Sometimes, I write poetry.
My name is Faith Olivia and I have a habit of writing poetry on bus tickets and gas bill envelopes and pub coasters and book covers and cupboard doors and white wash brick walls and my boyfriend's palms.
message archive random


I loved you to the core of the earth, to the cafe at the end of the universe, but I am not a 16 year old girl anymore - amazed by your smell of your body in the morning and how strong your coffee always was. I don’t stay up at night wondering why you chose her anymore, or touching the bruises in…

Often, I lie in bed and look at you,
Seeing something I adore.
Not in the sense that you are a trinket,
Like a porphyry doll wrapped up elsewhere
- Unsure of its own existence -
But in the sense that, when you wake,
I hate you.
My stomach turns in Katherine wheels -
Scorching from the inside
In riotous, cyclical extravagance,
And as you wake, you burn my hands with your grip,
Like the sting of a dead cigarette
rolled from ashes and lit.
You love too much and too little.
I don’t know which of those is mine:
Where on that scale my toes tip
As you rip my skin with your teeth,
Leaving peach bruises in my nape.
When you tell me I speak too much
And think too little.
Perhaps I’m just as bitter as you become
In the dark when you howl my name
And beg for the same.
When you pull ladders,
True as linear rivers sweeping to the sea,
In my red tights
And convince me we’re ‘making love’.
I don’t scream for you,
at least not how you’d like me to.
When you wake we play charades
Me the book, you the film
You sprain your tongue to find my name
And I find yours first.
But when you sleep, I can lie beside you
And imagine that, behind those dark lids,
Are globes of a softer embrace.
Imagine that those hands that grip my hips
Are experience. Are just warmth;
Never too much, and never too little.

a multiple stanza haiku

A cove of salt rock

Dressed with oriental wool

Surveys a hamlet

Where a widow wishes

There was just a pale woman

In her Winter coat

But instead a wolf

With paisley Indian fur

Licks its bloodied jaw.


All conversation ceased whenwe found spacesthe cold and black days swallowed.And all I rememberis we alwaysloved to havetoday and everso softly lookback.

this is stunning


All conversation ceased when
we found spaces
the cold and black days
And all I remember
is we always
loved to have
today and ever
so softly look

this is stunning

Do you still love me, Darling

Now my skeleton is bare?

Now those scars that healed long ago

Are torn beyond repair?

Now that I’ve become a shadow

Of the lover I once was;

A shadow in your memory,

A memory you lost.

Postcards From Berlin

Words, scattered in pencil imperfections

Whispering the silvery distance of your regard

Across the jagged seas;

Across the purple sky.

Words, printed with careless affection, sigh

The mundanity of yesterday’s dull schedule -

Read like the schematic 

Mapped upon its reverse.

Words - emotives flourish beyond the page,

Their lit’ry shoots ripping through your postcards from Berlin

Taking root in my palm;

Tainting my veins with love.