november has been stubborn
with its lingering warmth

its slow turn to redyelloworange
and so i have arrived late

to an appreciation of the ginko leaf
autumn demands

and clamors for color
fancily dances its displays

of spark
and flame

but only now do i humbly behold
its green to gold

it’s perfect fans feathered
slipping free

and sliding silently
before finally settling

upon the ground


should you seek           inspiration
should you need          evidence of prayer

asked
and answered

here it is

And one day soon
Hence
You will get your
Comeuppance
Your tongue-biting
Sycophants
Stay their reluctance
To mutiny
23 times
Run you through
As across senate floors
Your blood pours
Into view

Red.
It’s not pretty on me.
Not lipstick.
Not Valentines hearts.
Not cute red sweaters or “you’re so strong compliments.”

My red is the kind that stains.
That sticks.
That screams when I try to whisper.
Red is the colour of being left.
Not once.
But over and over and over.

My mum?
Yeah, my bio mum.
She left like I was a book she stopped
reading halfway through.
But she still sends postcards.
Like that makes it better.
Like writing, “Love, Mum” at the end
wipes away the years that she wasn’t there
to love me at all.

Do you know what it feels like
to get a message from a ghost
trying to pretend she’s still real?

I don’t read them anymore.
I just stare at the handwriting and
feel nothing.
Or maybe too much.
I can’t tell the difference anymore.

Red is the rage I swallow
because screaming makes people
uncomfortable.
Because no one wants to hear
about the kid sent to boarding school at 11
like an inconvenience.
Shipped off.
Silenced.
Discarded.

Dad didn’t even fight.
Just handed me over
to a woman who never saw me as hers
and made sure I knew it.

Red is the silence between us now.
And it’s loud.
So loud it drowns out the sound of me breaking.

But the worst red?
The darkest?

Wasn’t just what they did.
It was what they took.
Two men.
People I trusted.
People who smiled at me like I mattered
before they ruined me.

I said no.
I said stop.
But they didn’t hear me—
because they weren’t listening.
They were taking.

And one of them carved a word
into my skin.
A word I won’t repeat.
Because it’s still there.
Because when I shower, I still trace it.
Like it might come off this time.
It never does.

Red is that word.
That memory.
That version of me
that I don’t know how to bring back.
Sometimes I look in the mirror
and all I see is what they left behind.

I’m still here.
Yeah.
Breathing.
Just barely.

But I think about giving it all up.
More than I say out loud.
More than anyone would guess
by the way I smile in hallways
and laugh when I’m dying inside.

Red is the part of me that wants to vanish.
That writes poems
because if I don’t put it on the page,
I might not survive the weight.

Red is major depression.  
C-PTSD.
It’s waking me up and wondering why.
Why me.
Why still.
Why now.

It’s wanting someone to hold me and mean it.
Wanting my mum to show up
in something more than postage stamps and pretend love.
Wanting my dad to say,
“I was wrong. I should’ve kept you close.”
But knowing they won’t.
Knowing they didn’t.

Red is the truth no one wants to hear.
The pain they skip over in movies.
The girl in the back of the class
with scars on her heart and skin
who’s just trying to get through the day
without breaking apart in front of everyone.

Red is me.
All of me.
Hurting.
But still breathing.
Still here.

Not because I'm strong.
Not because I want to be.
But because even though everything in me says give up,
some tiny voice
buried under the rubble
still whispers:
Wait.

shelter here under this door?



no i do not mind the rain,

though it is all mud over there,

and may slide.





where do you walk?



to the end, and back again.



thank you.

Banged up from training back up
So much training to remember
Giving your all to the sport
Taking the good cutting off the bad
Trying to progress compete against others
Earn a stripe rise to the next level
Working hard to challenge yourself
Camp mode dieting watch what you eat
Improve by repeating applying technique
Take downs by grabbing a leg or double
Grips to restrain the opponent
Find the dominate position with control
Frame up the move for points
Find an escape in a tough situation
Keep moving go strong go hard
Piecing together the moves to get success

I climbed out from under my own noise,
the static of too many selves
all speaking at once.
I just wanted silence,
or at least
a glimpse of something real
beyond this glassy, shifting mask I wear.

For a moment,
I thought I found it
I felt light,
untethered,
soaring past the reach of what they made me.
But I flew too far,
and forgot my own wings were stitched with lies.

My eyes
yes, they opened.
But they looked inward and saw only fog.
My mind
it turned, it turned,
but always into walls.

I still hear them
when the night softens
and sleep forgets to close the door.
The voices,
not cruel—just certain.
And that certainty cuts.

I pretended to know why I keep breathing.
Told people there’s a plan,
that I’ve got it sorted.
That’s the performance.
That’s the whole show.

And when I say I’m wise,
what I mean is
I’m tired of being wrong
so I’ve learned to speak
in riddles.

I’m not anchored.
I’m not grounded.
I’m a feeling in search of a name,
a boat without a harbor,
tossed in the ache of old waves.

I once thought the wind would save me.
But even that
whispers like them now:
"Where do you think you're going?"

They told me the climb would make me whole,
but I lost pieces with every pull.
Each truth I reached turned into smoke,
and every promise
just a joke.

I once believed the sky would catch me
a soul too cracked to feel the scratch,
but falling taught what is flight disguised
the stars don’t speak
they only shine.

My silence grew its own sharp teeth,
it gnawed my sleep, it bit beneath.
I smiled in rooms,
I couldn’t stay,
then vanished softly,
day by day.

There’s a hush where my name should be,
a space between the ‘you’ and ‘me.’
I’ve become a ghost with lungs and skin,
forever locked in where I’ve been.

And still they call,
those quiet screams,
the ones that echo through my dreams.
Not demons, no–
just echoes made,
from every truth
I’ve thrown away!

I walked so far to not be me,
but found myself in every fleeting minute,
in shadows cast,
in windows cracked,
no matter where, I still come back.

looking at others
didn’t know it bothered

cause when they start to talk
saying things like 'I wish he’d call'

it hurts
I know I can't say that
cause they are just living their life
happy they look
blooming inside

nothing can destroy that
at least that’s how they feel

I should mind my own business
but-
Should I warn them?
cause it's going to be worse
but for some reason they don’t see the curse

give it time
and everything crashes down
just like…
always