Cold chill

Writing this made me feel a lot better about myself. I’ll probably re-work it at some point.

There’s a cold chill of you in the air and I’ve forgotten gloves.

I finally see you for what you really are – brisk, sudden and frankly unenjoyable.

Forget kitsch winter markets and cinnamon, they’re not enough alone to suppress your snark.

I used to find your eye rolls magical, we were conjurors of cynicism together.

But you couldn’t handle my newly discovered confidence,

it dragged out this devilish jealousy like a tire swing.

Your superiority complex was as textbook as they come,

but you’d deny it,

choose instead to belittle

my creativity, which was amusing, coming from a man with an imagination as vibrant as concrete.

My fingers aren’t the only thing that are numb to your touch now.

I’ve disconnected and you haven’t


Too busy typing love letters to yourself and wanking for your ego.

Oh I know, I know,

I can hear your retort in my head, how I’m dramatic, offensive, cruel.

But weren’t you the one who said I was “bitter in a good way”, as you trailed your finger down my arm? I thought you liked my bitterness?

Look, all I know is that weather changes.

One day you won’t remember me and I won’t remember you,

you’ll forget my bitterness,

my analysis of intimacy,

I’ll forget that patronising laugh

and your inability to empathise.

We’ll become replaceable snowflakes that don’t settle,

turning to sleet.


Gin-induced poetry

Drunken WIP.

Spend too much on a taxi just so I can feel your thigh next to mine. Mistaken headaches wrapped in unfamiliar sheets. But there’s nothing a little water can’t fix. Right?

Do you tell your friends about me?

Do they know how my name

sounds on your tongue?

I waste all this mental energy on questions with unknown answers,

which won’t change fact into any

kind of fantasy scribbled in my


Friends tell me to share the crazy, but I think they’re unwise.

What I write in diaries (I)

Dreaming of kisses from you,

of connected fingers and confident tongues.

Leaning into the comfort of silence,

your thigh against mine,

no harsh edges in sight.

I usually hate storms, but you,

you’ve set off lighting in my head,

and I don’t mind anymore.

Now my pen has fallen for the curve of lust,

the cursive of fresh attraction.

Fuck, I think I’m in trouble.

Hands entrapped by virtual ellipses and online status,

I decide restraint is overrated,

so I shave my legs in hopeful fantasy.

I never realised how memorising your shoulders were,

I’ve begun to notice the insignificant,

the birth mark, the tattoo, the curl of hair against your neck.

You spill words, oblivious to what my mind is picturing,

until I see the suggestion in your eyes supporting a smirk.

I really am in trouble, as you hook your finger

in the belt loop of my jeans, pulling me closer.


Work in progress. Feelings in progress.

Red wine in plastic glasses,

pretend we’re sophisticated and dishwasher safe,

a powerful combination of smiles and nervous laughter –

this is fucking rubbish.

We’re not even a powerful combination and the red wine has already gone to my head.

I can’t write about you and it’s pissing me off.

Mind is full of slow motion you, smile, hand in mine, lips.

So now I’m spewing cliché rubbish, not to you though,

see open air compliments make me shiver.

I’d rather tell a glued-up spine, I mean it’s sturdier and more reliable than the human shoulder.

I’d rather tell a room of strangers, who hide judgment in their pints and clicks.

But you, ah fuck, you are like that hole in my favourite jumper,

I can’t bear to change you, for fear my words will thread in the wrong place or colour,

causing you to disappear or find new arms to hold you.

The ‘Hang Out Again’ Beg

This is about when you begin to ‘hang out’ or date someone and you are hoping that they like you long enough to stick around. Begging has never been my strong suit so I hope you appreciate this. 



don’t let me become just some anecdote in your life, 

just some girl, 

just damp leaves trodden under boots, 

just nettle stings compared to aggressive dislocation, 

just a smirk when you go eastbound on the Jubilee, past Canning Town. 


I think I understand how our bodies work, 

how scabs are supposed to form,  

to mend wounds, but please, 

maintain your curiosity in my pain, 

for a little while longer. 


Selfishness pollinated and settled in my hamstrings early on, 

groaning whenever I stretched out, for someone beyond myself. 

So do you see how far I’m reaching, 

begging limbs and mind, 

all just for you? 

Because I don’t want you to be a half price bestseller, 

some bicycle wheel near the library bike shed, 

a weather report on the 6 o’clock news, 

just someone. 


See my worn knees, not a bloody trend,  

but a desperate sacrifice in the hope, 

the hopeless fucking hope, 

that you’ll share this madness with me 

until our fingers prune, 

soaking up the mess of each other. 

We don’t have to count days by significance 

or dot our eyes with hearts. 

We could just talk, on a lumpy sofa, wine in plastic cups. 



You see I could construct a whole storyboard, 

in this hypothetical (fucking) fantasy. 

(I’m a good storyteller, I promise) 

Just give me a chance to be the hole in your favourite jumper, 

the flickering light bulb you haven’t yet fixed, 

the accepted delays on your commute home. 

Just one bloody chance to be more than just some girl.   

Past Poetry

No signposting in my mind, thank you very much, I’ll take the beat down stubborn path. I’ll walk, feet pounding to block out panic, until I near the edge. So fucking close to the edge. Neck twists, zigzag searching for someone to drag me back, but I’m behind the trickery of a mirror, staring contest with myself, unaware of supportive hands. I step off, return to my twisted dancing lover, who holds all manner of sin disguised as succour. We dance until I bruise, cut, break, shoes worn, arms tired, posture poor, believing I’m fine, I’m in love with life again. Only hindsight can shake you into order again, only a cloudy sky can remind you of before. 

Tap dancing on the brain

Crushes are nice, they don’t confuse me as much anymore. 

Down a few drinks, ease a few nerves, legs greet each other in a cautious flirt; nothing too unusual. So why can I hear those tapping clicks of voice, eyes, smile, you?    It’s an irritating noise for such a simple dance between lust and loneliness. There’s no off button, no magical blind to yank down, just my brain twirling around, clicking and clapping in time to your tune.        I’m either a delusional creep or an intense romantic, the line is kind of blurry. Or maybe I’ve been driven mad by all those silly dancing questions of want, doubt and curiosity. Dizzy with newly acquainted intrigue, sipping mugs of tea to settle the pondering. 

What the fuck has happened?    What happened to silence and prohibition of dirty dancing?