Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing


I was told that I was unaffected,
and I found myself unable to agree with that assessment,
but it didn’t matter,
to the world at large,
or the small selection of very small minds who make decisions on whether I deserved some kind of clarity.
My sleep has been interrupted for a decade of Decembers,
and I spy over my shoulder, every second for the spectre and his sister.

I am unaffected,
but nobody has told my nightmares that,
so they still arrive every evening,
to remind me of the unclean feeling that was forced on me.
I am unaffected,
but danger dances on my grave every time I try to live,
and there will be no relief for the unaffected girls,
of which I am one of many.

There’s an old friend on the line,
he wants to call,
like he used to,
but I’m kept from the idea,
creeped out,
crying as he sends another message with what he thinks is a simple request,
but it isn’t anymore,
and never will be again,
because I remember the acid rain of unwelcome invasions,
traipsing down the telephone line, tactical and torrid…
but I am unaffected,
or so they tell me.

The radio talks about staying connected,
but I just want to be orbiting a distant planet,
the kind of place where humans can’t survive,
so I can get some sleep,
conversate with the cool winds and waves,
alone and unaffected.

Posted in Blog


A few years ago, I recorded and released a podcast, discussing the behaviour of a man and his abuse of me and other women. I did this to try and raise awareness, because I knew he was attempting to use social media to find and abuse new victims, and I felt it was important to use my platform to try and make sure other women and girls didn’t go through what I and other women had.

I spoke with other women who felt brave enough to open up about their own abuse by him, after hearing the episode, and I also spoke with women and girls who recognised that they could have been victims, if they hadn’t fallen off of his radar as he quickly moved between targets for his abuse. 

In 2021, I unpublished the episode, as I was advised by the police that they were hoping CPS would charge him for his crimes. They’ve now decided they can’t be bothered to do that, so I am once again sharing the episode in the hope that women who may have been silenced feel less alone, and that women who are lucky enough to have not yet met him can protect themselves from him.



Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Women Have Sore Throats

I have got a sore throat.

So many words have soared past my painted lips,

but they never click in the ears and minds of those who bind me in their bastard bounds,

rounding on me with furious, famished eyes,

and I stand before them,

saying the same things,

screaming and shouting,

about my right to exist without their insistence on extracting my will to live with their torment.

I cannot plead anymore for them to picture me with my humanity intact.

I’ve got nothing left.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing


I do not exist to be looked at,

or dreamed about.

I exist to be cowered from,

because I am a nightmare, now.

Maybe, once upon a time, I had the time to be something else,

but now, it is too late,

I have been looked at too long,

leered at,

shouted at,

and now,

I slink behind the sleeping eyes of the dastardly, to destroy them.

They didn’t leave me with a choice,

stalking our streets,

silencing our socialised, meek little cries,

and so now,

we have no choice but to join them on the cold concrete,

to let our lungs take up the space we have always been denied,

to paint our cheeks with the only blood, not born of violence,

and be the monsters they pushed us to be.

The cats of the neighbourhood circle around us,

hissing and snarling at anyone who steps our way,

and this night can only rest when the revolution begins.


she just snapped.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Imagine How Tired We Are

Why did the poet cross the road?
To escape the man who grabbed her hand,
spitting out a spun line about how he knows her from somewhere,
knows her friend,
just wants to get to know her,
just wants her number,
won’t take “No” for an answer.

Fucking feral,
her sleeve in his fingertips,
wild lights at the crossing as the stars watch,
the moon’s mouth, agape in horror.