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The Golden Apple 

I want to show you my new skin
La peau fraîche de mon nouveau corps 
Human cells replace themselves after 30 days of living 
Sinews and pathways 
Change their direction 
Bringing the lodger on their travels 
We refresh 
Dirt stubbornly clings to the foetus of our new cell-born soul 
We are turned over 
Oozing from our own pores 
Like the caramel of a tarte tatin aux pommes 
We stick together 
And it is only then 
Caramelised and sticky 
Our messiness becomes communal 
Our bubbles explode sweet excrement 
Coating our psyches 
We are all jagged cuts of the same fruit 

I want to show you my new skin 
Despite being reborn
The scars and freckles are mine forever
Les cicatrices intérieures soufflent comme des poumons 
Their exhalations are salty 
Paris has made me one of her rats 
She doesn’t exist to make me happy 
I exist because she makes me happy 
My new skin glitters on the hour 
Gold contrasts with my blues
Dévoilez-moi de la fumée 
Watch the light reflect its caramel hues

I want to show you my new skin 
It woke up like this (flawless)
I did too 
As humans we try to suffocate the self 
Painting chemicals 
Painted curtains to hide a broken window 
Idealised perfection allows for human rejection 
We are all jagged cuts of the same fruit 
Strange fruit 
We hang from a single tree
An apple should not be perfectly round 
The Apple was eaten in rebellion
Allowing imperfection to reign 
We took the earth

Let us make a tarte tatin 
Paint ourselves in dripping gold 
Let our juices explode into history 
Escaping the frying pan mould 
Let us be apples 
Sugar saturated seeds 
Let us be saplings 



Drawing into Stalingrad

I am a drawing in your mind.

That’s all.

Born reluctantly out of your self-absorbed
Even when you’re looking right at me

I am invisible.

You zoom and erase and distort to your own liking
Treating me like an inanimate thought
Perfecting me if you are interested
Defiling me if you are not.

Some defilement can be perfection.

I am a drawing underneath your skin
Sucked into the vacuum of your pores
Expired through the lead inside your brain

I can be scribbled out with an angry hand

I’m sorry I made you angry.
I didn’t mean to.
I promise.

(please scribble me out)

I am only a drawing after all.


It was 00:03 when I found the lump.

Lying face down
Right hand on upper right breast
Left hand under my pillow.

That was when I found the lump in my throat.

It clogged me up
Restricting air and sleep

No longer a foreign feeling.

The pills kept it from developing into fully-blown emotion.

They tend to do that.

But I couldn’t swallow this swelling tumour

And it took over as I lay in bed

Desperately willing myself to get over it

To get over him
To get over them

But images accompanied this oesophageal invasion

And my brain decided at 00:03 that it would not sleep that night.

I shouldn’t feel this way.

I have no right to.

I don’t understand why the simple fact of teenage lust should make me want to relapse,

To give in to my attentive self destructing hands,

To restrict myself from any food or company,

To stop.

Go on. Kiss her. I dare you.

Melting Waste

I want to melt into my skin whenever I hear about her

Melting into oblivion

Sifting through the cracks in the pavement

Mixing into my vomit

It feels good to intoxicate and empty

But I regret telling him my feelings

I don’t know him well enough to know if he deserves my secret

I don’t know me well enough to know if I deserve him.

Sifting through the cracks

It always sifts through the cracks

And manages to escape when I lose control

She’s making it difficult to keep a hold

To keep the cracks fastened shut with bolts and locks of my own creation

Unintentionally of course


And there are no hard feelings

Only those towards the monster eating her up inside

Insatiably destroying her body and inhabiting it.

Sifting through the cracks and into the waste of my fellow species

Flowing along with all the other badness

And into the raging sea

Across the oceans which divide her and I

Through the taps in the ICU

And into her bed.

I want to hold her.

To tell her I love her.

To tell her the things I never have

Before the monster takes over completely

And she is dumped as well.

Greetings from Paris

Bonjour! So, I live in Paris now, which is excellent. I haven’t been online in a while, been trying to sort my self out, in a sense. I’m studying out here for the next year, so looking forward to my classes starting, and to speaking a bit of French. Much love.


Transparent and opaque 

Wipers batter the newly fallen raindrops against the sliver of mist

With every hit the coursing and pulsating flow gains a new comrade 

And is pushed through the gap 

Into the unknown freedom 

As each one leaps into the slipstream 

To suicide 

Or welcome comfort, 

They don’t know. 

Maybe both. 


Eventually the downpour ceases 

Leaving abandoned droplets to 


Unsure if the fall is the right move in this game of chess 

Or if they should remain the pawns 

Moving slowly 


Having no purpose, 

But content. 

War Paint



A voice whispers into her sleep-deprived ear. 

A voice full of malice.

A voice desperate to pinch and pierce and punch at her skin 

Until she kicks and screams and


In ways she thought she never could. 


She suffocates her gasping skin in make-up,

Shrouds it in billowing clothes, 

Constantly feeling the excess that should not be. 


The voice turns to laughter 

As it reminds her of the mirrored monstrosity,

The bruises begin to show 

And she sees nothing except the blemishes, the inadequacy, the hurt. 


But underneath the bruises, 

Lies a weak, shimmering spirit. 


It lies in wait, 

Until it is ready to overcome the voice and the bruising it inflicts, 

And until she herself is ready to accept it. 


A blocked plughole

A tap drips. 

And the plughole is closed up.

Intentionally or by accident, 

No-one knows. 


The drips become more frequent, 

More insistent,

Yearning to find an escape route. 


The drips become a trickling flow, 

Which pushes gently against the plug. 


But as it realizes there is no way out, 

The flow become faster, 


As it attempts to force its way through the blocked plughole

Down into the pipe which will ensure its freedom. 


Water pumping now, 

Filling up the bath, 


Desperately seeking any way out, 

Flowing and flowing, 

Pushing and shoving, 

Gaining in speed and force

Anxiety and Frustration 

Power and powerlessness. 


A hand comes to the plughole. 


And hovers there, 



The water ceases to gush. 


An inhalation of breath, 


And the hand moves away. 


In a howl of desperation 


The water returns to its state of panic, 

Filling up the bath

Until suddenly, 

The pressure becomes too much 


And the walls shatter. 


And finally, 


The water is free.