I guess it feels like I’m waging war on the memory of a monster,
on myself, on society;
my throat closes up like a clawed hand is around it.
These words are my knives, this is a battle roar!
But this isn’t a war,
this is me standing outside of an abandoned house,
begging the thing that used to live there to come out and fight me.
(You coward! You fucking coward!)
I must keep doing this, I suppose, until the urge to rip something to pieces subsides.
And my tired footsteps home sounds like victory drums,
and my exhausted wheezing sounds like hymns.


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Some days I think all of these words are flowers with shards of glass instead of petals.
You pick one up and compliment me on my brightness,
I want to say – careful, don’t be so hard handed. –
I see you, I see you falter, and I wish I could let you know I used to want you like I want raw fish.
Something to treat myself with, now and then, always alone.

Selfish girl.

I can see you wrap loneliness around you like a blanket and I build my nest out of it.
All the same we’re reaching into screens and hoping something reaches back, in a way.
In a way we’re all grasping for fingertips in the dark, and I trace my fingers across the mouth of a lover who tells me I am everything.
And I am longing,
and glass petal flowers, here, I’ll make you a crown.
Now we’re both bleeding.

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His kingdom is forever

They gave us bibles when we grew up, shoving holy words into the hands of little girls.
And we sing in monotone voices A mighty fortress is our God.
But I found my own holy words when I was ten,
on the A and B sides of a L. Cohen cassette tape in my grandmothers drawers.
A bulwark never failing.

And from his tongue came the sermon of my youth,
I made my bed my altar, I prayed and prayed.
Dear Gods I prayed, shouting my amens into the pillows.
And when I knew for certain my legs could carry me I took only those pillows with me when I ran.

When I wasn’t a woman yet I thought I had been torn,
that someone had dug their hands in to the cracks of my very being and ripped me open.
So with my trembling fingers I opened a part of myself up for scarring.
And he sang that there is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.
I am not broken, is what I heard, I am not broken.

So keep you bibles, I’ll give every young girl songs of love and hate.
And tell them to never be less than Marianne for anyone they want to take their clothes off for,
I say I hope you meet the sisters of mercy when you think you’re lost and we all do our time in the army of joan of arc.
These are holy words, I will say, and we are not broken.

Now pray.

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Black sails

I will make my house here out of urchins so no one will ever forget I am a daughter of the sea.
For what good it did me.

We thought as children and acted as children yet we had the bodies of women,
And she said “I am the white fox” and it became so, her fur bristling, her teeth snapping.
I knew her when she gnawed everything of the bones and drew herself naked on the walls.
She looked them all in the eye and said “this is my den and this is my sister.” and it became so.

I proclaimed my self cat and I ran through that year honing my teeth.
And a daughter of the sea, my fur it smelled of salt water and kelp, my heart it shook like a sail in storm.
The sea taught me how to give, and give of myself.
For what good it did me.

And a cat thinks anythings that feeds it is a home, so I snapped the neck of that notion, left it at the edge of the shoreline and said “I am the lynx.” and the sea remained the same.
So I left, because the sea taught me how to dig my fingers into stone if I am just patient enough.
And that did me good.

She left a piece of her heart with a man who built her a shipwreck, and now it’s there in the bottom of him calling her home like a siren.
And I have found myself leaving fresh kills at the doorstep of an old lover again so who am I to say no;
run home.
Do not love men who are set on sinking.
We are of the ocean, we know how it takes and takes and takes.

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Duct tape heart

“When it has been 59 days of heaving, living softly and threading around the edges of yourself it is ok to think murder.
To think uncare packages filled with pictures of yourself smiling so they know you can pretend.
Because you know where it hurts it’s fine to think of your tongue as a knife you wield.
To wrap your heart in duct tape and go “Fuck it.”
“Fuck it, good enough, keep moving.”

When you know you’re not out of the woods yet.
it’s ok to get our your knife and carve yourself a weapon out of the closest tree.
Build fires and stay in the light, it’s ok to touch yourself with firm fingertips but not let others.
It is fine to not live every day as if healing is something in smiles, and soft voices, and water.
Sometimes healing comes wearing heavy boots and hard eyes,
sometimes healing comes wielding an axe and duct tape shouting.
“You! Take this and keep going! Just fucking keep going!””


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whispered into the marrow of a lover.
These are the things I can give you.
Wear feathers in your hair, and shimmy your hips.
Let’s burn the evening until we are all purple and pink.
I can grin until your world flickers, I can sing you songs off key.
These are the things I can give you.
Grow out your nails, let me paint them in beetle green and blue.
Let them run down my spine while I navigate your throat.
I can make you believe In decay,
abandoned houses have nothing on me.
These are the things I can give you

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February is the tired month,
it’s the drag your heels – month.
Can’t get out of bed, why do we need to shower so often – month.
This month smells like anti depressants and the knot in your stomach you know is supposed to go away, it will go away, I promise.
It’s the raining month, it doesn’t snow in London but I keep wishing the frost would stick around.

February is waking up at half two every day for a week,
taking days off work to think straight about crooked things.

It’s hands over my belly – why don’t I eat enough, why?

This month feels like too hot mugs of tea that cools down too quickly,
and gets forgotten.
Mugs with owls, mugs with foxes, mugs with shapes that follows me into hazy naps.
Stacked like a wall between me and the rest of this city,
half full, half empty, and brown like… 

like all the colours of my water colour pallet mixed together,
trying to find the shade of sky I want.
Brown and grey and rain on the asphalt. 

February is flowers dying in the vases and I can’t seem to throw them out,
it’s hanging on to any splash of life I can.

Lighting candles because I’ve forgotten how to burn completely.

Reaching out in the night, too sweaty when I’m close to him, too cold when I’m apart.

Just needed a week to recover, a holiday, let’s talk about sunny places.

There is a salt plate in Bolivia and I want to see the stairs like they are supposed to be seen.

February is the tired month,
Can’t remember the summer – month.
Time to make another mug of tea;

walls don’t build themselves.


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