The morning is darker here

I’m never going to own a soul
for some things you cannot buy
like a gun,
I’ve never shot one
How can I breathe the next few words
let alone write them:

She is gone
Him, Them, All.

Across oceans
a disconnection can be measured
but the world closes in every day
as our narrative’s converged,
washed up on guarded shorelines,
truth in waves, lapping at walls

To fill in the blanks,
the authority we feel,
is displaced

and so it all will be
and will happen


Yet to Fall

I spend, much of my time, these days
climbing, and building myself up
which is why, I refuse to fall, I suppose
in or out of love
It’s is a question, uninteresting
a mere cliched, concoction
of dried rose petals, stained lace;
an antique image, to replace
the self-indulgent pity,
of a table set for one
My letters now rearrange,
against our selfish, un-defined age,
though blunt, and graceless,
and unfallen,

Shedding Skin

“A thicker skin”,
almost canvas
too thick for art, for change, for renewal

When the signs scream, commercial, bright
sound attached to a finger, pulling at the other end
of my fraying rope

Then snap

Time to begin –

“Shedding skin”,
scales of greens and purples
illuminated by moonlight

This is my act of growing,

for art, for change, for renewal.

Morning 1/1/18

Eight is one of my favourite numbers. I’m not altogether sure why, but the fact that it is must mean there was once a reason for it. So while the logic, the explanation, is lost, I know it’s somewhere, existing, and I can attach meaning to it, the number eight.

Wanting a year to be good is strange. 2017 was not easy, difficult indeed, but in its complexity, I found parts of me I thought were gone. A “good” year feels dull to request in the wake of such intense experience and personal progress. You’ll forgive me for not being specific. Some truths can only be felt anyway. While I’d like to think my words carry weight and the ability to convey what I feel, much of this still feels new and not yet cemented, or ingrained. I’ve laid firm foundations and started to build. That was 2017.

So 2018, what will this new year bring? At this stage, I only know what is certain, the basics; work and university.

Now I can feel possibility, flounder in excitement for the yet-to-be-decided. The unknown is far more exciting when you feel it from a place of security. Unexpected opportunities presented themselves at the tail end of last year, I can only hope that this weird, terrifying, upward spiral continues.

What 2017 taught me is that it’s all ambiguous. And that’s more than okay.


To return to the here and now. Linear time is overrated and not something I fear that much anymore, privileged I am as a 20-something.

I slept in this morning. Woke up feeling too hot for comfort. Threw open my window and breathed in the familiar scent of my neighbourhood; trees, warm bitumen, fading humidity.

What I’m saying is that it’s all good. The number eight will mean everything if I want it too, or nothing at all.


Happy new year, everyone! Here’s to another year of incomprehensible rambling and mutilated writing. All the very best. 


Though I grow,
only so within the parameters of my soul. A prescribed disposition, a certain reflection, I paint it all in grey, with black and white precision.

That is not how I see the world,

How then?

Do we make noise when we sleepwalk

into corners
inches, confined,

limited. Muted. In that famed song of self.
Brown hair. Hazel eyes. Average height. Build me up.

I always think about the description they’d give me if I went missing. Or got Lost.

Elsewhere. Out of mind. Out of sight.

Out of self.

Small Worry

I fear that I have always been small, obsessed with taking up as little space as possible.
My shy girl persona threw me into the deep end. High school. Though whatever splash I made, no one noticed. The dramatics of teenagehood extend well into our twenties. Or is the drama only me? My fingers fumbling on keys in stretch for metaphor. Finding the space between experience and present has grown so much the stretch leaves marks on your stomach. The acne scars that occupy my jawline are a constellation of anything but stars and hope. They frame a mouth that kept silent, sealed itself against whispers that slithered in between the pages of whatever novel I was reading. Time heals all wounds except these, and many others you’d find if you looked in the mirror long enough. Rolled tartan skirts above knees, mine brushing shins. Fingers wanting to find her’s. Laced. 3:20 bell. Rings. A headache and cramps and the powdery taste of paracetamol and fear for tomorrow on my tongue. A basketball hitting the pavement. Handball. Her turn. Switch on, and off, but they keep the light on, over you, a surgical lamp, examining, manipulating, updating, live, real-time in a new-world yearbook. Log off. Cousins over for lunch. Things are going well. Tinsel on the tree. A new year calling my name. I reverberate down the halls. Fading out, out, smaller and smaller. Fading white to black to reunion.