It’s hard for her to talk in her friend group without wanting to die. The complicated crochet that is her nervous system is worn down over years of unfortunate happenings and horrible men. Her speech feels , to her, fragmented and messy like the other side of a cross stitch that no one should see. Well, in this case I think we should display the wrong way round cross stitch in a gallery, because her speech is worth seeing. She just doesn’t know it yet. Her thoughts fill giant balloons that shoot up into space without notice. Maybe they just belong to the stars but I want them too. I When she talks in front of the crowd I’ll be stood next to her. You mistake her coldness for sadness and a mean attitude but its quite the opposite. The ornamental umbrella she holds before her is a guard because you may not be worthy to see what lies beneath.
Lust is the pink pillow on my bed.
Plump, filled with unwashed thoughts.
At least they’re encased in dusky pink;
pleasant to the eye especially in the
golden minutes absorbed by sheer glass.
I want your head pressing
into the pillow, hard. Then your sleepy
breath will baptise the cotton after
sinful acts. I’ll preserve the dent you make
with the lovely weight of your skull.
I’ll surround the chasm with carnations.
Eventually, they’ll be a line outside my room.
Jealous tourists wanting to take pictures.
Cured salmon glistening
between thick seeded slices.
Three plump tomatoes.
Like castle guards.
I watch in awe:
my toes poke through
knitted holes in the
blanket, fleshy moles.
Nan pushes in The
Thornbirds VHS and
she rambles about
the birds going west.
She says: ‘I’m glad
I can stay here and
not fly anywhere.’
cosy and safe.
Nan places another fleece
blanket on me. We drink
dark hot cocoa and
watch birds from the sofa
What is there to do?
Late nights and late mornings, coco pops for lunch.
Mourning Wetherspoons with friends, drinks and
3am cheesy chips, laughter like clowns on steroids.
Today I cried over my laptop dying
and I can’t use Facebook on a wide screen.
I’m pining more for real faces though
and having jokes heard and my expressions seen.
The evenings mission is dinner, lining up
the vegetables like soldiers and making
food does seems that serious now.
Outside the streetlights somehow look dimmer.
But when spring hits the watts of sun will
glow like shining daffodils and we shall
bloom too and grow using fertiliser that
forms out of the depth of solitude.
The shower curtains gets stuck to my
leg as if it knows I need to feel a
The kettle steams my glasses
and gifts my eyes a rest.
At night the fan whirrs and rotates
as if scanning the rooms for threats.
Living alone isn’t as lonely
as you might think.
Two sticky Devils pit ciders
embalmed in strawberry juice.
‘Tell me why you messaged her’.
It’s not just the sun causing
those sweat beads.
Fiery fingers fly through
your book as you ignore
me. The sand creeps in
between my folds and
Irritates my skin as if
it wasn’t crawling already.
A beautiful scene mocks us.
Glittering grasses, crystal waters;
today is perfect.
If I forget that you’re next to me.
When the scenery doesn't match the vibes.
i am vulnerable,
stripped back to nothing;
i am a raw and open human nerve with
no way to keep out the world
oh its just how i feel