may you be

may you be

chartreuse liqueur

makes a small den

in the space between us,

wrapping itself up

into a small cocoon

to then slowly have itself


by my hands-

your hands


so as we unravel

and as it unravels

i find myself pinpointing,

us, on a great big


dotted lines suggest

where we were

where we’ve been

and it’s one long winding

road, tainted by the same

chartreuse lamps


sitting between the

rocks and your legs,



too often i find myself


the traced pencil marks

(on the map)

of places we could go

maybe on bike

or car or train

maybe with money or without

maybe the trip

is all in our mind.

so it’s all maybe there

or somewhere else

maybe i would like that

maybe not really


my limbs, tangled between

“may” and “be”

and i look up,

back to you,

and start thinking


you’re may,

you’re newborn summer

fresh and dirty

full of bee’s buzzing

and may you be


emerald birthstone or

simply the sudden rainfalls

you’ll still be buzzing with

that life that reminds me of

may. reminds me

of the day i was born

so i can be born over and

over again everytime

we sit side by side,

small little bee

in may,

you remind me of –


may you be


or something




just let me

envelope you.


maybe i love how you’re

maybe this or maybe that

remain undefineable

i find that entrancing-

to put it bluntly-


(and to put it more bluntly,

every time you’re here,

you surprise me with something



a new way of seeing:

like im wearing glasses for the first


over and over



infinite tenderness

Being reunited with your first childhood love is something that feels very sudden, out of place, yet completely in place: fitting like a puzzle piece into your life. Seeing her again is like closing my eyes on a rollercoaster and opening them again only when they tell you to take off your seatbelt: and you feel like you’ve missed out on this whole middle chunk and you wished you were there to see it (yet you also don’t), so you just get the end product delivered to you. No labels. No preamble. Just the person with a smile that has shifted slightly and eyes that have lost and gained hope for what seems like centuries. And you remember seeing her joyous and naïve and ignorant, her eyes wide open like gemstones begging for light, for life to hit them. But it’s still all there. And the whiff you smell when she passes you is always the same and you know that if you were to squeeze her all into one drop of essential precious oil, it would smell as strongly and beautifully as it did three years ago. She wears scars now, but she also wears the same golden nail polish, and this little curious quirk has popped up in her- and it drives me crazy: her curiosity for life. She’s sticking her tongue out to taste what it feels like to be alive. And I’ll always feel this infinite tenderness towards her.

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





Pretty Girls. Better Not.

Missing out

on pretty girls in

pretty dresses

downing drinks

that poke holes

in their throats


Coats and coats

of laughter


press record!



pretty girls

with their

pretty faces

cry themselves

to sleep

because pretty

is never enough


they’re made out of


posting pictures

that define their


because they are

nothing more


emptied out

by ghosts of themselves

on silicon screens


But these pretty girls,

we are all jealous of.

Living in the perfect



Eyes follow

all movements:

a swish of a too-short skirt

and they’ve got

someone begging at those

barely standing knees.


Pretty girls

stick fingers where

they shouldn’t

so the stomach

remains as empty

as the rest.


It’s ok. Red

lipstick will cover

the cracks

concealer won’t

tell others these

pretty girls don’t



Maybe I want to

be a pretty girl

in a fur coat:

a lover in one hand and a

bottle of wine in another.


Better not.

Broken Promises

She looked at him, amazed, with pure joy. It was as if she’d seen him for the first time. For her, he was like a luminescent spark appeared after rubbing two rocks together for countless minutes. Her eyes admired every single bit of the man she knew so well.

She was leaning towards him in her bed, her frail body almost trembling with emotion. Continue reading