Pockets, pockets, pockets

I am suffering with the ailment of time
crawling by on buckled knees
Hands in pockets
He would be laughing at me
the small girl stuck in the suit shop
eyes down on paper
as blazers hug one another on the rails
surrounding me
Hands in pockets
My wrists are clean
but I’ve mentally toyed with the elusive end
more times than I can count
Hands in pockets
I have spent too long waiting
at the bus stop, 
train stations,
for my mother to arrive on time,
the day to end,
to get older, 
find my great love
Hands in pockets
I wear three rings, all silver
I wear this heart of mine
through my throat
I don’t bleed to die
I bleed to release; paper and ink

Stop hurting me

Wire bound years

left me devoid of happiness

my most unnatural state

I felt akin to bonsai 

The very roots of me


Keeping me a minute smudge on the surface of the planet

where I could have bloomed 

and become the sweetest rose

I soured


You were an artisan of spiritual binding 

Toss a little salt in the water 

Skies are growing darker by the porcelain second. Each moment more delicate than the last. My bones feel like wicker where I bend only so far. 

Anger builds from my core. It’s a kind of fire, white hot, licking victims with forked, red tongues. The many tongues of Medusa only it is I who is stone cold and I will shock you solely with words. My glare threatening but never fatal. 

I am small. Hardly one hundred and twenty pounds, but I move with a force greater than some seismic milestone. I am tectonic. See me shift oceans with a sigh, feel a deep concern rumble from the earths core with every lax eye roll, growing frustration. 

I question humanity everyday. 

Why are we so self destructive?

Where do we find peace in war? 

What is it you get out of insulting me with petty notions?

Ha, they say ignorance is bliss but I would rather tangle with the divinely aware. I prefer challenge over increased guilt for opinion and a dwindling tide of personality. 

Everybody looks the same. 

I wear roaches strung on gold chains from my ears, I wear a collar around my throat and I wear silver, looped snakes on my wrist. Tell me you don’t like it but give me reason, say it with gusto. Do not hold me on the grounds of I can so I will. Hold me for your sake. 

Hold me because you love me. 


I feel red hot
The subtleties of my nature
careening; earth bound
while I weep for the loss of her
She is gentle
with ethereal qualities
I won a staring contest with Medusa
Cracks in my marble form
sound out like the grinding of a pestle
I bend into caverns before me
to brush the dust from her lovely bones
Wanting to reignite the soft parts of me
where embers caress an amputation
cauterising the stone
and bringing forth golden syrup skin
Like treacle, we could layer a trifle of us
With ink and scars
and honeyed voices
the tears of countless unravellings
Where we could use
butterfly kisses as sprinkle toppers
Holding imperceivable words
between languid lips