody.

I fear being alone.

Being too strange

Being a drifter

Being “unrelatable”, unable to socialise

I fear being discovered as the kid that writes shitty poetry

And actively enjoys Sylvia Plath’s work.

I fear abandonment

I fear what I am.

I fear what I am becoming.

 

But as for yourselves?

What is it you fear most?

Think.

It’s there.