Courtyard, 2am.

Bubbling up again
I attempt to ignore the nagging
And frantically play games on my phone
Drawing mandala’s to simulate calm
For the first
I miss my mother.
All I want is a hug and for her to tell
It will all be okay.
I am a hated cliché.
“Sad Teen needs hug”
I should put out an ad in the paper
“Sad Teen needs hug,
not sex,
just to be touched in a way that makes her feel whole again”
She replies to my texts
I hate that
“Sad Teen does not want to worry mother with feelings”
“Sad Teen gets angry at her best friends over nothing”
Sad Teen hates that.
Sad Teen is actually a women trying to
Her dreams
Or anything, really.
Sad Teen hates that she does not know
What those are anymore.
What she is anymore.
Sad Teen hates that she needs someone to
Be fulfilled
Apologises to everyone as a defence mechanism
This mechanism is faulty
Maybe she shouldn’t have stopped using the lubricant
That keeps her moving
Maybe Sad Teen should change her wallpaper
From the old family photo
She is not a one year old in her mother’s arms anymore.
“Sad Teen tries to think of reasons to be happy whilst studying her degree
in the most beautiful city in the world”
Sad Teen fails
And instead
Sad Teen thinks of her “illness” and grief

Sad Teen hates that.
Sad Teen hates this.

I, hate this.



*check out the photo series my wonderful friend Alex created, inspired by this poem, at* 

Get up off the pavement
Brush the dirt up off my psyche
Air Force
Green satin
Everything black
You see me?
You see me now that I’m a white
On the pavement
Because the only way I feel good is if I make those payments
Is if I shroud my body in white fur and leather
Would you see me if I looked good
Whatever the fucking weather
Whatever the fucking weather storming inside
My head
Whatever the fucking weather that makes getting out of bed
The most daunting task that I
Could hope to achieve
But I still have my heart tucked inside my sleeve
And I still have my heart locked inside
Trying its best despite all the shit food
We keep eating
Despite the thousands of cigarettes
That have passed through my system
Despite the green grass white powder that means I can’t listen
Anymore to the thumping pain inside my chest
My head
My heart
All you see are my fucking breasts
All you see are my fucking tits bouncing right up in your face
I wish I could cut them off and send
Us up into space
There’s so much love that I just can’t
Tap into
That I just can’t face being let out
You see me, don’t you?
So you cook me dinner but can’t seem to want to
Fuck me
Am I not your type?
I’m throwing myself upon you
I’m trying so hard to love like anyone else
But you’re making it difficult
And I’m questioning the pulse
Inside my body
Inside and out
Smothering it
Choking it
Smoking it out
I feel like a depressed sixteen year old girl again
A girl incapable of allowing herself
To give her body up to men
Scared of the rejection
Scared of the lust
Scared of their huge hands groping her adolescent bust


She smiles up at me from the bath. 

Her huge brown eyes are
I was angry at her before
I smile
Making sure she is comfortable
Making sure she is safe
She is so beautiful.
As I’m looking at her
I don’t know why
Sadness overwhelms me.
She is so innocent.
Who will she become?
Things will shape and divide her
I won’t see her again.
She will become a woman.
It will no longer be okay for her to
Touch her “tutu”
People will hurt her
Maybe she will hurt people too.
The inevitable “grandissement” will
Alienate her from me and she will
No longer be my Madeleine.
Come on darling,
It’s time to get out of the bath.

Delmas’ Frankenstein

Why is that you render me thus
I, who am assured of my feminine strength,
Am reduced to an adolescent in my disposition towards you
You, with whom I want to share my secrets,
Are capable of silencing me with my desire to attain your affection.
I am so unspeakably lonely.
I pray, not to any deity, of course, (for I am a Modern Woman)
That you will see me
That you send me a fucking message on Facebook and ask me out for coffee.


My skin has become so detached
The pelting is not felt-ing
The body that is melting
Wants you to sew me back together again, please
So that the ferociously tepid water can bounce of the surface of her body
And her right arm can be popped back into my socket
It’s going MAD!
But we’re all mad here
Have some tea, I’ll feel better
Have (sew me), we’ll all feel better
But in France we drink café
What are you from anyway
Shut up and pop me back, please.
You’re going to regret this Morag
Shut up and drink your tea
Don’t want it to happen again now,
Do I slash We?

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.