I wish on all that is holy
That I could be unwrapped
Like a present
But sliding fingers beneath my sticky tape
Will not do
For, it is glue
For which you must peel and scrape
Ever so gently
Ever so surely
Reveal layer, after layer, underneath layer, upon more layers
Pressed tightly, secured deeply
While your secrets bleed out quickly
Mine, they clot, fairly slowly
And as I bundle yours up, and cradle them gently
Your attempts to release me
Grow greatly uneasy

Fading, creating
Loss. Lost.

Feminine pattern

She possessed a changeable laugh

And insightful eyes

She watched them leave before they arrived


She was a fire smothered to dust

Metal starting to rust

A symphony of decay

A needle in the hay


An impulsive want

Hardly a continuous need

She only ever fought against her own creed


Her eyelids always being drawn shut

Just as they had flickered into focus

What was clear always turned murky

Her world losing its locus


Your feet dangled off the balcony ledge

Dirty soles, muddled soul

While la lune loomed

Lighting up your face to the truth of a perfect moment

A moment that embeds itself, nestling comfortably into the dusty storage box

In your mind

(For you to call upon in moments of harshness

In moments of sheer blackness)

To rekindle that one single moment

(A moment disintegrated and swallowed by space and time)

That existed because you existed

You, sweet hopeful creature, existed in that cold city that felt so warm

And like your feet were dangling

You were happy to dangle, like Charlotte on her spiders web

Above your childish fairy-tale faith

Holding onto the single idea that continuously falling off balcony’s

And catching yourself on the way down

Is the only choice you’ll ever make


From Memory

I grounded myself opposite a rain splattered window

On the left bank of Paris

And watched the river boats jostle idly by

Nothing could ever feel this good again

The people along the quai hustled quickly, the wind whipping them along

I watched their struggle against the elements and all I could do was grin

For the wind may be howling to high heavens and the rain may pelt downwards

And pierce my skin like needles through felt

But it wouldn’t disturb me

For I hadn’t felt this warm in eight months

As I was sixteen thousand, nine hundred and ninety seven kilometers

Away from where you were

And for a few moments in my mind

Planted in Paris

You may never have existed


And then, on the footpath
My feet crashing to a halt
The terrible thought washed over me
Covering me head to toe in shocking blue
That perhaps life is merely a series of distractions
And those who do not run out of distractions
Are the happiest

And then I kept on running

Jars of you

I wish to string you high up on a mantelpiece

Limbs spread and tied

And lay all that you are out in front of you

And coerce you to see yourself

Plucked and placed in little jars

I carefully extracted them from you in your moments of fragility

The glowing jar by your right foot, my love, are your aspirations

They are restless and jitter around in the glass container like fireflies

Only you can speak their language and I wish for you to tell them

To settle down

They must trust in the glowing blue jar next to them

Determination, sullen blue, will set them free in good time

I wish to gauge your attention to the small ball of string to your left

It’s called Doubt, and I must warn you to not touch it

Let me look after it for you

I’ll put it in my pocket, it’s ends safely tucked away

It has no business here

I want you to look down and notice all the parts of you I collected

Millions of little jars, all around your feet, glowing up at you

How you had never seen how much of you there was

I will never understand

For you glow

You glow, oh, so bright

The flower man

Her skin tingled against the cool wooden chair

As his lips moved in front of her

Nothing uplifting, only displeasing

But his words fell on deaf ears


Her senses were locked in the back of her mind

Where her eight year old self existed

Peering down at her perched on the front step

A yellow dress adorned her immature body as her fingers picked

Then plucked at the petals of flowers


Love me, love me not was the game

Last petal, more often than not, landing on love me not

Displeased with the flowers answer, she would cast it aside at her small feet

Among all the other disappointments

And move on swiftly to pluck an entirely different flower

From the abundance in the garden beds

She would pick and pluck them until they gave her the answer she wanted


Watching him leave his chair and close the door

Senses flooding back into the present

Reminding her of her existence

She numbly wondered what had changed

And why she couldn’t treat men like flowers