Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Bots From Russia

It must be bots,

because, of course,

your streets can’t be squalid,

dripping with poison.

Reality doesn’t run side by side with your fantasy,

so you manifest new antagonists,

to avoid the fact you have been staring at the real culprits all along.

It must be bots,

bad news from Russia,

spilling monkey emojis into comment sections,

and black blood into the streets.

Eyes closed as sirens scream down the streets,

seeing conspiracies everywhere that you go,

so you don’t have to accept that your quiet runbles have ever been enough to drown out the slurs.

It’s just bots.

That’s what you tell yourself,

while a young man staggers to his mother’s door,

bathed in blood,

broken in spirit, with broken bones,

and the mark of the mauling men that you pretend don’t prowl your streets.

It must be just bots,

because to admit that his skin is bruised because he’s black is an attack on your fantasy,

and we can’t have that, now, can we?

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?

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Blinded By The Light

I used to dream about the sea,

waiting for the waves to wash my days away,

but I’m too tired to dream,

I close my eyes,

and there is nothing.

They say I’m bleak,

as if the world hasn’t grown slower,

and lost its colour,

as I grew taller.

Maybe I’ve been bleak,

for so long,

that it has grown on me,

like moss and weeds,

a terror attack here,

an anxiety attack there,

the economy and I,

are apathetic,


climbing from the depths,

then crumbling back down again.

I can’t even picture a house anymore,

there used to be babies,

but now they are cats,

in a house,

that shrunk down to a flat,

and I’m still not sure,

if my hopes are low enough,

to avoid being decapitated,

by the rages of reality.

Tonty Blair,

put a dream in my head,

with his vaccines,

and funded schools,

but sometimes,

dreams get delayed,

and sometimes,

they get murdered.

I used to dream about the sea,

waiting to wake up without wanting to run away,

but I never quite got there,

pacing empty, echoing pavements.

I want to be one of those kids,

who found their way out of Thatcher’s Britain,

with a playlist,

that brought the streets back to life.

I want to hear a way out,

a way to escape,

but it always evades me,

because life isn’t a movie,

(I know, I know),

and it just goes on,

unsatisfying and terrifying as it always was.

Thatcher’s dead,

still haunting the country she said she loved,

my bootstraps have told me to fuck off,

and let them sleep,

but all we have is each other,

and life isn’t a movie,

or a Springsteen song,

it’s just a thing that happens,

when two people meet,

lose control,

and then expect the result to survive.

I’m not trying to sound ungrateful,


I enjoy being alive,

but sometimes,

it feels like a burden I don’t deserve,

and it’s hard to articulate that,

without being sectioned.

I suppose I survived,

so far,

so what?

It’s just dumb luck,

and I’m a dumb girl,

who’s been on an endless ghost train.

Life isn’t a movie,

it’s not a Springsteen song,

it’s a haunted house,

full of a hunted generation,

that knows nothing but being overwhelmed,

on a constant basis,

as wars break out,

as often as our skin used to,

and our future funds tanks and missiles.

I miss when I didn’t know about the news.

I miss when life did feel like a movie,

or a song,

by anyone.

I miss when my only worry,

was if I’d ever kiss a boy,

and why I wanted to kiss girls too.

I miss when I could say tomorrow would be better,

without the sound of bitter,

jaded laughter,

in the back of my mind,

that refuses to believe.

I can’t press pause,

and take a breath,

I can only take it as it comes,

and try not to romanticise death,

because I have to be here for a reason,

I just don’t know what it is.

Nothing happens, just because.

I didn’t happen, just because.