But do you know what it is
to love myself, steeped four inches in gin
and having let the night air in. For
all my talk of moon and stars and who
they belong to i always kind of knew that
we were wrong, through the dreams built
using sugar paste and crumbling clay through
the lie you told me about being able to
feel safe one day. And my biggest fault was
leaning on you, to make me feel that way.
Honey i love you, but the way you behave
– it isn’t okay.



Cut my hair so short there’s
none left to comment on
and still i hear the parroted squawk about
‘what have you done’ and ‘where has it gone’.
Polly turn your fucking sound button one
more dial to the left. I kept
enough shards of hair in the
neckline of my clothes to itch when
i’m not around, for you to compose
eloquent pieces, a gender study thesis.
On why now i’ll be treated like i own a penis
except I could and you’d still be told to call me ‘she’.
See? This. Is how it works and the names
i carry are handwritten and mine to disperse
and that stands for anybody not brave enough
to tell you that their worth isn’t tied up in
hair or a lack of. In the wrong place, or
the colour pink. In the bigoted
way you think. The weight of my woman
is not carried in my tits, arbitrary bits
of fat that petty little shits like you
obsess about. Inclined to shout
from windows wound down in the
rush to snatch the happiness out of today
whilst you live in fear of being called
‘gay’ and I’ve got it written in a place
so revered, that you pay.  Asking:
hand on your cock,
if I’ve had a nice day.

And i don’t know
How to explain that i need more love
than can come from between
teeth worn smooth with the abrasion
of things you said and didn’t mean.
Lied clean. And i don’t know how
to explain that in spite of the fight
for you to treat me right ending
bitter and without a winner
i dream sometimes of feeding you
beige, for dinner.

I don’t know how to
undo you.

It’s white outside
and i’m fighting like there’s a prize involved
to focus on the wriggling mass of
contrast, typed too fast, in front of me.
And all i can really see is how prettily
you treat the thing that is we. Welcome to
polyamory and Jade Forbes, and
the way i call wars on a Facebook status.
Waking up before you’d choose too
for the small thing shouting about poo’s,
who will call herself the lettuce in a
sandwich between two. She’s new.
And i’m quite excited for the
potential you’re wrapped in like a
gift: just because. Everything that was
monogamy, not for me, not healthy,
and there’s no map but i’ll settle
for our respective marks; stretched,
etched, or otherwise. You, are a
lovely surprise.

Sea, see.

I feel whole again.
Because, look at me,
I’m itching to be loved with
the tsunami impact
of everything
you have to offer.

I’m not to be
anything less than idolised.
In your eyes, no less than the moon;
a single glance to make waves roll
across your spine, tides that find
the inch of you open to intimacy
and climb into bed with
your insecurities.

Today i found the note i wrote myself


‘Grabbed my leg and hurt me’
Item one listed in notes so that
my memory could let go of it, and
leak the pain into the ends of my fingertips.
And i’d wonder’d why the tips of me
were etched with betrayal at the
cost of your nails, digging flesh that
only loved you.

‘Pushed me to have sex although i was in pain’
I hadn’t expected to suffer through that,
again, i hadn’t expected the boy obsessed with consent
to push and whine and beg before he
casually repents. I didn’t expect that the stabbing
inside of my womb, would make you want to
fuck me so soon, what kind of dream am I,
whilst wanting to cry?

‘threw eve on the bed’
Now, this is where you led me to
the spot marked X, your final place of rest
because oh my fucking god did you push and test
the self loathing you pushed like a seed
into my chest. But my child?
That is when i would advise, that you
run, and hide. And covet your lies.

Run, and hide.