Weeks without response
Has our friendship ended or
Will you soon return

Single whipping flame
Maybe that is what I am
Sparked by unknowing

I watched a grainy film once,
through blurs of a stolen light,
words dropped like crumbs.
I picked them all up,
kept them safe
tucked away in my mind,
until I had the puzzle pieces
to give them back their shape.

years later, I etched
a number on my hand.
not for him,
but for the girl,
who mimicked the words
before knowing what they meant.

now I wear his language
like a second skin,
slightly flushed
from the heartbeat beneath —
pulsing with all
once chased,
and incomplete.

I didn’t know it then,
how far that ship would sail —
how it would anchor me,
then leave behind a trail
to places only dreamed,
with a way back for when I was ready.
I didn’t know it then,
how it would lead me
to chart entire lives
into maps of unfolding,
guided by a compass of poetry —
all of it
once borrowed
from a screen.

Once he’d adored her,
‘daddy’s little girl’
he had said
while he swung her around
then she perched on his shoulders.
He’d tell everybody
about his angel.

Until she hit thirteen,
the devil she became.
His grip tightened,
knuckles now white
‘Just like your mother’
‘Don’t you dare talk back’
He’d taught her how to flinch

Shown her
the cost of silence.
and whilst
Mothers forgive,
Wives excuse,
daughters remember-
because he always remembered

He raised a daddy’s girl
who won’t bow now
a girl unfettered she became
whilst he, fettered by his past
mistook fear for power
but now that’s gone
and so is he

to be a teenager is to be in those social media group chats
to be a teenager is to know the hot goss, to know everyone's life
to be a teenager is to gush over boys and giggle when they look at you
to be a teenager is to be reckless, and funny, and happy
it's a social norm
it's known that if you don't do any of that, you're left out

so no, I'm not in the group chat with the funny name
no, i don't know the hot goss on jenny and tyler
no, I don't like any boys — i'm trying to figure out my sexuality
no, i don't like to be reckless, i'm not funny and...
i'm not happy
but maybe being a teenager isn't just that-
maybe it's the quiet, chaotic, messy in-betweens
maybe it's the questions with no answers yet
maybe it's the becoming, not the being
.....right?

She’s not taken seriously for her innocent smile, her round eyes, her rosy cheeks
She’s a child at heart; or at least that’s what her face says.

She’s not taken seriously for the curve of her hips, the swell of her *******, the length of her skirt
She’s an adult, after all; or at least that’s what her body shows.

Too young to understand the problems life has to offer;
Too mature to go under the radar of prying eyes.

Fragile;
****;
Sweet;
Fuckable;
A trophy to have;
A means to an end.

“You’re a woman now,” they tell you, but that means nothing more than getting treated like a child yet being expected to handle it like an adult.

Her face is angelic: a cherub, something untouchable and pure.
Her body is the devil himself
- the ultimate temptation, she’s told -
and that’s what she starts truly seeing it for,
it’s evil,
because why else would she get treated this way,
if not for her body?
she begins punishing it, because she’s the evil,
right?
at least that’s what she’s told.

and so the angel sees the devil for what it is,
and begins torturing it slowly
until nothing is left but skin and bone
and people saying
“such a shame, she used to have such a sweet face”
“what a waste, she had a beautiful body”

such a shame,
what a waste
of a body
for an angel to become the devil.

My toes on the ledge,

thinking how scary it is --


before I do it.

For a boy who went to the beach and never came home

He ran where the wind met the sea,
barefoot dreams where the gulls flew free—
sixteen summers held in his hands,
cut short on Ayrshire’s golden sands.

A footballer’s heart, fierce and bright,
he lit the pitch with laughter and fight.
Busby’s pride, a brother's guide,
a grandson's echo, a father's stride.

But one moment broke the tide.
One blade, one act, one shattered sky.
What words can make the silence speak
of blood spilled young on Irvine Beach?

A town now grieves in hushed lament,
a school wears sorrow like cement.
His desk, his voice, his empty place,
the ghost of kindness in every face.

And his father writes through trembling hand:
My main man, you’ll always stand
in every breath, in every dream,
in places you were yet to be.

Scotland weeps with East Kilbride.
A wound too deep. A soul denied.
We say his name. We rage, we cry:
Kayden Moy—too young to die.

My dearest angel,
How you’ve grown
From a bean into a flower
I stand in awe of your bloom.

My dearest angel,
The light that bled the dark
Took away my demons,
The moment I felt your heart.

You are the spark that lit the lantern
For me to walk to guide you through,
And every thing I am I owe to you.

My dearest angel,
You are the pride of my soul,
The reason for living when none other is given,
I see you and find my control.

You are seasons and holidays
You are lemonade and summer parades
Fireworks and museums displays
All of me written within you tattooed on your face
When you smile I see myself,
My dearest angel.

When it just feels like one year
But 17 has gone and come,
From the morning I felt your eyes shoot open
I spent every day cautiously hoping—
I won’t ***** it up, and lose my focus
To give you everything I never,
Well I guess I’ll never—
Know if you could ever
Forgive if I have ever let you down.

So sing a prayer for me,
Let me see you open a gift
Like the one you have given
And know that I’ll be there wishing,
As the candles go out,
Please let me steal one more moment,
To savor the time.

My dearest angel of mine.

Sicilian:
Àncilu miu cchiù caru,
Comu criscìsti
Di na fava in ciuri
Sugnu ammiratu dâ to fiuritura.

Àncilu miu cchiù caru,
La luci ca sanguinava lu scuru
Purtava li me dimoni,
Lu mumentu ca sintìa lu to cori.

Tu sì la scintidda ca addumau la lanterna
Pi mia a caminari pi guidarivi,
E ogni cosa ca sugnu ti lu devu.

Àncilu miu cchiù caru,
Tu si l’orgogliu di l’anima mia,
La raggiuni di vìviri quannu n'àutra nun è data,
Ti vìdu e attruvu lu me cuntrollu.

Siti staggiuni e festi
Tu siti limunata e sfilati estivi
Mostra di fochi d'artificiu e musei
Tuttu di mia scrittu dintra di te tatuatu ntâ to facci
Quannu surridi mi vìdu,
Lu me cchiù caru àngiulu.

Quannu pari sulu n'annu
Ma 17 ha jutu e vinutu,
Di la matina sintìa l'occhi ca s'aprìanu
Passava ogni jornu cu cautela spirannu...
Non lu ruvinu e pirdu la cuncintrazzioni
Pi dariti tuttu chiddu ca mai,
Ebbè, penzu ca non lu fazzu mai...
Sapìri si putissi mai
Scusa si ti haiu mai delusu.

Dunca canta pri mia na prighera,
Lassami vidiri grapiri nu rigalu
Comu a chidda ca hai datu
E sapi ca ci sugnu vulennu,
Comu s'astutanu li cannili,
Ti pregu lassami arrubbari n'autru mumentu,
Pi gustarisi lu tempu.

Lu me cchiù caru àngiulu meu.