Monday, 11 August 2014


I wake curdled and plot ways to make the day acceptable. All-girl groups, loud and louder. Slow coffees. Scratching an insect bite all the way to the blood.

I drop a glass, my favourite glass, and in the slo-mo instant of falling, I curse myself, my life and gravity. But the glass bounces without a crack and for a moment I let myself feel wonderful.

Too many hours of sleeping and I am bloated and loose like tomatoes watered too many times.

Blown summer weeds are taking over my balcony and I can’t decide who to support. The flowers, the gaudy red geraniums who huddle in my boxes, laughing at the sun? Or these spindly interlopers, who scaled six floors to park themselves in my life, who are—already—taller than the rest?

I am such a sucker for persistence. But there’s another charm altogether in telling myself it’s okay to choose.

My pen springs a leak all over my fingers and I wonder if this should be my next tattoo. To be marred forever by my own future intent—it seems charming.

I need so many reminders to keep doing the things I mean to do.

I take thirty minutes at the start of a day to write this down and it is strange how the words work, how placing language over the muss of life—like marks on tracing paper, like trigonometry—serves to coalesce so many things.

I let my own metaphors take root. I go to the balcony and close my fists around a plant and yank. I let my feet be scattered with soil.

Thursday, 7 August 2014

Feedback Loop

The more work she has to do, the more the girl wants to stay in bed and jerk off. The more the girl stays in bed and jerks off, the more the girl is impressed with her own priorities, the more the girl thinks, damn girl, you are making some fine decisions. The more the girl’s priorities align in the direction of smut and shirking, the more attractive a prospect the girl finds herself. The girl in bed becomes hotter. Look at the girl, flicking off responsibilities like so many summer bluebottles. The girl in the bed becomes hotter; the fingers of the girl become wetter; the work does not get done. The less the work gets done, the greater the importance of getting out of bed becomes. The more inappropriate staying in bed and jerking off becomes. The greater the temptation. It is summer and the room reeks of cunt like stagnant lake water. The girl knows she should do something soon but it is summer and it is so damn hot, so she balances on the bank and arches her body and completes a perfect swan dive. The girl takes another deep breath and plunges into green.

Monday, 4 August 2014

on vanity and cute butts

My legs drive him wild with desire. It’s ridiculous, because we’ve known each other way too long for my legs to be something that go all the way up to here, but here they are, legs, going all the way up. Here. I feel like a cartoon. I feel like a plastic doll designed to illustrate limerence to anatomy students. My butt, in these shorts, is too damn cute. It warrants a second look, so I take a second look, and send him a message saying “my butt is thinking of you”. The message is a folded paper airplane with psychic intentions. I am telling the truth when I say my butt is thinking of him, but not the whole truth, which is that my butt won’t stop entertaining thoughts of a wooden ruler going thwack. Put that in your paper airplane and fly it. My legs and my butt— so full of their own thoughts in this situation. So needy for attention. I hang a full length mirror in this hallway and twist myself back and forth. “Hey there good looking,” I say to the girl in the mirror, and she shows me her butt, and it looks great. I bet she shows it to all the girls, but still. Everything is fine, damn fine.

Saturday, 2 August 2014


When Clay’s around, I feel like I’m more exciting too. That’s a good quality to have in a gentleman friend. I come up with plans of my own for us. Let’s try to befriend the squirrels that live in the walls and the attic. Let’s go get some candy and stay up all night watching horror movies. Let’s sleep over in a graveyard, so the dead can visit us in our dreams.  
– Joey Comeau, the meteor shower  

I want to surround myself with people who make me feel like I’m more exciting too, and then I realise that that’s what I’ve done. We sit around, in the hours that are small and open as books. We come up with plans for ourselves.

Let’s leave our half-eaten midnight dinners and traipse into the woods, the night; let’s find a cool midnight lake to swim in.
Let’s go to the Japanese gardens and eat magic mushrooms. I want to watch the fountains undulate in the sunshine in the afternoon.
Let’s have a date where you teach me how to lasso and I teach myself to stand very still, as the ropes tighten around the tops of my arms.
Let’s pretend we’re other people, and then let’s take each others clothes off, and then let’s watch these other people have sex, and let’s judge them.
Let’s decide that they’re doing wonderfully.
Let’s take the first bus leaving the city and get out by a ruined pub, and let’s climb onto the roof of the ruined pub and lie on the tiles, and you can shove your hand into my underwear and I can wriggle and howl at the sky, while we hide behind chimneys, while the other buses pass us.
Let’s go to the restaurant in torn velvet and finery and let's order only starters for hours and for hours.
Let’s never eat anything from now on that isn’t each other. I’m so hungry. I’m so hungry. I’m never leaving this bed again.
Let's sneak out.
Let's not tell anyone where we're going.
Let's have a secret love affair where the only people that know are the palms of our own hands.
Let's tell each other these plans again and again while the small, open hours twist to day.
Let's not be afraid.
Let's kiss and giggle and giggle and kiss.
Let me take your thumb between my teeth.

Friday, 1 August 2014


The final guest has gone and this flat, these corners, begin to return to me.

The final guest has gone, for now, and my body is slowly shifting: blue to green to yellow to skin. I am growing back into my limbs.

“Stop scratching,” they all tell me, but how can I resist? Have you seen these marks, have you ever seen me so red and welted?

Oh, have you ever considered how delicious I taste?

This week was one of so much biting: the bugs, the boys, the bugs, the beauties. This week I was devoured by things both bigger and smaller than myself.

I let myself be taken. It’s a hobby. I’m never cuter than when I’m being devoured.

The final guest has gone and these two weeks are an inhale between then and Sweden. The oxygen I inhale will be breathed out in fjords and gulleys. Jack will catch a fish.

In two weeks, I will sit in silence, stacking small pebbles as monuments to the stream.

The laundry is in the machine and the dishes are stacked by the sink and I am about to slowly and meticulously return myself to this place.

This last month and a half came out of nowhere. Or rather, this last month and a half came out of the past, and sometimes the past oozes into the present like insulation foam expanding into all of our corners.

I let myself be filled. It’s a tendency. I’d forgotten just how good this one felt.

But now the final guest has gone and my body is not an apartment and the present asserts itself with sharp elbows. A jab beneath the ribcage to remind myself of me.

Thursday, 10 July 2014

to be

To be honest, sometimes I get dizzy picking at the sides of my happiness, making sure that it's all real.

To be honest, sometimes I come to at the side of the canal and my friend is singing that song again, the one he changed the lyrics to, so it would really, definitely, be about me.

To be honest, 5.33 is not such a silly time to go home and go to bed.

To be honest, the only reason I am writing these words is to wake up on another day and remember that there was a throb of morning light yesterday and I wandered here and I felt so giddy and so fine. 

Tuesday, 8 July 2014



back in each other's fists like cut rope

I say sailors or cowboys?
so many questions we haven't asked each other yet

I say let's play the unravelling game
ribbons and anchors all over the floor


I sickle your throat adora-blue and burnt hickey

my jaw is a vice closing around your beams

your neck sinews give me lash quiver

possession is nine-tenths of my mouth


you ask the same question until I am beset by giggles

I take your thumb to the cove of my throat
promising summer and swallows

I tell you rhinestones and good breeding
hairspray. pouting. intent.


I vomit into an envelope and walk to the letterbox

spraygold shoes on dead tarmac

will you upend it on your thighs and marvel?

sprinkle glitter until you stand and it sticks?


still not used to this giddy
I cough up nasturtiums / you cough up leg bruises

splotches of red and green and gold

when you are gone I dress in short shorts
I marvel at the cartography of my thighs


my friend cannot believe I am not asking

they say how can you rekindle
before you have all the answers in your mouth?


I did not expect my woods to be filled with such dry tinder


I crack open books at all my favourite lines:

I'm exaggerating so you can get to know me faster

please describe your vomiting / it is like a psalm to me

time moved inelegantly and without my consent


we get to know each other again fast

time moves by its own ballasts

I cannot describe our throw-up

the only thing I regurgitate is what is here and what is now


you dress me as cleopatra
I dress myself in wrestling clothes

on the floor I shape my hands around the dreamgirl's throat

awkwardness turns into bats &
flocks from the trees when we clap our hands


back inside each other I tell you stories

I hand you cleavers

my heart is mast lines and riding crops

I form all the answers you haven't asked me for, yet