The room was still.

The dusty mirror in the corner showed no life, the discarded toys sat, frozen in an eternal tea party, glassy eyes staring with a fixed glare.

The stillness is broken by a scream, a child’s scream, and the shouts of ‘Help! Help me!”. The shrill sound forewarns the arrival of it, the small child running as fast as she can, cake smearing her face as her pursuerer runs with outstretched hands, just waiting for the chance to tickle her life away.

A poem can flow A poem can not A poem can rhyme A poem can not A poem can loop A poem can not A poem can change A poem can not A poem can feel A poem can not A poem can die A poem can live How does it decide? If the poet lets It speak for itself.

“Why the fuck did you choose a HAIRBRUSH?!” “Well, I figured I’m probably going to die. I might as well look good when I do.”

(Imagine it finishes and stuff)

I look at him, Bright blue eyes and all, Beautiful, loving, Small. How can a man Be so short, and yet… So full of love? He flings his lithe Body entirely into Loving everyone Even the hardest People to love. The people Like Me.

One tender kiss And I couldn’t go back. He dragged me in, Not just to his bed, To his life, Out the closet, To happiness.

He forced love upon me Like cough medicine But so sweet It was sickly. It was… Terrifying To be Loved For being- For being- For being Me?

I was freezing and you held me. I was burning and you cooled me. I was dying and you saved me. My hero. My warmth in the ice. I was screaming and you hushed me. You saved me. You alone saved me.

Home Broken. Pain. Home. Scared. Alone. Struggle for money. Hurt. Home. Lonely amongst family. Fists. Bills. No heating. Too little food. Home. Kicks. Punches. Tears. No help. Fear.

Out. Friends. Friends. Out. Talking. Laughing. Burgers, chips, beer, football. Out. A good time. Together. Banter, jokes, teasing. Not for real. Out. Our time. Love. Together, now, forever:

Our shoulders rest together, Kissing for our lips Our lips which mouth the Words on our pages. We don’t need to speak We let our love do that.

I look back. It’s cold day. I’m hiding in the library. He walks in, there’s a little hello between us before he goes to check in his books and search out a new one. He sits opposite me.

He doesn’t love me. Yet.

I don’t love him. Yet.

It’s cosy, he brought me coffee. We read together for around an hour, occasionally the other asking what things mean or sharing bits we like.

His hand brushed against mine as we got up to leave, but we’re just friends, friends who understand each other, so it wasn’t awkward.

“I almost forgot, D and lot are meeting up tomorrow at the grill. 11 I think.” He says. “See you there?” “See you.”

Just like that, we part ways. We don’t love each other yet.

“You. I’ve never seen you fight. You’re always here, lifting weights no-else could with everything but you’re there with one hand looking bored.” “I don’t spar with strangers. I don’t want to hurt anyone.” The white haired man looks at him, his snake like eyes narrowing as he focusses. “Fine. What about enemies?” “I kill them.”

“Good. You stand around with your snake like eyes staring daggers at people. And for what? To show off your weakness? Those scars on your wrists? You’re weak! You keep the rest of yourself covered up! What’s under there? Do you cut yourself? Do you hate yourself that much? Then again, your wrists testify to that. Are you scared? You must be a right wimp for your hair to go grey so young.” “Well done. I’m interested. In the ring.”

They stand face to face. Or at least, the white haired man looking down at his opponent. The opponent is just wearing shorts. The white haired man is still wearing his coat.

“Take that off. Make it equal.” “It still won’t be equal. But fine, I’ll show the world my scars.” The white haired man shrugs and takes off his coat, hoodie and t-shirt.

He is muscles and scars. The scars are everywhere. Big and small. Some are from people, some are from beasts, some are from Vesemir, some are from himself. They are all from monsters.

“Don’t ogle. It’ll make me more inclined to hurt you. Now come on. Take your shot, stranger. You’ll only get one.” The white haired man smiles softly. A man who looks upset at his scars. That is not a man who hates him. This will be a short fight.

WHITE HAIRED MAN = GERALT FROM ANDREZ SAPOWSKI’S BOOKS (I think I spelt that wrong). If you haven’t read them do.

I curl up in that little space, trying to keep my breathing quiet. My heart is going so fast I shake with it. Surely everyone can hear it? I watch the feet shuffling around my room. She walks away.

There is a monster under my bed, I think. One that makes me invisible even in the brightest colours and silent even if I scream my loudest.

It muffles the outside world to me and blinds it too. I think it’s a nice monster, but sometimes I don’t want to be hidden, I have to run from it as fast as I can. Doing everything against its wishes until that silent part of me is gone. Replaced. I fight with fists and shouts till that timid bit of me is too scared to exist. But then I go home. And bold, angry me is the one too scared to exist. The monster comes back. It silences me.

Doesn’t make much sense, but hey ho