Sometimes I fantasise about compiling all the unsolicited dick pics I’ve received. Would it still be funny if I collated them all into one grotesque installation? Would these little men recognise their own members when juxtaposed with those of their closest bros? Would they be embarrassed? Would they feel
I don’t care for your blemish free skin. I don’t care for your night-sky eyes. I don’t care for your symmetry. How many times must I tell you? Your beauty is inconsequential to me. Are you listening? Do I need to stand on the rooftop & howl?
He rubs his fingertips down the small of her back and says, "I like your new top". Like an intrigued onlooker, you smile as you watch the person you were once inextricably linked to, become a better version of themselves for someone else. You take a pick axe
Okay, so bear with me and my tendency to lean heavily into hyperbole, but I’ve been going through my own kind of metamorphosis. It’s been messy, distracting and wild. It has however, gotten in the way of my writing practice. I suppose it’s because everything has felt
Self-sabotaging again, what’s wrong with me? I know this trajectory; I know it well. Another predictable ending, another scar to add to the collection. You're ruining me and you don’t care a bit. Still, I willingly step into the fray, embodying an unhealed masochist. I’m
You wanted me to satiate you, whilst you drip fed me a diet of anxiety. You insisted I pour sunshine into you, as you draped every window in my house in black cloth. You asked me to thaw your frosted heart, then suffocated the flames of every lit match. You
You sent me a text last night. You wrote: “You were different, intriguing even and unlike anyone I’ve ever met before”. In saccharine detail you said, “Life without you is a palette of grey. Where did I go wrong?” Forgive me for being cutthroat, it’s just that the
Men* say women are too fussy, too nit-picky. They say women have unrealistic expectations and impossibly high standards. But, I’ve never met a man who genuinely enjoys it when I take up more space than him, spread my legs a little wider at the table. A man who’s
The day I met you is imprinted in my mind. I remember every detail: the Verve playing in my headphones, the grey hued sky, the all-consuming conversations and the scent of coffee intermingling with rain-soaked tar. You were smart. You were soft. You were emotionally attuned. I wanted you, desperately.
They say you can’t fight fire with fire - becoming water didn’t protect me from third-degree burns. They say softness combats hardness - it made it harder to detect the lowest blows. They say it’s all in your delivery - speaking eloquently didn’t save me from
They ask me: “Why do you love them?” I open my mouth to speak, but the words lodge themselves in the back of my throat, rendering me mute. In the silence, I hear the quiet utterances of my heart: how can you describe a love that burns, not flickers, pours,
The voices cried: "let yourself go! how many steps did you do today? you're so sexy! you dress like a lesbian! chase your dreams! stop romanticising everything! be realistic! what do you want? just relax! stop putting so much pressure on yourself! fuck men! date women! say