The hour hand

Every fucking moment feels like the second hand is relapsing
and it’s four twenty-six in the morning
the hour of depressive tidal pulls
The day won’t ever break and my candles are burning so low
I’m starting to sweat about it, check my pulse and
thud thud…. silence
Is this what it’s like to be dead and gone?
When your phone rings
but the line is dead, every
And you’re left wondering if it was your pal the grim reaper
perhaps he lost his voice in a bout of tonsillitis
you’re playing some sort of guessing game with yourself
until you get a text and it’s all just a bunch of random letters
from an unknown number but signed with your initials
You’re still confused and the hour hand hasn’t moved in days
I’m cursing the use of analog time
‘cause it’s tricked me into thinking I’ve been banished and obliterated
it was just that
the batteries
were dead

How I am young and habitual

Sitting in the sticky sweat of summer
I have rediscovered music from my childhood
More and more I am finding the rhythm to my life
As I type, I realise I am playing my keys as though they were ivory
Slowly but surely I am uncovering the notes that compose my very own score
and they are beautifully harmonious
unilaterally sounding, disregarding of permissions
I need not authority to love you
I require but mine own heart and the simple complexities of a nervous system
a little courage and a whole lot of deep breathing
Only twenty-two, loving with width as much as depth
I have quickly become a creature of habit
one pattern of positions to mimic before I fall asleep
same passwords, even numbers, symmetry
mismatched eyeshadow, odd laces, walk the same way to the same place every night
All these tendencies and yet I would never dare make you my habit
that is where love turns brittle and shatters beneath barely four pounds of pressure
the very thought makes my eyes go fuzzy
tongue feels too big for my mouth and I’m coughing for no reason
I can smell the sun listening to Mermaid Avenue
California Stars is becoming somewhat of an anthem
I have hung on many seemingly perfect sentences as of late
warped my fingers like paling tentacles around the robust trapeze of words
It reminds me that I am not iconic but
someone might quote me one day and
I am the jester in your courtroom with mind to take up seat beside you

A life lived

My life is lived solely to find
a love strange and spectacular and unique
like ravens beating their wings out of sync
and flying upside down, who are then
like adrenaline junkies jetting through the skies
in their formula eight, nine and ten planes
each the size of paper aircraft I used to fold when I were adolescent
with pilots the size of miniature giraffes
all neck and no opposable thumbs

A love whose skin reeks of rose petals and incense
and leaves behind bouquets of oil scented paper tissue flowers
for me to follow and collect
then burn on cold evenings when there is no one sharing my bed
because there never is
but the bouquets are still forming a path
that I am yet to reach the end of
each found is more comforting than the last
and sometimes they have notes or photographs

Whose arms are like origami encircling my body
but there is nothing fabric like about the soul
whose wefts are woven through my heart strings
creating the most wonderful tapestry
and I am urged to slice at mine own skin
where I can see the spaces between my ribs when I am outstretched
to insert long handled tweezers, or chopsticks
and pull the threads so everyone may see
the artwork you have made of me

Thirteenth of November

The clock strikes midnight and it’s officially the thirteenth day of the eleventh month. Happy fucking birthday to me, I’m finally twenty-two. Double matching digits to satisfy my need for symmetry, this year is bound to be a good one.

Still, I wish my parents named me November or Poppy.

I predicted how I would spend my birthday. I’d be sat writing by my quiet self and here we are. I’m catching stars with nets wound onto the ends of my fingers and hoarding them in the basement I don’t have. When I need a wish I pluck the brightest from the galaxy and throw it with my dominant hand out into the sky. Close my eyes tight and whisper to myself

I wish….

But I won’t tell you what I wish because then it wouldn’t come true. I can only tell one soul, that’s the rules.
I find myself plunging my arm into the basement every night and the once vast collection of stars is dwindling fast. I’m wishing my heart right out of my mouth, I’m lost and alone and I’m only twenty-two.

I am about a fifth of the way to where I wanna be and I figure that if I live to one hundred then that’s not so bad. Even if I only live to fifty-two, that’s another thirty years to put the other four parts of my puzzle together. I’m sure that’s enough time.
Then again,
I could die tomorrow.
And I’d still only be a fifth of the way to where I wanna be.

I’ve got five ultimate goals in life, I’ll be keeping those to myself but let’s just say it’s an uphill battle. I’m not particularly good at anything and I’m really just trying to stand up and walk around every day without falling over.
It’s hard to massage the stress out of someone else’s scalp when my fingers keep locking and the pain makes me wince.

So far, I’ve spent my birthday with my computer hoping to hear from you. Thinking that you said you could never forget my birthday because I share it with a friend of yours.
I’ve been reading you again and I’m beginning to remember quotes from your works. I could survive solely off your literature, I only wish you were able to read it aloud to me.

I’ve been thinking for a long time about how the only way you’ve ever touched me is through writing. While that is the single most beautiful gift, we’ve had the longest time just for words, I am starting to long for the tickle of your breath against my skin as you speak unrehearsed phrases and laugh at my bad jokes.

Aren’t you beginning to wonder what sounds emit from my being? For example:
the two silver bracelets I never take off jingle when I wash my hair, bring my hand to my mouth when I yawn, turn a page or stir a pot while I am cooking,
the skirts I constantly wear swish and swoosh about my pins as I walk with a rather feminine gait,
or how my hysterical fits of laughter crow and ring out, piercing ear drums and rattling bone china cabinets.

I seem to be getting lost in shooting stars and time all over again.
Happy birthday, to me.
This year will be sensational.

Breaking bones

“You know the worst thing about life?” and about a million shitty things sprang to mind immediately but I lied and pressed on
“No”, I said
“It’s that you get to love someone too much”
and I promptly broke eye contact.

I don’t hold hate too closely to my heart because it’s a disease and I’m prone to suffer just about every awful thing. Plus, I have a predisposition to heart conditions and the palpitations get worse every month.
Love can be like a disease, too. But it’s one I would choose to suffer in eternally if it meant getting to lay my head on a pillow next to yours every night and bake you your favourite cake every year on your birthday.

I think too much, maybe I’m too old a soul for my own good,
so I am slowly eating myself to death.
It’s starting to show, the scales scream in fits of laughter every time I step on them and the mirror isn’t lying either. By no means do I look round or wide or anything, it’s just that I’m different than before and maybe it’s just I’m getting older,
or maybe it is just that I eat too much and move too little.

Not that I’m getting too much older just quite yet, it’s my twenty-second birthday on Sunday but I feel like I’m twenty-one going on thirty or something. I could just be tired and overwhelmed by the unknown but
I think it’s just I think too much.

I dream larger than my life certainly is and it’s true, maybe I do love someone too much and for no good reason other than I can make a hobby out of self-destruction.

I think I’m a woman of worth but who’s to say?

Well, you said but sometimes you don’t count. I think you could be a little biased, besides you haven’t seen the path I’ve walked and though my body count still stands at a hefty zero it doesn’t mean I haven’t had those prickly, dark thoughts and genuinely considered berating a few people with so many words it cripples them into a cave forevermore.

I’m working on complaining less but people are so ignorant
and, just.plain.RUDE
So it makes me angry. So it makes me wanna turn the world on it’s axis and shake all the bullshit off. So what?

Realistically: I’ve got no real thing to complain about.
Honestly: how dare I moan about minor injustice?
Metaphorically: I’m a drop in the ocean, just another fish in the big blue, another spec in the universe or clump of atoms or whatever.

I’m no real thing, not in comparison to the planets and stars and lack of oxygen out there. Even here on this measly planet I’m nothing compared to all the hopelessly medicated pop stars and God awful politicians.
I don’t live the fast fading life that they do, I’ve never laughed in the limelight. I’ve never been kissed in the rain or told that I am more beautiful than the sunset before me.

It’s a culmination of all the I’ve never’s that result in feelings of insignificance.

That’s okay.



How smudged graphite can cause a myriad of thoughts

Consciousness grips me all at once and I gasp just as a small spider crawls its way across my pillow toward me in some sort of five p.m., I’m-a-man-with-a-briefcase type hurry. Cinematographically it was brilliant, realistically it urged me to shift from a horizontal to a vertical position, circumstance, simulation.

My head spun,

like silk wound tediously into web formation, hopelessly careful; no gratitude. I’m still weaving, my fingers are twisted in all sorts of ways.

Dazed, naked and stomach aching, I turn to the wall beside my bed. It’s covered in art and bones and photographs, all framed in baroque, black outlines. Some more beautiful than those they house. I see the lead portrait I agonised over for and of you.
I didn’t know why I was drawing it when I began. I mean- part of me realised, the other part sighed and was covered in pencil shavings.

Those grey, scratched eyes I drew greet me when I walk into my bedroom and see me at my ugliest. I wonder if your eyes would avoid locking mine if you were sitting on the edge of my bed at three in the afternoon when I’m having a down day and lookin’ like utter and absolute shit.
Eyes bloodshot and mascara trails down my cheeks. My skin would be all blotchy. I’d have my hair barely tied up, wearing some oversized tee and pair of black tracksuit pants.
I think maybe
—but then I remember all the conversations we’ve ever had and think not. We’re both too broken to disengage.

I asked you plainly what to do with it when I was finished and you told me to hang it up in my room.
“Wouldn’t that be weird?”
I remember texting you and you laughed at me and said no, so I did.

That picture reminds me of how often I think of you, and write of you.

Which is probably all too often, more often than you might assume. I can’t help it and I really don’t want to- help it, that is.
You are not what keeps me awake at night,
but when I wake from some nightmare it’s you I want to talk to
because I know you’ll still be half way across the globe no matter the hour.

Time keeps my eyes glassy and glued open, blinking only when I realise I’ve been staring at this screen for too damn long. Time doesn’t keep my appearance youthful and mentally I’ve never been young so we’ll leisurely skip ahead.
But my body is still plump and perky, though I do notice wrinkles forming around my eyes and setting into my forehead. The mirror heckles me on my best days.

Then I think of you again because I want you to see me move when I talk to you, how all my heritage has given me cause to speak with my hands and torment has given me habit to cover my mouth when I laugh.

In a twisted way I want you to pick me apart and tell me of all my flaws.

Then again,
maybe I don’t.
I’ve always been good at handling criticism but asking for it doesn’t come easily.

I want you to tell me I’m weird and maybe fucked up, but that you like me anyway.

I’m so vulnerable now.
Now that I’ve spilt my red wine soul all over your white button-down and apologised for the surefire stains. Surely you know my honesty and when I think I can’t bury myself any further into this quicksand I tell you that I love you and I’m another four feet down. Gagging and grasping at straws.
that’s me….

Gagging and grasping at straws.

Perhaps I am too honest, but I’m not telling you anything without feeling right about it.
That’s a notion you preach,
if it feels right
and so I’m spiralling on that jet of emotion, I’m holding onto that brown, paper bag with a grip so tight the paper is tearing where my fingers clutch. I’m living by a rule for the first time and it feels so safe,
so send me hurtling into space without a michelin suit, I’ll be fine. Just you watch. Just you see!

Mistakes will be made, feelings might get hurt yet I decide it’s all worth it because if that somewhere over the rainbow exists and comes to pass I wanna be there. Lounging in the light of the setting sun with a vintage, black swing dress on and back seamed nylons, with you.

And if I climb those mountains and the other side yields nothing but a sharp toothed decline then so be it. I’ll crack and crumble and break bones.
Maybe I’ll survive the fall.

You’ll see me standing with stained cheeks and red eyes, holding myself in the blackness of oblivion.


Today I walk barefoot for the first time in what I am sure has been eternity. I tentatively feel each and every minute grain of sand as I step on and in it. 
Betwixt my toes it finds temporary refuge until my foot falls once more, everything seems appropriately distorted. 

The seaweed mingles in the ocean, it looks like television static. 
Small waves roll in caressing the shoreline infinitely. You once told me you would love to take a walk with me here,
especially at sunrise or sunset“, you said. 
Those words are imprinted behind my eyelids whenever I am here. 
In a private way, I suppose, you are here…. surely the breeze that turns my pages prematurely is composed of the very same air which you have breathed. And that, that is the very stuff of life. 

Breathing— I mean
That is intimacy in its epitome

Kiss me” I whisper, and the words dissolve in front of my very eyes. 

Melodic guitar thrums through my headphones and resonates through both hemispheres of my brain. This is how I feel. 
This, is how I move. 
I am the body of romance, I am the body of love. It is true, what they say about Scorpio’s. 

I am laying here in the sand, the sky looks illustrated, illusory. I recall my adolescent self, she is long gone. Misplaced, perhaps. All the carefree smiles and laughter, if I close my eyes I can hear her giggles bathed in sunlight, ocean white noise backing the score. 
She is a distant memory played out in flickering super eight. 
I want to introduce you to her. Maybe she has been hiding out somewhere in the depths of my depression, despair. Somewhere deep inside my mind, behind some locked door. 

Some deity or extravagant ideal probably stole the key when I was that girl. Probably gifted it to you and said “this belongs to your soulmate“, in a dream some twelve years ago. Before my eyes were opened to life’s fragility. 
When I looked near death square in the face then blacked out. Carried from ICU to the land of the barely living. 
I saw the will to live in the broken moreso than all the nurses, doctors and visitors surrounding them. But everyone’s eyes were red and poured exhaustion. 

That was the day my key was stolen. 
That was the day my future was gifted to you, and I might sound crazy here but at least I’m not lying. 

Sign my declaration

I wake all at once from superficial slumber
Top to toe adorned in sweat beading from
dreams turned nightmares turned reality
My hands are blood soaked, they tremor
I have manually knotted my intestines
wrapped them like twine
about my stomach and lungs
I am slowly suffocating myself
I see my veins blacken in protest, some disgust
followed by a whiteout;
eyes, skin, soul all bleached and milky
In an anxious explosion
my sheets, pillows and quilt burst from the bounds of my bed
I peer down upon my strange form
I have learnt to love these shapes
I have battled to love these shapes
I have known war and I have conquered
They grow and shrink at supple intervals
my scale is unchallenged
Standing now, I see where once I had lain
my figure embossed in the fabric and springs of my mattress
I stare down upon my body
I am embossed with the fabric and springs of my mattress
like the Nazca Lines
we were both declared world heritage sites in 1994
Though I am yet to find a man
brave enough to explore my territories,
map me out with compass precision
Find my where my rivers flow freely and
touch what may not be touched
Flag me as your own

Maybe and one day and us…?

I find myself with eyes adjusted to the blackness of my bedroom. Two a.m. and I am staring at the ceiling, mentally noting where every knot in every plank is located. In case I ever need to remember.
Paralysed limbs laying in a single bed, I feel uncomfortable and lumpy. Pupils the size of a five cent piece thinking,
about you. About maybe and one day and us. Thinking if I could just come over for an afternoon introduce you to fairy bread and brew us a pot of rose-hip tea then perhaps you would fall in love with me and perhaps I would never leave. I could try to teach you something, try to open a new door and show you new colours. I could weave tiny, cotton tapestries to show you.
Thinking I could give up all my ambitions and become a part of your furniture, a piece of your home. Like your life just could not be without me, nor mine without you.
You know, like,
“Please come in. Welcome to my lounge room, here you will find my library, my sofa, my cats, my girl…. Pull up a pew, can I get you a refreshment?”

Ha ha.

Because all my thoughts get messy at this time of night.
I am void of all things yet bursting at the seams, overcome with ideas and emotions. See my right arm overextend and snap, see my lips move like jelly where no sound erupts. I blink but that’s about it. I am existentially diluted however vibrant my palette may be.

I am umming and ahhing over the right sentence so I may hit send. I have been scrutinising this paragraph, judging it on tone and appeal, squinting and rubbing my eyes. Sometimes conversation is fluid but not at two thirty-seven in the morning. I need to brush my teeth and get a glass of water. I delete all I have written and settle with “hello dear, I can’t sleep”// it’s two forty-six and I am climbing down the ladder for that drink.

See, off track.

My tangible soul is vying for yours to tangle with its tendrils and ribbons. Both and all sides of me, where my femininity butts up against hard edges and my softness melts into shades of pink, lilac, some faded blue sky. I can be your rainbow but I will dress in shades of mourning.

I have read every word you have ever given meaning to and taken them all to my very core because you engineer and you make language subversive. I have read every work several times over and I know where all your spelling mistakes and grammatical errors are. I have read until my eyes are carmine and watery, both from weeping and eye strain.
It must mean something because I know where you abbreviate. I know your tendencies and provocative analogies, references and sentences that sometimes need reading several times before it cl…cl…clicks and then bang! I am in some other world, some other timezone.
I know you love a good shock factor
and so do I.

Here lay words for you….

You are the greatest poet my heart has ever held
; my ears have ever drank sound from and my soul has ever cherished

I drown….

Head above water my crown bumps noses with the rafters in my bedroom
I spent my whole day horizontally with a splitting migraine
shaky vision and skewed thoughts
until I started crying
and the tears never stopped
Saline solution dripping from some unruly faucet
turned indoor ocean featuring a kraken and all
I have nearly filled the room to the brim, now
I’m treading water and angling my face
so I may gulp down those last few breaths of air
before even the brim is engulfed
and I am wholly submerged
This is the end
This is where
I drown