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.


A Slip of Scissors: Flash fiction

tumblr_l5iwqhm6sJ1qbsxopo1_400I sat, sticking to a stool in the middle of our cramped kitchen. The scent of boiled vegetables on the stove saturated the summer air while I fidgeted nervously, fearing the end result of a bi-annual haircut. I wanted nothing more than to join the shrieking, playful cries of my younger sisters outside. Continue reading A Slip of Scissors: Flash fiction

Lip Liner

Boots off,
lipstick on,

curling toes, aching soles,

I can’t step right or feel
but I can walk in heels,
and I can give them what they want.

I can give skirts, fluttering round ankles
light toes, pink grace, small wisdom,
I can make, be a girl of palatable tastes
with a hollow chest that curves, thoughtfully echoes words,
gesturing, restrained slim fingertips I’ve washed of dirt.

I can’t speak light or feel,
I’ll wear a smile and heels
and I can give them what they want.

Emotions are very difficult and my thoughts on this are not so profound

I’m taking a brief departure from my usual slosh of poetry, prose and odd diary-like entries to write more plainly and probably less effectively about feelings. Specifically, the process of having them and then turning them into art. Or at least trying to.

Also, just a disclaimer, I’m using the term ‘art’ to describe all ‘creative practice’, not in any way to imply quality or merit to what I do here, just as an encompassing term for making stuff and honing in on creativity. So let’s get down to it. Continue reading Emotions are very difficult and my thoughts on this are not so profound


I like the sound of my pen scratching paper drawing smooth long lines until we


come up for air and breathe for a while

aimlessly wander to the brink,

of this morning’s tastes
and the colours of last night
that have seeped into your skin.

For my pen could draw lines on your back connecting each scar, freckle, blemish

Rose Tattoo

A constellation tattooed in the back of my mind though nothing is permanent,

but the sound of my pen this morning and you-