Ten to midnight.

I thought we had it figured out

thought we agreed on forward

upwards, together

a future in both our eyes

a future in both our hearts

a house-made-home

but it’s ten to midnight

and we’ve talked

and I’ve cried

and we’re all out of talk

and you’re all out of cries

So I move now

alone in another bed

echoes in the darkness

I thought we had it figured out

but it’s a cruel magician’s illusion

a click, some smoke

love disappeared

with just a few words from your mouth

I wonder if that mouth lied

for years

about it’s whispers on my skin





Remember on the third date

the date you didn’t think would happen

remember how he laughed

with his head tipped back so far

that you could see inside his imperfect, perfect mouth

remember how he kissed your cheek goodbye on your first date

giving up the sophisticated, aloof character he’d played all night

skipping away like a child, excited, full of shared chocolate brownie and butterflies

remember the heat between your chest, his back, your legs and his waist

during the piggy back ride 20 somethings shouldn’t enjoy

especially following the “let’s be friends” talk

remember the arguments in the soaking wet bed sheets

and the softness in word and touch when you came back together after wrenching each other apart

remember the back and forth silence, “I love yous” and “but not enough”

When you remember, now, that he’s chosen her

remember, too, that you now understand

Card game. 

A divide grows longer with every engagement announcement; every wedding photo; every coupled house purchase and baby birth date

A chasm between us deeper every sneaky lovers’ kiss; flowers on the table purchased for no special occasion but just because; every date night posted on Facebook; every angle showing love lives entwined

But not mine

I’m learning strategies and using synergies and writing memories and drawing visions; learning all about myself and all this without you

I’m climbing mountains; surfing waves and drinking whisky all without you and that’s OK for some but some is not me

I want to climb mountains together. I want to hold your pack and when you are poorly I’ll keep your hair back and when you’re tired of synergies and strategies I just want nothing more than to hold you and tell you it’s going to be alright if we’re together. 

Instead I’ve got these cards and I’m playing them the best I can. Unfortunately I always end with The Joker.

Two first names.

You had two first names. Your hair was bold and a different colour often and facebook showed me which it was at various times. You always smiled, so large a smile, every time. Teeth and cheeks. You partied hard and you had many friends. So much love around you.

I did not know you. I did not know you when you lived and I did not know you when you died. I read about your death from mutual friends’ facebook posts and I actually gasped when I found out. You were the epitome of life and then you were gone. I clicked on your profile and after all the beautiful goodbyes from your friends – fuck, there were so many – I could see posts from you about your journey, embracing the possibility of death and then a link to a blog where you updated how you were feeling.

I read your blog, even though I did not know you, and I sobbed for hours reading your words, just as I sob writing these. It seemed so unfair for someone so beautifully vivacious to be taken so young. The world is not a fair place.

But what a world – that people like you existed. What a world, that people like you exist at all. What a world that is so unfair and unjust and cruel and sad, but still people like you exist in the face of that. What a world.

You were so brave and honest and your courage brought me to tears everytime I thought about you. You were so brave. I wish I had known you.



Self loathing.

Self loathing is a seductive pastime. It feels like justice, dealt out from my own hands, to punish the one I know is useless and unworthy and rotten and wrong. It feels like power and it feels righteous. If only we garnered some sense of achievement in how fucked we can make ourselves feel.

Today I decided that this is the behavior of an oppressor. And I am no oppressor. I am a lover. Today I decided that what’s really powerful is standing up to oppressors even when they are strong and when they are loud. Especially then.

Today I decided I will no longer be on the side of the oppressor. I decided that I know that oppressors never win. I decided that I know that love wins. Always.



There’s a Halo ’round my head, 

Made of watercolor paint. 

Good intentions bled into bad behaviour. 

I’ve only got the colour red.
Red for passion,  lust and pain too,

Missing strokes and harsh lines; 

I’m struggling with a vision;

A vision of me with a vision of you. 
I want to trace hair and hips and hearts,

for lines to have meaning and truth.

But art is only deception,

I have to stop this before it starts. 


On a day when I felt confident and almost outside of myself, looking in, I visited the swimming pool across from my apartment building. I wanted to prolong and revel in the comfort I felt in my own skin as I’ve never spent much time feeling warm and contented there. It had never been a safe place for me to be unapologetically in my body, without hiding or squashing or shortening it. This day was different – I wore a bikini, dropped my towel and strode across the wet, warm floor and into the pool.

I was floating about, quietly, focusing on the sensations of the sun on my exposed skin and the weightlessness of my body. An elderly gentleman must have sensed my openness and approached me for a conversation.

Normally I’d be tentative and probably exchange pleasantries with a stranger before leaving, but on this occasion, I stayed. We chatted for hours. It was the most illuminating time I’ve spent with another person in my life.

He talked about his life and I listened intently and was curious about all of it. There wasn’t much talking on my part, apart from asking question after question. He divulged, openly, with no hesitation. He spoke of his early adulthood when he’d moved to India at 19 years old to “find the meaning of life”. I asked if he’d found it. He said he had. I raised my eyebrows and asked if he’d share it with me. I expected him to say something frustrating like “It’s not something you can simply share – you have to experience it”, or some other bullshit, but instead he shared with me things that challenged deeply held perspectives I had about my relationship with my own body and others’.

He talked about the absurd preoccupation we have with grooming our physical selves, often to the detriment of our spiritual selves. I’m not sure he used the word “soul”, but he referred to our physical selves as incredibly temporary and our spiritual selves as everlasting. I’m not a religious person and spirituality is something I am cynical of. I thought of matter and how it cannot be made, nor destroyed, only change form, in a way. Instead of immediately clouding my eyes to this conversation, I thought about his perspective and how it could fit within my own understanding of the world. At the very least, it was his truth and clearly something he’d investigated and lived with for 60 or so years.

He talked about our bodies as “bags of pus and dirt” and waxed lyrical about how we spend so many years and dollars trying to perfect what those “bags of pus and dirt” look like. It was confronting to hear someone reduce humans to a bag of pus and dirt, but I guess his point was that this is what we do all the time. We might be pretty incredibly made bags of pus and dirt, but what we’re made of is simple. He was passionate about it but he wasn’t condescending. He simply shared his perspective and he wasn’t at all concerned with what I thought of him while speaking it. I admired that.

After leaving the swimming pool, I walked across the road and felt hyper sensitive to the wind that made my skin prickle and the chlorine soaked hair that stuck to my cheeks. I got home and stood in front of my mirror. I thought about the efforts I made to change my body to fit it into a certain shape. On my face, I removed hair from my eyebrows and painted my face occasionally with eyeshadow and lipstick and blush. I had a slim body and I noticed the abdominal muscles and biceps and was pleased that my efforts in the gym resulted in this particular set of outcomes. Despite that moment, I rarely felt comfortable in my skin and reflected on how contented the old man was in his. Maybe it was his life experience or maybe it was his perspective or a combination of the two. Either way, his self-assurance was something I coveted.

I let my body fall away from my view and instead focused on my eyes. Those would be with me always – or at least the something ethereal that existed behind them – the thing that made me, me. I felt warmth and happiness when thinking about that intangible something. It was a good, beautiful something that I hadn’t neglected but had never praised myself for. I pledged then that I’d notice the everlasting something in myself and others tenfold more than the temporary from then on. I’m sure a contentedness must come from knowing that the vessel is less important than the heart inside.

Some people learn that in India and some at the swimming pool. What an adventure life is.


I haven’t gotten over him, because I don’t want to. Life seems better tortured, if it’s tortured by the possibility of him. 

What a fucking idiot I’ve become. 

How many possibilities for a respectful, loving, satisfying relationship have I turned away from in the past three years because they didn’t look, smell or feel like us? 

How did the push-pull between him and I become the mould that something new must fit or be cast away? 

And, most importantly, how do I fix my heart so it’s open to other shapes that aren’t him? 


They say that if you love a flower, you should not pick it up. That you should admire it from afar and let it be. They say that if you pick it up to keep it for your own, it will die.

I’m drawn to the stillness of him. The quiet contemplation, his being him. He exists and that’s all he asks for. What an attractive quality. I’m worried though, that if I touched him, he’d burn.

“If you love a flower, don’t pick it up.”

I feel like I’d become a scar on his body. Behind his ear or in the crease between his groin and leg.

“Because if you pick it up, it dies and it ceases to be what you love.”

I don’t like the idea that my love for something – my selfish need for it to be mine –  could be the cause of death for something beautiful.

“So if you love a flower, let it be.”

I wish that someone felt like I’d cause them to burn. I wish that someone felt they needed it to keep from the cold. I wish that someone wanted to walk into that fire.

“Love is not about possession”.

I hope that when he sees the burn, he realises it’s been there all along.

“Love is about appreciation”.

If only the fire caused a mark and not a cancer. Maybe it’s best he doesn’t see it bubbling away under his skin.