We are delicate bruises kissed upon memories
as a reminder that everything is temporary and
greedy hands will take away the best of you
leaving nothing but a poisoned bloodstream.
The scars on your hands from gripping too tightly
on people who walked away and
the freckles pressed upon every inch of my
covering speak of tales that can never be erased
even by lovely words confessed to bed sheets and
moonlight. But, we can be a choice made on
days when the mirror doesn’t say how wonderful
you make the world look today,
a piece of art adored in every light branded upon
flesh in a pain more addictive than drowning
out old faces with liquor and pills. I could easily
inject myself with affection intended only for you
because it’s taken me years to realise that love
adheres to no timeline when promising every single
forever to the altar of your body. Each dimension
of you feels like home and you should be etched
onto my bones with strokes of needles and
ink to tally each day knowing that I will adore you
until every last masterpiece upon our skin


Cradle me in arms that
yearn to hold me –
an insatiable appetite
for tenderness in an eroding
heart that has been
mishandled by the coarse
self-indulgence of those who
roughly fucked the love
out of me and shackled me
to bedposts where the forms
of other loves permanently
creased the mattress. I need
to be touched
somewhere other than my


Struggling to hold certainty in earthquake hands
when days are darker than Pompeii skies:
I am a volcanic sun daring to
implode, scattering the remnants of
sanity throughout starlit sheets and bleed
sulfuric loathing from lungs that have
been smoking out the ashes
of a damaged soul.


You left your woolen jumper in my room –
it smells like every kiss we left on each other’s
skin in the dark, like pretty bruises marking
affection. I am so affected by the affliction; becoming
painfully addicted to the wavering weight of
you between my thighs and I
have been holding my breath ever since you
pulled me into your emerald eyes, submerging
every inch of this relentless ambivalence that is
still branded on my bones from years of
making homes out of humans. But,
your soul feels like a sea breeze gently settling
in sandy suburbs and we are awash with serenity;
all I can manage is to inhale all the atoms of
instability and choke on the residue
just to surrender my heart to you


You open my eyes to such a vibrant, shiny
world painted in verdant hues.
Lying beneath the clouds as they stretch
out their wispy limbs, professing their
forevers to the careless atmosphere — the
soft, orange sky drenching our
cracked souls in solace; cheeks crinkling
with impatient anticipation as the garish city
gleams with empty existence.
We have bloomed beneath the timid touch
of each other’s fingertips, hearts bursting
with words yet to speak. Watching silently as
suburbia slips into a cloak of starlight, church
spires reaching to the heavens while we
heathens kneel only to the sea and
her relentless, blackened glory; washing the
worry lines on our shared skin away


The best kind of infatuation
is the unattainable –
it cannot be marred by our
or smothered by our
suffocating adoration.
It is not tainted by
comprehension; cannot be
explored or used for
The epitome of
untarnished fascination.

Talking Poetry

Some days I want to
compile novels of words I
have bled for people
without their awareness and
present it to their oblivious souls
– look at all of this
love and loss of which
you were the cause!
I had to dry out my heart
to be rid of you.

Sometimes I wish I could
place names against
these poems:
tallies of the ink I’ve wasted
– listen to the cadence
you crushed out of the
hollows in my mind,
I’ve labelled all the disgraceful
damage done and these ballads
say you’re to blame.


Sometimes, I get so tired of the silence that
fine black lines run across my skin
in memory of the ink I haven’t spilled
as I split apart and my mouth begins
missing each scripted part of this
persevering play on existence
sometimes, my hands clench
not pens but the blood draws and
I quit punching the walls of my mind
when time slips out of my fingertips
I’m crippled by the constant ticks and
tocks when the clock won’t stop while
I stand still and
still I remain vertical as the sunset
swoops in and the moon refuses to
light the way home
sometimes, I dream but mostly
I don’t


I try not to get my hopes up about anything anymore.

A quiet child waiting for Santa in the silent night only to smash
my six-year-old Lego brick heart against the
pavement. I have spent twenty-three years waiting with
fractured anticipation for a love that gives without taking
pieces of my soul, but I am getting too old to play games
when trains and planes are stealing you away from me and
I’ve built all this up only to watch it be caught on a southerly
breeze through the gum trees. I can’t plead with you
to stay when the days are slipping out of our hands and
I can’t even figure out how long it takes to fall
into you when your eyes are the window to the only home
I have ever wanted to belong to, and all the words we
spoke to the coal-infused city were scattered across
the sea and sing to me as I sleep. I have been trying
not to keep a hold on you when my fingers are burned
— all I have ever learned from life is: it’s called falling in love
because it hurts.