this summer we are taking care of ourselves first,
pulling out my eyelashes and blowing them in your face.
the wind picks them up and they fly out the window.
probably
my spine is bruised
from a hard floor,
and a
good time.
Dec 4, 2019
Dec 4, 2019 at 8:32 AM UTC
Summer rolls around,
and we treat ourselves better.
Full of old heat and dust,
finding jumbled numbers,
lost in our bedroom drawers,
interwoven through our fingers,
that were a year or so too late.
And now accepting the narrative,
that we control,
our own soft, rough hands,
that shape every new day.
Knowing that we deserve better,
than the one before.
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 7:41 PM UTC
a silver string quartet
of silky past lovers,
dancing once again,
in the strangers moonlit garden.
our drunken psychedelic impulses
neon - illuminated in the
service station carpark.
soft feet on our soft earth,
and sinners of ****** deviance,
held in the palm of his hand.
to be a spectacle fire frenzy of
one night stands.
Jul 29, 2019
Jul 29, 2019 at 6:58 AM UTC
the boots are *****
from stamping the ground.
the wet sound of
rain-stricken earth.
as if we could pay strangers,
such as our therapists;
whom have their own powerlines.
Jun 24, 2019
Jun 24, 2019 at 9:57 AM UTC
in the dawn sunrise of my kitchen,
i struck wood.
which bled
and revealed itself bone.
standing in naked shock,
as the stark butter knife,
whom i playfully trusted,
had turned its blade.
had i been right to be surprised?
the nature had never hidden itself,
but had always been blatantly there.
the tantalising thought;
the knife was every love that wilted.
warped around the idea of human-like features to characterised metal,
forgetting that i was the one who held it.
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 6:00 AM UTC
spanked awake,
by the red gloves that
haunt my dreams
and fingers me non consentually,
reducing me to ****** objectivity
that later pushes the used body aside,
only to look distainfully at the blood between my legs.
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 7:38 AM UTC
red gloves,
that permeate stagnanate air,
symbolising hyper femininity.
stains the floor, walls and bathroom stall.
Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 6:08 AM UTC
I had hoped death was what had awoken me.
Alas, it was my mother,
standind over my soon-to-be
sleeping corpse.
The bitter disappointment traced
her outline in the dark,
as if I had not called to her
hours before, with my hands
around my throat.
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 9:03 AM UTC
rainfall was an inadequate lie,
that i couldn’t shake from the people within my head.
i am so afraid that i will become the rain.
Dec 16, 2018
Dec 16, 2018 at 10:40 AM UTC
playing dress up in my mothers clothes,
was never meant to be ******
at the age of six.
but it’s as if the vogue shoots in her wardrobe were taunts,
that i was to be punished for
the black high stilettos
after all the red lipstick was
essentially asking for it.
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 8:53 PM UTC