Do I become more, or less me, when I drink?
And does it even matter?
Because, regardless,
I do not like the me I see
When I look back, too late, the next day,
Surrounded by broken, hazy memories,
Shame, embarrassment, paranoia
And the stink of all that drink.

If only your mind
Were as beautiful as your body
And your eyes
As expressive as your hyperactive hips.
You invite consumption
And yes, you would taste sweet
But candy quickly loses its appeal
No substance
And nauseating in excess.

He has a Rubik's cube smile,
And his mind is a labyrinth.
Only he knows the exit
Only he knows the combination
That will bring all the colours in line.

I'm a naughty girl.
Seven minutes will never
ever be enough...

I cried with my daughter
Over the death of mummy dinosaur in 'The Land Before Time'.
It's a sad scene, with sad music,
And I'm a sucker for manipulative cartoon lump-in-throat moments,
But it was Rowan's little puckered face
As she fought to keep the flow at bay
That brought mine forth.
Five years old and she's already fighting,
Thirty seven and I've all but given up.
Not hard, not hard, the tears came easily,
and are far from the last I will shed for my amazing little girl.

No trickling but a throbbing
Sluggish
Reluctant
Unfluid
Animating force