Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing


I’d like to say I was made somewhere,

but I don’t know that I’m complete.

A naive version of myself thought this would be a settled point in my life,

but she was deluded in the most darling way,

footsteps receding as she raises her eyes to the stars,

hopeful and hungry.

I have washed up on many beaches,

daughter of many shores,

never sure of which way to wander when the whistling wind calls,

just going wherever the breeze and the waves take me.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Shadow Banned

I left lavender letters on the pillowcase,
my eyes glittering in the sunrise’s gaze.
There were shadows spying in the door way,
but I had resigned myself to life as a laboured spirit,
so I had accepted it long ago.
The shadows toddled down the hallway behind me,
endlessly emulating the soft sway of my hips,
but never quite getting it,
reaching into the cupboard under my sink,
to search for a pot of paint, about my shade, to go for a swim in.

It made no difference.
I wrote myself in synths and sighs,
immortalising the girl I was last night on a cassette tape,
and the shadows sat at the kitchen table,
playing it,
rewinding it,
playing it,
rewinding it,
until I got sick of it and snapped the tape in two,
ribbons of rarity cascaded to the carpet,
and the shadows wanted it so badly that they launched to the floor,
holding what remained of the cracked shell and torn up insides.

I had become so used to telling people that I was a poisoned apple,
that I forgot to tell them I was cured,
fit for consumption,
keeping up the hostility,
the shadows once again copying me,
until they became so unbearable,
so unbelievably hard to love that even I became appealing by comparison.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

I Know That I’m Not Supposed To Be Here

I want to talk to people,
to leak onto their fingertips, through dried ink,
to be carried around by absent minded hands for the rest of the day,
stuck in the back of their mind, or the back of their throat, like a strong flavour or an even stronger memory that hurts so badly to think about.

I spent my childhood obsessing over being remembered,
because I didn’t think I’d make it this far into adulthood,
and now,
I’m aimless and awestruck,
wondering how I’ll be remembered when I’m gone, because I have now been here too long.

I was supposed to be something fleeting,
short but sweet,
the kind of girl who just disappears into dark nights and is never heard from again,
the kind of girl who lives in the air and never shares too much of herself.
I thought I’d wave goodbye on the beach,
blowing a kiss to the setting sun as I waded into my second birth,
the water, avid and endless around my legs and my waist as I went to waste in the sea’s sweetness.

I couldn’t do it.
Changed plans and cowardice.
I spent my whole life, waiting for it to end and then something in me decided to try again,
and now I’m waking up,
just to look at myself in the mirror and ask my reflection how she’s feeling.
She always lies, which is deeply unhelpful,
and I fantasise about what I could be now if I had let the water love me as she would have liked.

Is it ever worth it?
I always ask,
but then I start shouting and screaming before an answer comes,
because I don’t want to hear it.
I don’t want to know.