You feel weak in my hand, all trembling plastic and mute colour. I didn’t realise my fingers were capable of simple suffocation. I guess you learn something new everyday. Protests bang against invisible walls in outrage, like unpopular mimes. It’s no use, you’re on the move. You will fix it all, whether you want to or not. Your touch will whisk the hairs on my legs into a froth of activity. They will respond to your sharp, suffocated tone. They will sway in submission. You will fix it all. You will fix it all. Fix it all. 


It only takes one cut, one crinkle, one crumble. I knew you were weak from the start. I used up every last nerve you had for my own selfish satisfaction. Now you are discarded amongst a grave of tissues and towel. I forget about your flimsy functionality and move on to the next with guilt. 


Moments of Madness

Cornered in a circular room –

illogical as it sounds, on the tip of a toxic tongue.

Breath refusing to be wasted, yearning to be savoured.

Pick the easy option, pleads and pressures the long-term drive.

Choose not to think, collapse on foggy bed, but no sleep joins –

you’re not exactly the best company.

Toss, turn, toss, until rationality resigns himself to the sofa.

Pick the easy option, even if no one else understands.


A single prick can revive exhausted questions, every sigh less stiff.

Who needs to talk when bloody screaming is an option?

Who needs to listen when tissued silence comforts your wounds?

Tripping backwards over feet, crying over dormant memories,

wondering what the colour blue feels like –

write in present tense until you remember how shoes meet ground.

Repainting a personality until value is believable, the brush strokes

take time, but the framing is easy.


Stars strangle cloudy nights yet this pain is so fucking beautiful.

Emotions are now as indecisive as the breeze,

but when it’s past midnight, it’s understandable.

Languid conversations circulate and mingle, pass business cards of loathing;

psychological pandering at its finest.

Close burdened eyes for a minute,  body numb as mind, until alarm clock rings.




What you left

You parade through my mind, my veins, my eyes and I’m bloody sick of it. What the hell have you done? 

You weren’t invited into my headspace, with your lazy smile and relaxed eyes. 

A safe distance was enforced, guarding against drunken textual confessions. 

I was protecting myself from the throng of flustered feelings. 

The smooth scalpel drew paths and plans into the core of my body. Peeled away tissue and tendons, reached in and yanked out the gritty truth. 

I don’t regret the hands on my body, God no, it felt so fucking good. I do regret letting you weave your way into my bloodstream and breath, something so sacred that I don’t just give up for anyone. I regret letting you cause this anger to bump against my skull like dodgems. 

Naive hope has clutched its chubby hand round mine since birth. Now it tears up, fatty purple droplets, and I can do nothing to stop the cries. 

Radio befriends me in the early hours between sunset and sunrise, lies with me until thoughts of you drift off with my dreamy REM. 

Rain drops bump into umbrella fabric, in a moment of madness I curse umbrella and cloudy gods and run, feet slamming on pavement as though it was you.  Look what you’ve lead me to do – I fucking hate running.

Mood swings are weird

Sometimes I am as numb as sandpaper and burnt tongues. 

Sometimes I am all rage and waves and electric shocks from plug sockets. 

Sometimes I am as quiet as dead plants and unnoticed tube gaps. 

Sometimes I am a fiery kitchen stove, exhaust fan moaning defiantly. 

Sometimes I am all chewed-up drink straws and discarded aluminium cans, excess energy played with me. 

Sometimes I am a writer, bold and unapologetic, cliche as birds tattooed behind an ear. 

Reflections on Food

I used to scrape the mirror and

stamp on scales, uncovering

I used to punch at fat and ostracise

the fridge, curl in on myself

until the numbers dialled down.

A challenge of counting time and

calories – how long could I last


10% battery?

Clothes ate with luxurious abandon,

chewing skin, cleaning bones,

crunching confidence.

Criticised for being irresponsible,

but how could I be irresponsible

when it wasn’t a choice?

How could I be irresponsible

when food was not a necessity,

but a prize for good girls?

Responsibility never got involved,

it was that bloody voice, echoing

abuse all hours of the day.

Glaring at magical junk, eyes tasting

all the comfort and warmth.

Habits form easily

when you’re committed

to beating the shit out of yourself.

Stress was a convenient excuse,

so perhaps it was you who was

irresponsible, for swallowing

my bullshit with easy hope.