I wrote one of these long ago, maybe this time last year, maybe not. Chances are, reader, that you’re not that dedicated as to scroll all the way back or have followed me since before I had my own domain. Maybe you are,

I don’t know you. 

Maybe I do, ha. 

Do you want me to open up a little? Give you an anecdote or two to tide you over? Aid your ailments or just make you feel a little better about yourself? Whether you want it or not, you’re getting it. But it’s not, like, forced or anything….

Breathe in. 

Breathe out. 

That’s the motion of existence. 

I was in an abusive relationship for years. It was one of those things where at the time I was in denial like, maybe I thought that’s what ‘love’ was but looking back I know for damn sure I was never in love with him and things weren’t okay. 

I took long showers just to cry or get off with the shower head. I never once thought of my boyfriend when splashy over there was working his magic. I spent days on the sofa in silence lacking attention, conversation, any kind of human connection. My phone never buzzed unless I was out sans him, which was rare. 

Worked long hours to pay the bills and fuel a gaming addiction that wasn’t mine. I was the soul provider of the house. Notice I say house and not home? 

I hadn’t a voice to speak of. Ironic. 

I didn’t write. For four years, not a word with the exception of carefully curated shopping lists so I could shop with maximum efficiency on a minimum budget; some would say shoestring, I’d say single strand of brittle hair snapping with no warning at either end. I was suffocating beneath a pillow of the ugly kind of control. 

I didn’t sing. I forgot how to be a bird. 

I played video games for long hours when I wasn’t working, which was also rare. I now have a love/hate relationship with video games. There are some I just won’t go near with a ten foot pole. 

I struggled to read though my library grew. I struggled to draw though I collected pencils like they were going out of fashion. I couldn’t keep track of anything. I lost myself. 

Four years and in four minutes it was over. Suddenly I found my soul buried beneath pages and pictures and writing. Writing. There was so much writing to be done. Missed time; wasted time. Clothes I wasn’t allowed to wear hoarded behind a conservative wardrobe. So much to be expressed, openly, finally. 

I’m instrumentally challenged. People always say: 
“you can learn!”, 
“no, honey, believe me, I can’t”. 

Im vertically challenged. I stand a not so proud five foot four, barely. I wear a lot of heels and platforms but mostly I stomp around in old Doc Martens pretending to be dangerous or as cool as Nique or something. 

My sister describes me as left of centre, weird and loyal. 

She’s not really my sister but she may as well be.

I hate my feet, I strongly dislike most of my exterior but I’m trying to improve my eyesight or maybe I should invest in some rose coloured glasses. Or an eyepatch. Or two eyepatches, maybe that’s just a blindfold. 

I know! Glass eyes. 

I have never felt at home in my country of birth. Travelled up the east side, lived pretty far south and felt further from home than ever. Always have I lived by the ocean, never have I been fond of sand. Or water I can’t see the bottom of. Or open seas. Or shells, crabs or blue ringed octopi.

I hate the news, so much so I’m never up to speed. No news is good news, I say. But there is always news so I’m a pretty good escape artist. It’s all death and abuse and polarising opinions where common sense or basic courtesy are completely tossed out the window then stamped out the second they hit the asphalt. 

I’m a hopeless romantic but we needn’t delve below that surface, nor waltz the promonade arm in arm unless you want to. Get back to me on that one, would you?

I’ve really outdone myself in the last year or so. Blossomed or grown or transformed or something. Found myself as a woman who looks like a cute kinda boy. I’ve uncovered my lighter self. It was an excavation of sorts, the kind of challenge that looked you dead in the eye and proclaimed loudly I fucking dare you

I’ve taken timid steps that felt as though the very ground beneath me may give way and swallow me. Without so much as a hiccup. Then, I’ve leapt with courage from old precipices to land on two feet, no rolled ankles, not yet; maybe one.

Embarrassingly, I’ve interrupted myself and become lost in other people’s jungles. I’ve teetered close to faultering mouths. Peered over dissolving cliffs and occasionally tumbled into shark infested waters where I drowned for days being eaten barely alive. 

I fucked a couple people when I didn’t recognise my own reflection. 

A couple people fucked me while they had me blindfolded under the guise of friendship. More like fiendship. Feigning a friendship. Taking advantage of a broken mindset, depression, anxiety, lack of self regard. 

Regardless, I have made mistakes I am not proud of. I have hated myself more and loved myself more in the last twelve (maybe sixteen) months than ever.

I’m a cat person but I like big dogs, too. Despite my allergies, maybe in spite of my allergies. I’d pop an antihistamine daily if it meant I gained the affection from a feline companion. 

I relate to cats, you gotta earn me now. I don’t provide unconditional love, it’s all conditional but I’ll bend remarkably far if I deem it worth the bone breaking or whatever. 

I work in fashion. I breathe in literature. 

If I could have three wishes I’d wish for x, y and z. 

I think I’ve found my home, complete with a kooky, gypsy family. We’re all strange there, we all love there and we all cradle struggles gently in our arms there but when we do it together the burden seems a little less weighty. Like, it doesn’t matter so much if your hands are full because someone will always be there to open a door for you, to you, hold you and cry with you. 

I wear colour proudly now. 

I wear my naked face in public now. 

I go braless and unashamed, no Hollywood tape. Tight skirts to get the job. Tight skirts after I get the job because now I want to and I can. 

Living has taught me more than dying could though I have crawled through days that felt like death. The elusive end. The sleep I don’t wake up from. 

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t ache for that sometimes. 

But I’m no liar,

I’m made of stardust. 

I can’t write when I’m at ‘home’ anymore 

Write me, read me 

life is little to nothing without the words of me

to you

to her

Of myself, for myself 

Insert yourself into my place

sit hunched amongst pages and pencils

or posture perfect amongst ladies and gents

Sit where I sit

See through these eyes and blink slow

giggle on cue

take my (your) hand to my (your) mouth

to cover that one tooth that doesn’t place nice

Feel my insecurities 

Why do you think I sit with my lower back

aching in spasms,

and my neck outstretched,

and my legs crossed just so?

Head pounding and I’ve always

got a drink but it’s nonalcoholic 

It’s not to impress

my image behind closed eyes

It’s merely to maintain my fly-on-the-wall status

can’t waver now

I don’t know how to be the centre of attention


I don’t want to be 

I’m not special 

I have to go in ten minutes

Crack that whip

Flood me with ambition or inspiration or
Something to pass the time
that isn’t already inside my weary 
Give me a prompt
A cue, if you will 
Check for spelling and grammatical errors
I must make a million
but I still look in the mirror and think
not today, Satan
while my hands expertly manouver product
and distribute colour
to correct
all my facial errors
or expressions
Alter my sentences 
just give me something to grip,
white knuckled 
cheeks blazing with realities harsh whip
Sixty lashings to the minute
I deserve more
God’s honest truth;
I ache for more
These bones aren’t as brittle as you might think
This skin has grown thick
for as supple as it appears
or feels
if you’ve been lucky enough to touch it
If you’ve caught me at a loss for myself 
feeling sorry and self-depricating 
If I’ve loved you 
and you’ve run your tongue over my stomach 
lifted my dress and
edged me, curiously 
I begged you, so
you know how good my skin is
at imitating weakness
You know how I bend to accomodate you
You know how to make my eyes open and close
You are a master puppeteer 
I, your marionette 
bow and break on suggestion
Hold you
Kiss you
Blow you
Choke me
Smile dancing more like a grin
teeth bared, soft focus
I look pretty in pink
So, give me an order
Instruct me, I am your star pupil
Just don’t act surprised at my rebellion 
you know my strength for all my weakness 
Just don’t act surprised 
if I cry when 
my heart breaks
I won’t cry at the whip
I won’t cry at the bite
I won’t cry
for your pleasure

A personal resume of sorts

If I could only leave a singular legacy, one thing to remember me by, a farewell of sorts it would be a book. A long book with all my favourite most sincere works collected onto precious pages, un-gilt, no fancy bits because I’m not high maintenance. Just a black leather jacket. A strong spine. That’s all. 

I want people to recall and feel afresh how hard I loved, how deeply I fell amongst trash and treasure, how courageous I was with my honesty. 

How my words resonated with soft accent through cavernous minds. 

For I am unafraid. I am woman, hear me speak with the romance of golden honey on my tongue, dripping monologues of love and dreams. 

Destinations I was yet to reach until finally they enveloped me whole and choked on my sacharrine, tender charm. With bells on my ankles and roses in hand, vintage lace cascading over my bare skin; unafraid and unashamed of my nakedness. Clove and cherry kissing your nose, dandelion eleven:eleven wishes parading empty streets and lips stained more perfectly pink than guava or blossom soaked Japan in the springtime. 

I whisper words to a page, my heart beating in time with my hand. Racing then easing to a slow steady beat, slow steady words and script dancing from my mind through my fingers. 

My only harrowing need is to leave behind these words to be read, re-read and cherished. I’m not sure why but it feels detrimental. I need to be highlighted and underlined, I need notes in my margins and I need to be quoted just as I can quote him. 

I wish for a death resume listing:
Writer and creative 

Don’t worry about writing me an obituary unless you have a way with words, unless you write it in the stars. 

Please write me an obituary. 


New York City wounded my senses. Had I been sensationally impoverished by Melbourne? I thought I knew what busy was. What loud was. What a building on fire smelled like and how the smoke burnt my eyes. But I never knew what it was to breathe liquid air, vile, odorous, who knows how many stories below street level I am. Subaqueous. Subterrane. Subway. I felt subatomic.

a n x i e t y

Tentative, every move I made— tentative, hesitant, nervous. I stepped into an AT&T store with every false confidence and my best telephone voice: “I need a SIM, please. Just naked. The SIM, I mean” and I probably sounded like a moron despite once working in the telecom industry. It cost more than I expected but to text you, it was worth it. I sent you a stupid SMS thinking it’d be cute and fun but instead I was just the same as every other vacant person. I’m choosing to chalk that up to overexcitement and the throng of New York City ’cause, as dumb as it sounds, I’m not a vacant, vapid, volatile girl. It’s just that I have enlarged pupils and I’m prone to headaches.

You still felt a world away from me. Every night for a week I sweat in an apartment in Harlem while you sweat at home in the Springs, I was perpetually sticky in the thick city heat. Clad in the skimpiest sleepwear I could find. At three am I’d wake and sit in the bay window. I had a sixth floor view over Manhattan Avenue. The all hours delicatessen across the street had a red, white and blue light up sign in the window inviting all the witching hour weirdos inside for a bite and I’d watch them. Typically at four or five I’d go back to sleep on the sofa for an hour or so then wake to bid the day farewell as quickly as it cared to pass.

My mother and uncle drove me to La Guardia early one Monday so I could catch a flight to you. My mother cried when I said goodbye, it had been the first time all week I’d really smiled and meant it. It had been one of the only times I’d ever seen my mother cry, perhaps she knew she was losing me. I spent hours in airports that day but it didn’t even matter because every moment that ticked by was a moment closer to you.

Denver was the worst. My terminal was the last in a long line of terminals, I walked fifteen minutes through the building to sit myself on the floor and wait three hours to catch a twenty minute flight. Everything mesmerised me. This woman with her young daughter, she must have been six or seven, they laughed and played with her stuffed toys for what seemed like forever while this hopelessly obese guy mouth breathed so loudly I had to migrate seats. Outside was an alien landscape. Almost lunar to my untraveled eyes and I knew it was hot but inside the terminal I wrapped myself in layers in an attempt to ward off the airconditioning. 

The tin can I caught was turbulent. Terrifying. Yet I felt no fear, it was just another challenge to get to you. Another thing supposed to frighten me off. But I believe in ghosts and what should induce fear sometimes doesn’t.
My friends had warned and worried like I were a child and I couldn’t wait to send them that first picture of you and I. Actually standing side by side. Actually touching. Actually in the same room.
Couldn’t wait to tell them it actually worked out. That maybe all my bad luck in life was just getting out of the way for this.

For seven days you gave me all the energy you barely had. You were more a gentleman than any man I had known. Neo-traditionalist. Handsome. You looked at me with eyes like hunger but you were ever hands tenderly cradling antique lace and words spoken with hard, soft truth. Intrigued.

You kissed me as though I may break behind the sweetness of you. Marzipan, you told me.

With every anecdote I fell in love with you

With every joke I fell in love with you

With every kind word

and every stare

every whisper




I fell in love



And I am hurt to write this from across the globe now. Where once I moved mountains, I am now beneath them. Crushed and I can barely breathe. The weight of the sorrow is plentiful. The tears are leaden and silver slicking my jaw, joining raindrops on well quenched soil. A Melbourne winter greeted me upon my disdainful return. Wearing your sweatpants, no makeup and teardrop stained cheeks.

Riddle me this

It’s a feeling as if I’m trying to convince those last pockets of air from the needle so at least when I inject I won’t be risking my life. More so, I won’t be more riskily risking my life. 

But I’ve never shot myself up with anything. 

It’s like a drug but even more like water. Essential to the very notion of human existence. With it you find yourself free to move and kiss and wither, without all you do is wither ’cause it’s not a choice. Not an option. It’s dissasociation. 




It’s a high that can be broken with a word and not a timeframe. It’s unstable like a barbers stool missing a wheel or an addict. It can be faked but it’s not an orgasm. It’s not at the forefront of humanity but people fake that, too. 

‘Cause, baby, when it’s real it’s an energy like nothing else. It’s a trial by fire, it’s the long haul. The challenge and the tribute. It’s blistering wind, heavy snowfall, sleet, slosh, slip and your screwed. Stand unwavering and you freeze, run and you’re escaping the most beautiful part of life. 

If you take it by the hand and hold it through the pitch of a moonless night it will reward you. If you hear it cussing and shouting and you touch it gently with a warming glow it will honour you. If you push all its superficiality aside, dig below smiles and laughter, if you take all its light from the equation and kiss it there



crown you.  

What is it?


I feel where droughts parch my spirit
Cracked landscapes within me
where I roam for days without water
or shoes
or shade
and dry out like roadkill in the summertime
Being my own worst enemy is like a carousel 
I am sat on a horse of my own devising
trawling depths
constant altitude alternation
moving around and around and I’m getting dizzy
It’s all cyclical
It’s all death in the end
It’s all life in the mean time
Bull by the horns
Rome wasn’t built in a day
Be your own best person
all of that shit
I feel where I flourish
nourishment at an all time high
reservoir is brimming and spilling over
Where I create oceans 
and rainforests sprawl, speaking whispered tongues
I don’t spend nearly enough time afloat
but I’m always holding my own hand


Occasionally my photo library is full of tits. My tits. I don’t like the word ‘tits’ but I guess that’s what the kids call ’em. Maybe it’s ‘tiddies’ now. 

I can’t ever keep up. 


kids these days. 

I say it like I’m not a twenty-two year old sitting in the nearly-rain at my best friends bar writing, trying to become an author or something.

But really all I am is a twenty-two year old sitting in the nearly rain at my best friends bar writing, trying to become an author or something.  

And I’m tired, but that’s because we stayed up too late last night watching porn documentaries. It was educational. It was kinda more fascinating than I expected. Girls, and that’s what they are, girls introducing themselves to cameras and being introduced to bodies and playing with fiery faux love. I couldn’t do it. I don’t think I could anyway. I’ve never tried though so I guess I can’t be certain. 

Sometimes I like the thrill of walking a tight rope. Opening my camera roll in public when I full well know I haven’t moved the nudes into a private folder as of yet. There’s like, sixty pictures of my boobs (is ‘boobs’ any better?) because, you know, you gotta take that many to insure an ace. 

That’s the point, innit? Scoring an ace. 

Only to send to you. 

Perhaps a little for myself,

mostly for you. 

I can’t lie to you. 

You can’t catch me out but you full well know I look just like my pictures so I suppose that’s not a lie either. I love being honest with you, I love that you’re honest with me. 

Plus you like my tits (we’re back at ‘tits’ now) so that’s a bonus. 

Thank you—

I’m probably losing my mind but I look suspiciously sane 

You’ll probably have read this before I wake up. 

You know,


Then we’ll play twenty questions that’s far more akin to twenty-thousand questions and you’ll make me think far too much. But it’s good to be open.  

You seem to ease my nerves and make them twitch simultaneously. I dunno. 

You have the upper hand, I think. You seem to have the advantage of knowing where everyone is and I’m in the stands sitting cross legged, seat z66, mouth gaping and dopey eyed. Big, blue pools welling then bursting. I am the leak in the dam that no little Dutch boy could plug with his thumb. 

Given the chance you’d probably dab at my cheeks feverishly hoping to dry them but I am amphibian and you’re hurting me. These tears nourish my skin. I need them, I am a sponge absorbing liquid. 

Give to me



I don’t care,

sweat on me. 




I don’t mean that.  

Maybe I do. 

Now I’ve written two people into one piece. Isn’t that funny?

Fuck me up, feed me to the devil. Give me wings, break them and ask me to fly. Hold my hand when I’m quaking and dislocate all my fingers with slow definition. Kiss me and bite my tongue clean in half just because you can. 

Press me like a rose, 

preserve me. 

Feed me formaldehyde at the bar until I’m nothing more than a mummified girl on display. I’m not an antique no matter how vintage I pretend to be. I’m no mystery, you can read me like a book and where pages are missing I invite you to ask. 

I ask you,

if you think you know who you are,

what shade of blue are my eyes?

Thanks universe, for a cold shoulder

I fucking wish I could unlove you. Save us both the headache, heartache, some other kind of ache with an h sounding precursor. Right now I’d trade almost anything in the world for a numb heart. 

But not you. 

I wouldn’t trade it for you. 

….because I love you and I guess that’s where the problem is born. 

You had sewn the seed of love into my heart where maybe you never intended it to grow and look, it has blossomed. My veins they run with blood I’d willingly sacrifice if it meant you lived. Or loved. Or something. My muscles ache for the hands of you. Only you can sate this parched woman’s thirst. 

Oh, I’m withering. 

Just blacken me! Burn me, sketch a self portrait with the char of me. Throw my ashes wherever the fuck you want because it doesn’t really matter in the end. Does it? 

I’m being dramatic, I know. But look, it makes for the perfect literature to drown in over your morning coffee. 


Does it frighten you that perhaps without you as my muse I might not write? Does it frighten you that I’ve fallen for you so? 






to know how you could break me?

I bet it doesn’t. I bet you don’t think twice. Sometimes. Occasionally. I bet I’m wrong, even with my supremely in tune guessing skills. 

I guessed you’d break my heart. I have always known. Does it frighten you that it doesn’t frighten me? Does it frighten you to know that until I know that you know exactly how this ends I won’t give in? 

It’s all like a Nique said that Max said that Troy said to tell Rob that Beau said because Chris said something about Percy…. and I’m just a lost little bird begging for it all to be quiet because I don’t think Rob knows anything about this situation and I c a n ‘ t k e e p u p . . . .

I can hardly persuade my brain to work in time with my body or my heart to work pragmatically. 

I’ll never fucking learn