He kisses me in church

Almost telling god

This is the woman I love.

I blush furiously

Trying to believe

In someone whose love

Is the only proof

Of his existence.



Every day my hours disappear
Hungry devouring wolves
Eat through me
So that the bills stay away from the door.

Sometimes paradise dangles
The ‘stay at home and do what you love’ worm
Trusting this rush of euphoria is dangerous
I have been hungry before.

Guess I’m too middle class
To demand as a right, this gift of time
Stoically, I’ll murder the hours
And proudly prove I stand on my feet.

There is no joy in this
There is also no fear
When I can, I’ll squeeze the hours out
And make them make words and die happily.

Maybe, one day, I’ll trust enough to let go
And the bills at the door will come paid
And I’ll know THIS is my place in the world.
Maybe, one day, all these achingly, simple dreams will come true.

Loving You

I seep into your body and stay there
When you get up for a glass of water
Parts of me follow you, trailing the floor
And I ache, for you and the bits of me gone.

Perhaps, for the first time, I realize the intimacy of knowledge
Why the skin bumps, fat curves and body bits I recognize
When you press against me
Are letters of love, written in blood.

This language of love leaves invisible marks
And tomorrow, if we’re not together
Our bodies will replay this way of love to new lovers
Changing them forever, like it did us.


There are flowers growing out of my ears
Which donkeys chew while looking
With dazed stupidity into the distance.

Their stalks are my veins
That stain the teeth a slight red
No wonder, bats swing from molars.

I didn’t plant these pretties
They grew on their own perverted will
And now pretend to be a part of me.

They need no water or manure or pruning
All they want all day, is talk
Words that fill them with roots.


I am the statistic
The one you read about in the studies.

6% of women still believe wonderful things will happen to them.
30% of women have no place to call home.
14% of women like getting lost.
54% of women have cried over a man.
7% of women have an imaginary friend.
8% of women kiss with their eyes open.
74% of women think they will be happier tomorrow.
32% of women believe they are too special to be a statistic.


I had breakfast with my past
It wasn’t a big deal
It sat there calmly
Wiping bread crumbs off its smile.

I didn’t ask for an apology
I am shy that way
But I hoped there would be remorse
All I heard were the cornflakes crunching.

I couldn’t stop the tears
They mixed with the orange juice
Past grumbled, “See what you’ve done …
Spoilt it again for me”

I must admit, I yelled a little
My past, now tan-trumy, suddenly vanished
Leaving in its place a future
That looked suspiciously the same.