I can’t feel the bed sheets
and my head swims like an angel fish
bright spark in the deep dark.

my head spins in the quiet
and I can’t grasp the words around me
tempestuous mind in the pitch black.

(disclaimer: i was very drunk when i wrote this one. i don’t say this to promote drinking but rather to excuse the terrible quality.)



~ please don’t read if you’re easily affected by negative thoughts/feelings. ~

I’ve grown accustomed to periods where I’m drowning – either in loneliness or in blind despair – and am sometimes lucid enough in these moments to identify a trigger or cause. Spending a weekend more or less completely alone in my room, binge watching TV shows, eating, listening to sad music – typical ingredients for me feeling exceptionally shitty.

Today had every single one of those components, yet I found myself relaxed and peaceful for the most part. I don’t know that there were any distinguishing differences between this weekend and any other apart from the absence of the hollowness. Is it me that decides which days I’ll feel low? Something in my head? Or am I a pawn in something much bigger, unaware of the player’s hand upon me – a marionette oblivious to it’s strings.

The unpredictability of this drives me crazy. One Sunday I’m practically biting myself with frustration at feeling alone, another I’m revelling in the solitude, dancing on my bed. I feel so far away from myself, I often find I never know the decisions I make until the words have left my lips.

I can make myself feel terrified much easier than I can make myself feel happy – which, in itself, is terrifying. I don’t think I ever truly knew the meaning of the word until I’d put the scissors back down again. The knife back in the block. Happy moments are harder to pick out.

I exhaust myself.

(again, please don’t worry about any of the things I’ve said here – this piece from my journal was written a long time ago and I have picked myself up since. i  just wanted an outlet for these things i used to feel. that’s all.)

A Maiden’s Tale

A noble prince both tall and proud
knew he could slay the fiend.
He bragged and gloated nice and loud,
prepared to hear it scream.

The people begged him night and day –
the beast was roaming near,
but someone else was on the way;
someone the beast would fear.

‘Oh no, good sir,’ the maiden said,
‘this brute is mine to kill.’
She drew a sword, eyes fixed ahead
and leapt with spark and skill.

Its scaly hide and scalding breath
were dreadful to behold.
The prince himself now feared his death –
he knew he must be bold.

The maiden, though, was fast and true,
though it all seemed in vain.
Up her sword went, was jabbed straight through.
A hush: the beast was slain.


When a god kneels
time is elevated.
The sphere in the sky
– is the sun or the moon? –
holds no relevance.

What will a god kneel for?
Neither love, war nor time.
A heat-stricken moon,
a cold stone sun.
Do his knees ache?

Stillness but for breath
– does a god need to breathe? –
waiting for the cracks to appear,
for the world to break.


It’s still here. The warmth that comes with feeling like all my worries are just the same as everyone else’s. The easy routine that means I know what I’m doing each day. I feel as though I’ve fallen into it head first, completely immersed myself in the only real happiness I’ve felt for a long time.

A part of me thinks that writing it down so honestly like this will jinx it, but so far it only gives it more fuel, more power – gives it more realness. I’m being a normal person, a normal student. I cook and I clean and I go on nights out and genuinely enjoy them! Mum held me close as we were waiting for her coach, and there’s so many memories in that moment, I could have drowned in them. She’s proud of me – I can accept that she’s not exaggerating now.

I’m so ready to feel proud of myself too.

I’m not oblivious, I know that I’m not out of the woods yet, but I’m too content with enjoying this for however long it lasts. I have new friends, I’m learning about things that actually interest me.

I think I’m finally growing up.

Afternoon Tea

Peter and Wendy and
Michael and John
have the sweetest of all sweet luck.
Their palms
kiss an everlasting sky,
a thousand anxious ghosts
like a thousand forgotten hats.

I’m in their wake,
wide awake.

Peter and Susan and
Edmund and Lucy
found the holiest of all holy lands.
Their cloaks
along glittering snow,
a million regal lifetimes
as a million grandfather clocks refuse to strike.

                                                                 I’m behind the door,

And Alice!
Lovely Alice,
she is awarded the grandest of parties,
the most magnificent of ceremonies!
She was swept along a singing breeze,
deposited like a
delicate daffodil bulb.

exist in the dullest of worlds,
my words settle in moments
a hundred lives
through a hundred memories.

They’re ahead of me, with
their fairy dust, their Turkish delight, their afternoon tea.

going back.

“maybe i’ve always been more comfortable in chaos”

I can’t stop it, but at least now I know that I want to. I’m ending. I can’t find my way back to myself because I don’t know myself. I don’t know if I ever did. I thought I did, once.

Now I think I was what was expected and once all the expectations were filled, I lost more and more of who I thought I was. Childhood seems a lifetime ago but I’d do anything to go back again. Just to savour it properly, since I forgot to slow down the first time around.

I don’t want to spend my whole life forgetting to enjoy it, but I don’t see anything to enjoy anymore. I’m ending.

I’m angry, too.


(please don’t worry about how this entry sounds – i wrote it in my journal a long time ago and have since picked myself up. i wanted to put it up just because it was an important time for me.)


Lovers Garden

(a sonnet)

A golden head and desperate eyes enchant.
The moon has melted high beyond the walls
of night. A meeting: fearful lovers glance
around the garden, bright as darkness falls.
While roses twist through cracks and crumbling stone
our lovers cry and pray with bated breath.
No sound escapes their lips, no laugh nor groan.
Their parents warned them stop on pain of death –
the garden grows while lovers only wish
to last the day. Escape would set them free,
but risk of capture soon destroys such bliss.
They keep their secrets shaded by the trees.
The garden holds them safe inside, tears
absorbed into the moss, along with fear.


Octopus ink – the melodic words of some long-forgotten
staining greedy fingers and otherwise empty minds –
“Heaven has been vacated! Let us be consumed by the Devil!”

The overwhelming permanence of the poet
in phrases unwritten for 10, 20, 100 years.

Octopus ink – intentions strewn
beliefs misinterpreted by the uninformed –
“A quote from the beginning of life must be definitive!”

Words once carved with the ultimate
scrutinised through a microscope lens.

Blood, sweat, tears are disregarded for an impressive retort
and a smug smile.

What once expressed now condemns.
Octopus ink lost in tempestuous waves.