I can’t muster up,

roll up,

a compendium of courage

just enough

to balance onto this string,

so i’m always on


either grappling for gravity


floating (so high I can’t feel my fingers)


teach me these few

things, how not to:

clip fingernails to

split knives, then try to trace my face

or smash teacups

because the house has

ceased to whisper (i can’t stand silence)

or scorch the tips of pencils

when words stay hanging below my throat,


refusing to move any

farther onto paper



if my mind eases on the accelerator,

i’ll make sure to

stand under a storm

and hope for lightning

i’ll have my hands full of

plasma coalesced into electricity

(so blue it could burn your eyes)

at least there’s this


i may say,

that I can dissect,

squint into,

pick and fiddle with

like an old toy

made out of unknown



my life is a time bomb

and i’m running away from

the silence between each tick



from feeling like

an empty hotel room with

undone beds.

don’t leave me vacant,



I’d rather capsize a boat

than have it float

not like in the movies

it wasn’t a spark

it was nothing so romantic

but it kept our hearts





under each other’s



and it licks my lips close

and tickles my teeth.


i want to be able

to look past your eyes

catch whispers of ramblings

as you skip two steps

or catch your breath

and hold it in for a second too long-

what do you think of then?


i’ll spill out my fears

splay them out on the table

like cards,

shards of my nonsensical mind,

you can pick what you want

or just rip them all in halves or quarters.


and this heart can’t expect,

but here I am;


and I want to know

how your lashes cut like

the edge of a waning crescent

or maybe how they feel on my skin

after a shower,


or count the times you’ve

mumbled velleities about how

you don’t like your freckles

on the seams of

your cheeks


and everyday

we’ll stretch like a


bounce back


come back


it won’t be perfection

more like a dissection

of this affection

(p.s and that’s what i love about it)



between my two front teeth/an ode to nature

it’s like a gasp,

mouthful of mountain air

after spending




i’ve finally

raised my head

let the crickets

cradle my hair,

wind straighten my shoulders

and ill let birdsongs

stretch my lips apart

so earth can fit through

the gap between my

two front teeth


green, green of

morning leaves,

rustling trees,

broken knees

stitched back up

by the arborescent

fingers and strips

of creation


i feel its


bow down to me

as i bow down to


it’s sacred tongue

glides over the

wrinkles on my

hands, between my

toes and thighs


i’ll let myself fall

back for once

into that cosmic


to my mother//tug of war

broken thorns




supple skin

arborescent fingertips


vines around

the heart

the lungs


and you’ll want to exhale

but your ribcage

is climbing up

your throat

and you’ll want to

stay afloat

through the wetblack


river of –





dangling from


sprawling over



it’s a tug of war

we switch between being

the rope

and the




each other apart

just to restart.


we’re both trying

to glimpse past

the haze between

our eyelashes

squeeze past –

sneak past,

the gap between

our two front teeth –

the gap between,

our heart,

our words


and we try,

and try,

and cry

and try

trip over each other’s

broken pieces

with glue in our hands


waiting for attention


sneaking glimpses


calloused fingers

spilling over the other’s cheeks

wiping away tears


dust from

everyday life

sinking into comfort

with a twinge of pain

but it’s home


so we don’t stare



and in the end

we look out


where the rain starts


and we’ll be



gazing at the sky



we’ll find each other’s


in clouds

and sounds of

faraway lullabies

my pill

you know something

that annoys me

about me

I’m not saying this for

self victimisation

that fixation

away from stagnation

oh look,

my catchphrase

through the haze




maybe always,

i find cuts beautiful

i find blood beautiful

i find gushing wounds fascinating

like a scientist

i’ll sprinkle salt on top

oh look its bubbling


heat is produced

i guess i just turned on the engine?


i find suffering exquisite

something romantic

something perfect

something strong and bold and


like what i am not,


let me give you an equation,

to create

is to suffer

to suffer is to create

I’m bleeding so i must create

something of the mystical



being happy is completely useless

i need a stab

to react

i need toxicity

like a pill


I’m addicted





i think it’s broken

I think it’s broken.

I mean,

on the outside

my hands glide

over shimmering

shiny polished to



and I mean,

the engine runs well

quite swell.

it’s ready to take flight

you may think

I’m quite right


open the door;




thorned berries

sharp sounds of







over wires

in puddles

scratched knuckles

electrocute me

maybe i’ll be free


and maybe you’ll

get past all that

but oh honey

how funny.

pass the haze

and it’s


static numbers-

piling over numbers

climbing over

calculator tiles

for miles


the crumbs i had

for breakfast

and lunch

and dinner

and yesterday’s meals

and hell maybe last


and ill label that

biscuit i hid in the pocket

behind the dinner table,

crushed by my boot

because it wasn’t on the



and at the very back

on the walls,

i’ll have beautiful angels


red halos

carved on to

shadows of my


they just love picking at

the light and

dimming it, just slightly,


“don’t take it personally,

but I might just,

since I must,

combust this

lust for joy”

and i’ll bow down to


bow down to claws

that clench over

something bright,

ill give in to the dark,

the pain

let me drain into the sink,


sometimes i enjoy it


i just might

idealism, imagination, exaggeration

so, everytime i write on here in Times New Roman, I feel like I’m talking to a therapist, and I am, in fact my own therapist. I remember the TV show where the patient falls in love with their therapist, unluckily this cannot happen with me (though I so very wish for it, and I wonder how it feels like to love oneself). However, that is a topic for another talk and it’s quite a long winding road.

I’m here today to talk about (not embrace, but maybe a little bit) my overly active imagination and idealism. I don’t know whether I cherish or hate it. This is because on one hand, it’s spurred me on to creating something of the eerie or beautiful, on the other hand, it has had my heart forget it’s job so I’m sort of left there, hanging, with a hammer planted into my chest. It’s like expecting someone to pick you up on the road and you wait thirty minutes – well they must have been late, there was traffic- and an hour slips to four hours and you fall asleep on the bench you were waiting on. The end of the story is, that it never comes, this relief of the person coming for you  (relief that my heart muscle will set me free and stop jittering like a puppy). idealism is a nice concept, it even sounds sophisticated, something that rich educated teenagers use in poems, and to me it’s borderline stuff of nightmares and borderline majestic. It makes you feel grandiose because in that little skull of yours, everything is going the way it is- you’re running the show, honey. so the kiss you wanted landed just right on your lips and that second glance definitely meant more. but in the real world you’re not even sure you have lips to receive that kiss and maybe your lover is looking to the left and not at you. but that’s okay because then you suffer and this little bitch here enjoys the feeling of jumping ten feet stories high or simply dark things you find behind corners. but that’s all okay also because at least i’ll follow the trail of sadness/self victimisation/disappointment(mostly) and bunch it all together and this so called thing/ “art” comes out. and my teacher always says my work looks like anger, I say yes and it’s not anger towards the one or the world that didn’t follow my script, but it’s anger towards myself for making a script in the first place. sometimes i wonder what it feels like to pluck out all my teeth or cut my thighs in front of my lover so that i could simply write about it. this all stems from me just wanting all moments in life to be intense and life-changing and soul-grasping and I can’t stand the ordinary. I don’t want contentment, I want bliss. I don’t want neutral, I want pain or sorrow. I want it all to the extreme and I’ll never be able to stand in the middle of a capsizing boat.

ps. words you say will probably be tattooed on my eyelids

(i like feeling a lot so i don’t know where im going. and change seems scary and weird and uncomfortable and BORING)