i watched it
so i could
the pain.

i lived in
that world
for so long.
i thought i’d

scrape the surface
and you will
find it.

not a longing
to remember,
but a longing
not to forget.


saturday baking: #drunk

Things that are terrible to discover post- drunk saturday baking when you are sleepy and ready to embrace the red wine hazy slumber:

1. You washed your bedding today. You didn’t remake the bed.

2. You start to take off your favourite baking hoodie only to find the zip is gradually undoing itself FROM THE BOTTOM.

3. Go to the bathroom. Look at your face. THE HORROR.

4. Cats are so cute. Especially when they are sleeping.

5. We are in a long distance relationship. Only the distance is inter-universe. You know us: go hard or go home.

6. I see guys at the gym look at me, double-take and then realise that I’ve cut my hair. Some look disappointed, give me a sympathetic look and never talk to me again. Others tell me I look great – they are usually the married ones. Well done, ladies. Men are fucktards.

7. I see women at the gym look at me, double-take and then realise that I’ve cut my hair. Some look nervous, quickly look away and try never to catch my eye in the mirror. Others tell me my body looks great and that I must work hard. Women are fucktards.

someone wake me when this world is over.


in all the world
there exists only
one man;

whose embrace
dissolves the madness,
repairs my soul,
releases my heart.

elusive embrace.
but solace found
in knowing he exists,

and he will never
feel a drought
of my love.


but i want
to say,

i wish
you were here.

or i was there.

or i was nowhere.

my heart
is still missing.

and you are
doing your best

to survive.

2018: 09

he didn’t jump;
but i wished to slip
my hand in his;
after all,
you were only fishing.

2018: 08

does it make me
an arsehole;
for those living terminally?
only i would rather death,
if it was an option.

2018: 01

the scent of familiarity;
the willpower to remain alone;
watch and learn;
read and weep;
cut and drive;
dig and bleed.

keep going.


no knife
is sharp enough;
no blade
splits the flesh
with surgeon-like

puzzles float
through my brain:
shapes and colours
and figures and trees.
to test and trick
and bore you.

the numb monotony
wills me towards you
and i know
my desperation
isn’t fair;
i bore you.

sleep or sprint
are my only functions.
can you still
call it functional
when you stagger through life
at only two speeds?

i search for pain,
even when my eyelids ache
and my skull is shattered
and my stomach is twisted;
i seek it: i am
a willing participant in my own addiction.

would it be release?
or another futile effort?
do i really care,
now i know
i don’t belong
in this world.


do you know
what it’s like
to be left;
in the blue.

i hear the words,
i read your stories;
but every time
the same result:
you leave and i wait.

it’s not your fault.

i have felt
the warmth of your love:
immense and like no other.
no one has ever known me
and loved me like you.

i can’t see the page
that ends with you and i.
but i promise to leave
my love at the end
of every road for you.

i wish i could
give you everything
you’ve ever given me.
[i know it’s not enough]
not until time travel allows.

while i wait
for this one to end.
maybe we’ll find our time
in the next life.


it is the intense loneliness
that follows the act;
no closer to an actress,
to a performer, to a clown;
but an act all the same.

hear me, look at me, love me;
love me the hardest,
love me the longest,
love me the most,
just please don’t leave me.