I wish I could just hold the pen, once. Written, erased – over and over, I wish it was a sharpie and you couldn’t go to town with this tangled game of making it up every time you need to feed your own messed-up scribble.

I wish these building blocks you knock over every time they get in the way were bricks, then at least it would take more than a soft blow to break and send the pieces flying through rooms… I stick them in boxes and wait, patiently, for another time you feel like playing.

I wish this cloth was more colourful, and I wish you liked to sew, not tear and rip and cut. I wish I could fold neatly, once, twice, three, four times until it fits in the tiny space it has left where your scissors won’t reach it.


I fit.

I bloom like a weed,

chopped and sprayed and mowed;

I push my head through concrete

and bloom, gracefully.



I’m conflicted.. confused. I imagine it so often and it’s always the same, always so different. It doesn’t feel real, but my body knows; my skin turns cold, my breath quickens. I pace like a little child waiting for Christmas morning. I wonder if mine comes early this year. I wonder if it comes at all..

I hear the knock, see the door, the looks, the bitten lips. But do I push you against the wall for all the hurt. Do I slap you face, hatefully, or touch your lips softly with my own? Do we make love slowly, eyes locked and breath steady. Or does our thirst get the better of us and we f*ck like wild animals, tranced and crazed by our liberation.


It has to be you

It has to be you. Ever since you came back, I can’t be if it’s not you. There was no touch, no held breath you have missed. Not once was my skin burning without your name on my tongue.

He wonders why our eyes never meet, the fool. But it’s never him, no. It has to be you.


Because I can’t hold on to the illusion. When I almost believe, when I can almost touch your face, you vanish and leave me like a held breath. And never do I feel colder, lonelier; never do I long for darkness more than when I wish I could stop fooling myself..

I grow and I laugh at myself, and then shrink back into this girl, too small for my shoes. You grab my hands and spin me around and I let my head fall back, and laugh like a maniac, drunk with your madness. I keep waiting for the day you’ll let go, when I spin so fast, and I fall and hit my skull against a stone and split it apart. Perhaps you’ll leave it then, my twisted mind. Perhaps you’ll set me free.


Hands pressed against my lips, firmer, the breathless sound of your name echoes, echoes. One eye laughs, one weeps.

I crush the holy word with my teeth and it’s sour; both eyes weep.


I’d forgotten the taste I never knew. I’d forgotten it because I dug its hole with broken fingers. But the cracked earth sucked its sweetness and spat it out.


Perhaps another tomorrow, then, huh?

I come back with the tide, mud in my belly and bulging eyes.

You walk past and the blood shoots out of the rotting heart,

black blood; dragging my face through the drying sand

i catch up, and you gather my limbs and stick them back,

carry me gently to edge of the mud; pour me out.


This resurrection has turned obscene

Perhaps tomorrow the wave will forget

an eye, or perhaps my entire head.

Satanic Jesus, let me die!