I stared into the sun just to wonder how long it would last behind my lids, seared as a white, flaming circlet against a backdrop of red. It almost started to hurt my eyes when I blinked, slowly I looked away and every time I closed my eyes it was there too, just floating nonchalantly unlike me, comfortably sitting in the space that is my eyelid.




My brain was rambling and scrambling
for the closest exit I could find
which really I could not see nor hear nor taste.

I have no limits to eating, I fill myself up to the very fullest because
somehow after devouring bowls and plates my stomach is full but I am still empty.

And my feet —  why do they feel so heavy?
I can almost feel how the tracks are left in the concrete floor
as I dragged my heavy metal legs back into my room.

Then I stare at the bed, because I don’t want to keep sleeping
but am so tired to do anything else, I can’t feel motivated.

And I drag myself out again to the pantry, and I open
and close
and open
and close the fridge.

My brain is rambling and scrambling the eggs in my mind,
the potential of today — a wasted day!

And I drag myself back again with rambling words and scrambling minds.


Blue is

Blue is the colour of the sky and the sea, and the roadsign where you left me. Like an uncontrollable spinning whirl, I saw the blue rage like the brightest flame and die down to a dark velvet hue like the sea when it rests at night. It is the tile on a Gaudi wall, the paint on a Monet sky. The blue smacks me and stains my skin like the bruises on my knees, it becomes the coarse denim jacket that I wore on a night that was too cold for thin blue fabric. It becomes the small details in life: my ball point pen mark on the inner side of my left thigh, the stray piece of string sticking out from the collar of my shirt, the blue reflected on my glasses from the computer screen. It creeps under my skin and becomes my veins, just skin-deep and untouchable. Returning, returning to the faint blue sky above my head. 

Swallowing pills

There was that bad after taste

on my tongue

where the pills sat before the water came

to rinse and wash down tid-bit, coloured rounds.


That bad after taste I blame

on the whiff

where cigarettes burn on my wrist and scorched

to mark down one monumental event.


This after taste cannot be torched


where cracks emerged I covered with my soles

and slipped right through into the rabbit hole.

Constricting airways

That moment when you can’t breathe, because you are so utterly disappointed by someone you have entrusted your future with. 

That moment when your breathe seems to quicken because of the lack of oxygen, among the lack of many other things that you have been going through all this time. 

That moment when you try to take deep breathes because you try so hard to tell yourself that it is OK, and that everything will be alright again eventually. 

That moment when you chest heaves upwards to draw in an enormous gulp of air, you can almost feel your lungs expanded to its biggest limits and stretching the possible capacity within your cavity like how you’ve been stretching yourself. 

That moment when you exhale slowly, little gusts of air that come out choppy because you can’t think of anything else you would want to feel, because it does really feel like you’ve been chopped into tiny little pieces of particles.  

That moment when the very last breathe of air leaves your body and your decide to resign in defeat because there really isn’t anything else you can do. 

Sunset in Florence

Orange brims from the black sillhouette where the sun sinks beneath the shadows of the building. Bright yellow fades to orange and blurs into the pinkish dark outlines of the horizon, champagne gold blends like water colour rippling through the clear river below. 

The white streaks that slice the blue sky fabric fades after a few minutes, like the minute details of every close observation I had, of every moment that eventually blurs into nothing. 

Florence bids the sun goodbye, knowing that they will see each other again tomorrow, never the same time, but constant like every sunrise and sunset. 

The sun’s last kiss today leaves the rocks on the Floretine bridge warm, lichens that creep across the surface will taste the breeze and cool as they await another new day. 

Mind over matter

I have really tried so hard to explain to you how it felt to have 1000 needles pricking at your brain, picking out tiny negative emotions and pinning them up on the wall. Like big, shiny needles with sharp points, my brain unfolds before them into grey mush and matter, and I feel bare. 

There must be a sinkhole inside of me, trying to suck out all my emotions and happy thoughts, leaving me dry and barren. Like a plug unplugging and the water going down the drain in a spiralling swirl of blackness. You could hear the pipes gurgling and protesting: No! Wait! You shouldn’t feel like this! 

The draining continues. 

Sometimes I feel like I need to purge all my feelings out of me, like impurities in a puddle or murky water. So much to purge. And now I am empty but still unclean, because you can’t rinse a container without water, and all the water has gone and evaporated like teardrops.