i miss the child i was at 17. 

i miss 17, i miss missing, i miss loving nothing. 

i miss wanting to feel and not being old enough to get it yet.

i miss thinking i was emotionally literate. 

im 19. 

nineteen. 

i am still a baby, a kid, a viriginal chalice not yet ready to be drunk from.

there is no slow down, you crazy child when it comes to me. 

my onlookers wince as i choo...

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she died on the bathroom floor you know. 

a cut on her ribs. 

the rib borne from man, 

killed the girl on the bathroom floor. 

no one had kindness. no one had words of condolences. 

only four pictures and a note, 

only they proved someones love for her. 

the things that made her beautiful, 

an innocence lost, 

a bleach blonde tangle, 

and a vicious lover from a doomed...

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Why I went back 

A posthumous poem in the voice of Walter Tull – 28.04.1888 to 25.03.1918

Until you’ve been under fire

hunkered down in some funk hole

you’ll never know terror, the horror

or the damage to the soul

that just one barrage can do,

before you ever hear the whistle’s blast

that, sadly it’s true

for all too many,

signals this’ll be your last.

So...

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