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 betrayed?
Or would they brag about the chick who was so obsessed with their dick, she immortalised it through art?
-She’s Burning
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