you’re like a disease like
i went to the nurse for a scrape 
and she says you’ve got this condition  
yes i can see it all over your face
and i gasp dear god would you like
to take some of my blood 
and she laughs like
what do you want me to do with it dearie 
we don’t need sick blood 
please lady what do i then
she says there’s no cure 
sometimes time works like a balm and 
it goes away then 
it comes back 
like a wave it licks
at the shore of your heart
see this line on your forehead right here
where your eyebrows come together a little
that’s a sign
your skin is sallow i can see the dark circles
clearly like halos you’re almost an angel 
i’m almost dead i counter and she laughs 
cough on this blank paper
i do and she nods
i knew it look here’s the poetry 
if you cry your tears will smell like sad 
if you laugh your lips will crack 
lady please take my soul away i don’t 
want it anymore 
and she pats my hair all the way 
down to my waist 
what do you want me to do with it dearie
we don’t need lovesick souls 
we’re full



when you step back into my life
the mines are dormant
like volcanoes
they grumble
and i say please
don’t hurt this person they
do not know any better
and they scoff and i scoff
and i think that perhaps
i am wise beyond my years
and kind beyond my past

when you step back into my life
this battlefield is green
long gone and buried
the rivers of blood
i’ve cried in my pillows
and i am ready
to forgive it looks
like spring i am ready
to grow like leaves
this field is peaceful i am
unable to hate you and you are
not able to hurt me

the way i heal is subtle
every second venom pours out of my heart
through my feet into nothingness
i am barefoot and bloody
stepping over the bridges
they are obsolete
i can swim now
and you can’t drown me
in pain

the panic is quiet i am
learning to live without the fear
of wronging you
i am still hurting
and my heart is still broken
when it mends
i worry it will still be mangled
and bent
and perhaps i will never be whole again
but i will be free


i wrote you a poem (i’m manic)

i wish you could brush my hair
for the rest of your life

i could play led zeppelin on
the tips of your fingers
with my mouth

we’re a billion miles apart
further from each other 
than if we were 
in death

in death
you summon from memories
days on end until you join them
alive still
your soul dormant 
the fabric of existence marred
maimed by longing
and missing
and more

you could play led zeppelin with
the tips of your fingers
inside my soul

the wasteland is alive today
with the sound of wailing 
for an empty tomorrow
i’m left shaking and wishing for the void
with its silence 
and quiet

i exhale and hold the voice as it 
rocks back and forth
echoes of its sorrow 
cloaking us from the cold

i am daydreaming about the breeze 
on my naked back
next to your lips 
the sun catching in the sparkle of your eye
in the attic of my home
in the attic on my mind 
the smell of summer heat
heavy and hesitant and wandering
actually a mood
slowly swaying to the swing of the wind

mrs alliteration, i’m married to semantics
and vocab and syntax
if you fire the sorcerer behind the script 
of your life
can i write it instead with the inks of
my heart 
flowing faster when you kiss me
and i’m more alive 
time almost slows down and i exist
only in your arms
like a thought 
let me type the rest of our lives
right before the sun sets 
when it breaks behind low clouds 
and evening is upon us 
slow and lazy and quiet
like the rest of our future 
i’m comfortable 
and content

i hope they analyse my poems
the curtains are both blue and any other colour
i hope they write essays about our love
i hope after us 
they’ll believe in
star-crossed lovers 
in soulmates

i’ve skinned myself and here it is
a breathing rug for your sleepless nights

i’m putting on a show
our audience is unaware but i can hear 
the thoughts in your chest 
you get to share 
and you get to keep

i want to kiss the peak of your cheekbone
the shallow of your temple
the edge of your hair 
the brightness underneath
i want to kiss the corner of your mouth

i want the binding and the roaming the
settlement of heart 
and the exciting lines jutting past the 
constricting horizon of the margin
these drawings were not ready
neither were we

i think i only wrote you prose so far
i’m sorry



some days some
days i
hate the distance
in both metric and imperial
this space between us
full of history and monuments
of tragedies and kisses
bridges i can’t find to cross
so i swim and
i drown
and i respawn like
jesus to a child
three days i cry
empty of blood
a carcass in the cave of my misery
this space i can’t walk so i long
eyes green with tears i wonder
if i have been so kind then why
am i still me
cars drive plays in the background of
this non-shakespearean play
i can’t do iambic and i can’t do heartless
not anymore
perhaps this is karma
because here i am
void of caresses

how unbeautifully lamenting of me
to continue this whining and still
here i am and i wonder
if my face ever makes your breath
hitch a little like when you
miss a step and find your footing
but with the tenderness of the breeze
on the back of your head
down your spine
the stairway to heaven
is full of missing steps
and i am most and
none at all

if when i sometimes pop up
your heart clenches in the meek hand
of missing me
fingers taut all of a sudden choking
the throat of your aorta
ghost kisses on the tendon in your neck


do you ever walk your fingers
on empty space
thinking of my hair
like tendrils of rope
floating in the underwater rivers
of our love
i am shipwrecked on this island
alone and hungry
i have been here for ever now
if forever ever seemed lonely
well it is
and so am i
i wish they’d told me to stay home
at sea the sky is spherical
cold and changing
day to night and i long
for what i could not have
and i go
and i come
like a wave
i wish they’d told me to stay home
and feed me the chains of an arranged marriage
so i’d never have met
you and never have thought
i could be important

some days some
days i whisper as i wander aimlessly
motivational posts on facebook
ringing in my ears
like aggressive fireworks
there’s a tapeworm in the stomach of
my heart
and it’s eating away at me like
i am breakfast lunch
and dinner like
i am the body of christ
and they are the hungry believer
i am irrational yet i am disbelieving
how fantastic that i still breathe
despite the apple of my eye belonging to
no one
god how i find myself longing
on the most winding of roads
i am bathing in brimstone
on fire despite drowning
into the oceans apart
let my whispers go i am
tired and empty
consumed and weary
i am so wired and
so tied up
and there’s no safeword
for this



I have lived here for twenty three years.
I have returned to this home more often
than to any other;
every morning I step into it and I hate it
but I have known no other as intimately
and to such depth.
Here is home to no one but me.
I have lived in my body for twenty three years
and while this is mine
this doesn’t belong to me;
a list:
the man on the street who sneered,
who shouted about how fat my arse is
how he’d fuck it so hard it’ll get smaller;
the man on the street who called me a fat cow;
the man on the street who told me I should
wear a bra,
I should
cover up if I don’t want him to look;
the man on the street who grabbed me one night
told me he’d show me a good time;
the man in the pub who told me I’m a slut because
he knows how many people I fucked
and I’m a cunt for not sucking him off;
the man on the empty train who took his dick out
and stroked it in front of me
looked me in the eye and licked his teeth;
the man on the bus who rubbed himself on my waist line,
who I had to push off me
whose face I could see bending around my fist
while his eyes burned with hatred;
the man in a ditch digging for the town hall
who told me it wouldn’t be easy to fuck me
because how long would he have to go looking for a hole
through all this fat?
My body belongs to every man who’s ever claimed it
because their voice is stronger than mine
and no matter how much I shield it,
how I mark it and claim it,
my body belongs to the world.
To it, I am nothing;
I am mute and deaf and limp
in the face of its onslaught of ownership;
I have been born to please a man and
there is nothing to me beyond that.
Every day I walk fearful of when
someone will decide to show me
that all doors should be locked
and that home is in fact bitter,
smeared with saliva and sperm.
Every day I expect that I will be shoved into a wall
and forced to be quiet while my home is ransacked
in the search for sick happiness.
I belong to this world not like a free spirit,
I am no child to this Earth;
I belong to this world when my father tells me
men will not like looking at me when I’m chubby
isn’t it a shame that I am so beautiful?
and I want to tell him father I woke up with someone’s dick
still hard inside me
and I have no memory of how it happened
so I put my clothes back on and walked home
where I showered twenty times
and vomited my consent all over the floor
My body belongs to the world when
I exist only in relation to men,
when I am someone’s daughter, sister, friend
and isn’t something like that happening to me
just fucking awful?
when sexual assault is horrible if it happens to me
and I would be worth something
because I am an extension of a man
so it impacts on them more than it does on me.
In twenty-three years that I have lived here
I have yet to meet a woman
who hasn’t been harassed in the most basic of forms;
basic, they call it
as if basic doesn’t hurt you so deep
you can swim in the wound
and wish you could drown.
I have yet to meet a woman whose body
hasn’t been claimed by others
against her wish.
When I willingly hold his hand on the street
my home is made of glass and everyone
is lining up to see how my grotesque outline
overshadows his beautiful legs,
how my inferiority stains him,
how I’m simply not good enough.
Their thoughts converge in the pity for him
and the judgement of me,
of how great he would look should I lose weight,
of how he could do so much better.
My body belongs to the world because
it gets to decide who should touch me
when I say yes and even when I say no;
words can be swallowed and such a small word
gets lost so easily behind a locked jaw.
My days are haunted by the times when
they would have burned my fingers for holding hers
before trying to understand where my heart beats;
haunted by their lewd commentary
when I dared to kiss her cheek and her lips
walking back from school;
when our bodies touching no more than if we were friends
became porn fuel to people on the street
when they told me it’s sick but still
not as bad as two guys, Jo
and besides it’s really hot when you two kiss
so could you do it for us, like, right now?
and besides, you’re young and you’ll get over it
and you’ll find a man to fuck you straight.
I never came out because I always thought
that it’s nobody’s business who I love
and who I let touch me
and who I let hold me
and whether they’re a man or not but since
my body belongs to the world
and I could be raped behind a dumpster because
I like my Jameson too much
and I could be killed because
someone doesn’t like me kissing a girl
and I am homeless every day I exist
maybe this door should be opened
and I should claim my choices when I can.



sitting here in my pants
taking a quiz to see if I’d met my soulmate yet
and I’m crying around the corner of my mouth
where I sucked on half a Marlboro
you see there is nothing else to me
or my writing or my stories
I can only talk and write about how I smoke
and cry and drink and get high
and sometimes fuck
and I wonder when people will get tired of
pretending to like the way I pretend to be
a writer
I can’t do deep texts if they aren’t about my vicinity
and the large space I occupy
there’s a Wall Street metaphor here I can’t be bothered with
I’m so full of useless information
that can’t even win pub quizzes
because my mates left me here about sixty years ago
and I’ve buried three chairs by the bar in the last fourteen months
I’m cynical so these numbers are fake
I don’t even drink that much
I smoke just the same
and I’ve not cut in a year and three months
go me more like go away me
and I don’t because even if I did
I’d be the only one knowing and fucking hell
it just hits me every now and then I can’t ever be rid of me
how fortunate those who can stop pretending to like me
and turn around and leave
see my family for details on how to do that
but I’m stuck here with me in me within me
and I’ll be fucked if I don’t understand everyone who’s ever
broken up with me and left me

it stopped raining two hours ago
and I’ve barely just stopped drooling
from my ugly sobbing
I still don’t know if I met my soulmate yet
the world is ugly and its people are worse
this poem is a byproduct of a panic attack
you don’t need to pretend to like it


Something Old, Something New

I stop in people’s lives for a while
and I walk away leaving bits of my heart
God I am Hansel
and I am Gretel
and every time I masturbate
this incest is forcefully pulled from my lips
I smoke my fingers with no filter
from the corner of my tongue you can draw smiles
that others will wear
I keep my wardrobe shut
so no one knows I house my skeleton there
this skin is held up by flaws alone
the infrastructure inside is wobbly
I am a derelict building in the back of your head
under the memory of a lover
and the taste of your mother’s hurtful words

I wage personal wars
with things from the past
I taught you how to breathe
when your lungs were tiny
and I tapped my finger on your chest
made your heart beat with my fingerprint
later you inhaled me whole
and I am now a derelict building in the back of your head

there is a brush stroke where your hair has been
on the bed in my heart
and my walls have dressed in your colour
how fitful is this plane of togetherness
where we never stood at the same time
by the sea and the sea
and its seas are my whores
to fuck as I please with my memories of smile
your mother’s hurtful words have touched me as well
because I feel by extension
you are the tendon next to my heel
you are Achilles and his thin legs
before he was bathed in the river
all vulnerable and diseased

find me in the mythology of us
where I bathed you in the river of my tears
keep me on the cliff where you lost your kin
where the wind crumbled your hair
and I reached for your head
I taught you how to breathe and you blew
like the wind and I was hair
and I was crumbled by the hurricane
that is your lips
when you whistled storms on me
I wage personal wars
silently I hate on my foes
and half an hour before dawn I find
I’m fighting myself



Look, I’ll shed this skin that burns
whenever it rains with memories
I am the witch of floating regret
it lands on my skin, like snowflakes that never melt;
I’ll shed it and I’ll stand, with bloody muscles and fat
will you still love me when my freckles fade into putrid dermis?
Fuck being young and beautiful, I’ve been old
and ugly with doubt since the beginning of time,
eighty-eight point eight lives ago.
I want to build a home for us
inside of your chest,
of your rib cage
where you will hold me and rock me,
and I will tie you to myself
like a rock on the edge of an abyss;
you won’t pull me in the depth
but keep me on land.
I want to build a home for us until my hands bleed,
until they tear with the effort of my love
and the efforts of your acceptance;
there will be no locks on our door
I’ll walk in slowly
when the pressure of the sea becomes too much
and crawl quietly in your heart
where you will hold me and rock me.
Sometimes my eyes go green
when it rains
it pours it floats it floods my cheeks
some rain needs no clouds and I need no umbrella
because I soak and I wait to dry;
I’m a cloth for the windows of your soul,
come stay on my breast and I will milk my tear ducts
your cheeks glow with my kisses.
Find me in the night on the side of the bed
to your left
where you left me the last time
I slept next to you.
Non-serendipity because we made it happen:
I can tell you the minutes and the heartbeats
but I can’t tell you the length of my love;
look, I dress the Earth in its fabric
and the train floats into space like a comet.
We move in tight circles when we do
around each other and within each other;
you can tell my age by the rings in my spine
so cut it open and count them to me
like sheep when I can’t sleep –
there’s one for every day I have longed for this love:
my spine is a hurricane that has taken over the eternity,
its circles endless.
Come home now, let me kiss the space behind your eyelids
where fears dwell because I’m crazy
and my lips curl too much
around your words.
I laughed and they wore me down with their whips
because happiness is forbidden in the land of them;
wait here, I’ll flood their land and burn their crops,
I’ll rain down locusts and the anti-vaxxers bane;
you see, I’ll rewrite the Bible for us
and send them no wi-fi and rush hours
and bad filters on Instagram.
I’m coming now, you know how that feels
I’ll kiss my way home, to your heart.


Black Cables and Sunrise Without Tequila

How to put it in words
when all I want to do is scream about it
when all I want to do is punch the timeline
of this universe for allowing two people to fall in love
and eventually have me?
The gods have been so unfair in giving me a beating heart
and the pain that comes with every pump.
How to put it in words
when I want to write to you
in blood and tears and baby, sometimes I do.
I want to put it in words, I want
to tell you that I wish you’d care about my hair:
I wish
you’d care
about the way my lungs pause
when it comes to you,
the way my asthma needs more than an inhaler
it needs air that has been breathed by you
the way flies need to decompose corpses.
I want to put it in words, I want
to tell you my nail polish is more than chemicals in a colour
it’s what I want you to read when I can’t tell you I love you
because I care about such things as Hogwarts houses
and which one you’d be sorted into;
and when I’m alone in my bed in my room in a country
that is no longer home
I wish I could send you an owl and tell you
words don’t come easy to me.
I am but one of those bloody foreigners coming here
wanting to know what love is;
love is knowing you break my heart every time
and still when I see you it’s all put together.
I do it because not knowing you hurts more
than knowing you’re going to break my heart.
I want to put in in words, I want,
I really do but I’ve got my pride and I know how to hide
all my sorrows and pain
I’ll do my crying in the rain.
Did you know that in London it rains approximately –
London rain 2014 statistics
London how much did it rain
London fuck you Google how much did it fucking rain
I’m drunk and my pasta has no meat how much did it rain last year you piece of shit
I’m trying to tell this man I love him and thank fuck it rains because
A-Ha has a cover of The Everly Brothers and fuck me Google how difficult is it
To tell me how much it rained?
He’s away and he doesn’t know
I’ve got my pride and I know how to hide all my sorrows and pain
he doesn’t know I’ll do my crying in the fucking rain.
Fuck you Google tell me how much it rains when it pours because
metric system and all that and back home we only measure unhappiness
in how many married men we fuck, I do anyway
and I’ve been so unhappy I don’t have a number.
I guess I was sadder than the infinite of a wedding ring
embedded with precious stones;
I’ll give you my kidney stones because your husband
was fucking everyone and me.
And had I known, darling,
dear thirty-eight year old, the same age as my mother was when she had me,
I would have still fucked him, and please
don’t call my mother to tell her
this is not Greek lessons on the ground floor of a shit building;
this is my life and your life and the way your husband comes within two minutes;
your kids are not his and had they been mine they wouldn’t have been his.
He pays me to teach English and I take that because money for a blowjob
is against my father’s teachings.
I want to put it in words, I want
to call you and tell you
I hope your co-pilot doesn’t hate the world as much as he could
because love as much as I’m unhappy right now, the bees,
the fucking bees don’t want to be alone
and I don’t want to be without the bees.
I want to go home with them
and I’d put up with all the pain
if only I’d fit in a hive.
I want to rule over this establishment and have little male bees
fuck me for baby bees.
I wrote this before:
I want my tears to fuck
each other for fun and should they have baby tears,
I want to lick them in reassurance.
Did you know that in the warmth of my room
I’m shivering with the death of this love
I want to have killed it but its illness allowed for assisted suicide:
this is Switzerland, my love,
neutral and full of rich white men
I wish I could make them all cry.
I want to put it in words, I want you
to know that more than lyrics in a song
I cry in cheap Tesco fabric, covering my cheap
uncomfortable Tesco pillows that serve as favelas
for tiny creatures that feast on my dead skin –
they hate me the way people hate a weak ruler.
I want to rule them but my geometry skills are nonexistent;
my face is drying with young age
clothing an old soul; how have you
found me in this myriad of lines in a poem
and why haven’t you told me you’re letting go?
I wish you’d have told me you’re letting go
I wish you’d have told me you’re letting go.
Did you know my bin is overflowing with plastic cups
because I know you won’t see it for a while
and every drop of whiskey I slide down my throat
is everything that is not you.
Masks. I keep masks deep under my bed
where neither you nor I can find them;
they sip from the straws that escaped the bin
and if I could, I wouldn’t stop them:
one of us has to be happy, love,
God knows it’s never me.
I’m lying down in the high that is your lips
and I fear I’m not happy,
I prey I’m happy
and when you leave I understand what happiness is
in its absence
like an abscess on a gum that has grown like weeds
I can’t help it when my gums decide to be rebels
I wonder if my children will be pink
like my gums, with strong limbs like post-six teeth.
Tell me you’ll read your poetry to my kids
and when you see their eyes
you’ll know they’re mine because their smiles spread to the lines
around their eyebrows.
Tell me
when you read to my kids will you
be thinking you fucked me on a single bed
with little footballs on the sheets
and a toy snake I named Cuddles caressing our sweaty bodies?
I want to put it in words
how to put it in words
when Google won’t tell me how much it rained last year,
when my kids won’t know you by name,
when my name is not my name but the name
that people chose for me,
when my mouth is so tired of talking
it can’t bring itself to whisper,
when you can’t tell me you like my writing
either because you can’t lie or you won’t be bothered.
I’ll hire a writer to put down on paper the things
you want me to say and I can’t.
My poems are my soul
in these many letters;
I write them because NHS only covers this much therapy
and I can wake up for therapy only so many times.
I write them because they are the words that have been left
on Jotunheim, they are my Loki, they are my orphans:
I pick them up, Frost Giant or dwarf,
I breastfeed them my heart’s pure blood
the one with oxygen, the one
that is red in science books.
I feed them truth and they shit out
these words you don’t like
because my accent reminds people of internet brides,
of Dracula and the Cheeky Girls.
if I could hire someone to entertain you
I’d pay for all the times I can’t make you laugh;
if I could hire someone to talk to you
for all the times I couldn’t be smart enough
I would pay for your happiness
because I care so much that you’re happy
I don’t consider it could be with someone else
and I don’t care if it’s not with me.
How to put it in words
I want to put it in words.
I’m afraid that if I hold my breath for long enough
my heartbeat will slow down so much
it will stop altogether.
I want to project words on your body
so they hit your skin and stay with you
like bruises with an accent.
I think of you when my vibrator purrs
and when it dies like words on lips;
I wrote this before:
my chin rests on your sternum,
you play with my hair,
you don’t care about my hair,
you don’t care it’s fake and long only because I feed it
parts of my soul.
My heart is so tired of pumping venom
but there is nothing else for it to pump;
I want my heart to hug a dick
so that it pumps it in a glorious handjob.
The bees the bees the bees have all attacked me,
my skin flakes, it falls like snow in May
in a country that only sees snow with tragedy,
my skin is a tragedy.
Carmen. If you don’t love me, I love you
If you don’t love me beware.
If you haven’t met the Queen for tea,
know that I am the spawn of Dracula
except genetics went wrong and instead of sucking blood
out of virgins, I’ve never had a virgin
and I suck dick instead.
how to put it in words,
you make me want to buy my bras in your favourite colour
even if you would only see them for thirty-two seconds
and then not again for an entire week.
I wrote this before:
I wonder if you feel my cheek
on the side of your neck when I smile;
your skin tastes like my tears you never knew I cried.
How to put it in words
I want to put it in words;
did you know that the last thing I copied on my computer
was your name and now I’m scared to write
because I’ll paste it everywhere.
I’ll Google you and the rain:
assignment fourteen, your name,
reflective notes eight, your name,
I love you, your name,
your name,
your name,
dear mum, your name,
I want to paste it on the walls of this city
and touch it when I go for a walk,
I want to caress the superficial physical side of your name
because there are no more emotions
and we both know I can’t put them in words.
your name makes me physically ill
when it pops up in the middle of the night,
the light of the screen blinds me
but not enough that the letters of your name
stop hurting me, you hurt like a bruise,
a beauty mark that burns on my cheek.
I weep when I’m alone
because there are only so many directions to turn
and you’re not in any of them.
I tell you “help”, and you say
I flail like a scarecrow with some sort
of obsessive compulsive disorder:
eight times to the right and eight times to the left,
and eight nights of straight up crying
when the moon shines but not bright enough,
the rain pours but not strong enough,
my veins hurt but not hard enough.
My love, if I were you I wouldn’t help me either.
I want to put it in words
but no language has that many synonyms for pain,
and I’m not a walking thesaurus
because I’ve stopped moving long ago.



I say
do you want to come over and watch
Casablanca and watch Black Snake Moan
while the side of my breast presses into your arm
and he says
because I ask that in the darkness of the bed
it takes me forty-four minutes to get me
to open and close an app on my phone
before I tap on his name
it takes me forty-four seconds to decide
that no one would like to spend their time with me
I cry
put on Springsteen and light a fag
in the next hours I do it three more times
I put on Zep
I cry
I crawl my fingers across my stomach
wishing I could do it on the inside
to scrape the need for love from the walls of my body.
When I’ve gone for long enough
I find my other ones and in the darkness of my bed
I hold my own hand because it makes it feel lonelier.
When I go to sleep I rock myself like a child
that has been given cocaine
and is crashing from it
with a runny nose and the chills
The Doors next to my head
my face damp and my hair cold
I put on Chris Rea
I cry
they say being alone is different than being lonely
and I say
nothing because when there is darkness everywhere
it doesn’t matter
whether your bed is empty or your soul is dying
it means that you might not wake up in the morning
and what a great gift that is
I say
do you want to come over and watch
my eyes opening in the morning only after I’ve kissed you
and he says
because I turn around
and the only other thing in my room
is my demons
and the plants that are dying
along with my dreams
I say
do you want to come over and watch
my heart swelling up when you smile
and he says
because I never tap on call
it takes me forty-four minutes to stop crying
I put on Dylan
I cry.