Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing


Can a dog born in a stable,

call itself a horse?

I call myself the name,

that my English mother gave me,

and I arrived to an audience,

of doctors and nurses.

The NHS is in a state,

but they’re not dragging babies out in stables,


so am I a dog,

or a horse,

or a swallow,

singing arias,

on the way out of the sea of scrubs and sedatives?

It always turns out,

that an English mother,

a name my teachers could pronounce,


in what is,

if we’re being honest,

an ugly language,

and several years of taxes,

do not count,


it doesn’t matter what you put in,

how you change,

or what you take out,

some people are marked,

faded ink on a passport,

but still visible,

to armchair border force guards.

I never thought of myself as a dog,

or a horse,

I haven’t enough legs to be either,

and I tried not to be so bothered,

finding home,

far away,

where the other half of my heart,

and DNA lies,

but it was a lie,

a fiction I felt in every inch of my unclaimed,

unwanted soul.


by a parent,

who feels no sense of duty,

and no sense of shame,

who tells me to assimilate,

and then tells me to fuck off,

back to the stable of shame,

pinning a tail on the donkey,

then pulling it off,

over and over,

until I scream


I’m a dog.

I’m a horse.

I’m not here,

but I am,

but I’ll go.”

And the stable is full of people,


blinded by confusion,

talking quietly among themselves,

not one of them the same,

because nobody is,

no matter how much you close your eyes,

to blur the lines,

that form your entire identity.

We are all people,

crammed into a stable,

on an island,

on a planet,

that is dying,

so does it really matter,

if I call myself a dog,

or a horse,

or by the name my English mother gave me?

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