My eyes are prised open
with the splinter’d hope that
you’re safe. And my chest:
swollen, infected with the
of us.

Do what you must.

If i’m in love with the moon
and she’s reflective of the light
we throw at her. Possibly, the love
I throw as hard as i can into a night
deeper than my capacity for self mutilation
will bounce back onto you.


I have nightmares
about the beauty in the way
your voice snaked about my hips
and held me close. I wake up
crying, eyes like gritted roads
and my chest stinging with wishing
but I grab at sleep and hold the pain
close so I can dream it again even when
the neighbours ask If i’m okay
and i’m left aching the whole next day
empty and mourning. Eve tells me
she loves me and it’ll be alright,
without any warning she
catches the fear in my
breath, it’s a wonder
there’s any of me

The feature length me

Opening scenes and
raging arguments bitter with
morality. Refusal.
Bare faced, stubborn refusal
to back down when I believe in something:
because that is not who I am.
The pictures. My face every way
and some of the rest of me too
if i’m nude do you see more or
less of the truth.
And the way my mind plays between
the dark heights, light fights,
and the tooth third from the center
of my filthy mouth,
biting at the edges of me raw can you see it
You can SEE it.
The apologies. Acknowledgements,
mine to you too. The way
that you see the broken me who
needs more than what the world
has given before
and know it doesn’t mean that
I NEED it from you.
I am not the only thing
keeping you sane, but by choice
i’m sherbet fizz on the edge of your brain
mildly corrosive but what’s love
without pain. Without
imminent threat of the loss
of a life or that dare about Wives,
And becoming one. Not
entirely fictitious. It’s vicious
the things that decent people do
and that’s why i’m glad that decent people
doesn’t apply to Me and You.

But i’m here and I could be home,
(though my foundations are few)
at least the picture of it painted,
and I’ll throw away the blue.


If you must;
Leave. But do it at dawn
when the air bites reality back and
I can sleep through the homesickness.
Crunching beneath fingernails like
gritted remains of seeds sown
by maybe, and one day
and could we.


I’m rare; be nice to me.
Paint me with honey tones –
acrylic paint thick and peeling, second skin.
Paint me whilst you’ve got me on my knee’s,
i’ll drink as though you were cough syrup
and my lungs riddled with homesick.

I should start a tally
for the infinitesimal heart attacks
(like splinters in my hips) each time
my phone reminds me you aren’t here.
“Active”. A fucking ghost.
I feel you like strings tied about
the loop of your belt, and sewn through
the skin on my inner thighs.
Deep enough to anchor.

Get a little more proud

Each time I see myself reflected
I am caught unaware, but at times
I can pour cement to my spine and stand tall
with “you’re welcome” to those who get the chance
to be around me.

Love yourself like a Norse God
steeped in possibility and strong enough
to hold hopes high for years to come.
Love yourself like a three year old
on fire with self celebration the absolute second
a mirror is introduced.

Love yourself the way
you know that you deserve. Like half
a tub of ice cream and candlelit baths.
Like eating on time. Letting yourself sleep.
Avoiding the abuse and touching
yourself instead.