Outside of myself

Like breaking 1000 glasses.

I look at myself, in the mirror. I notice the hills and troughs of my face, the curves of its womanly shape. My face is confident.

Eyes, my own, roam my face, my pale skin, dry skin, warm skin. My own eyes look back at me, challenging me, piercing blue- some green- asking questions I can’t hear, teaching me age-old games of loathing and love. I love it. My face- I do, it’s nice, but what’s behind it? It won’t tell me.

I look at my shape, in the mirror, and it does not respond. I pick up my fingers, one by one, off of the mirror, pulling myself away, and I call myself. I reach my fingers one by one into my open mouth, feeling my teeth and tapping out words in my cheeks, feeling out for feeling. But I go straight to voicemail. Quickly, I take a last note of my curves and the layers to my skin, staring hard; on top of one another, laced in and out of each other- impregnable. Softly, I feel my feet lift off of the floor, and I am thrown into a room- no windows, no wall. One phone. 3 calls.

For the first call, I just try dialling the number and waiting… and waiting…. and waiting… and I get a sharp hang up. I am an unknown caller, myself is scared of me- no- no- not scared- maybe- I think- I don’t know- not scared.

I need to try a different approach. How do you show someone that you just want to be heard? I think. I turn blue, and purple. I throw the phone. And I scream, my stomach knots up and I become the knives inside of me- sharp and scary- the phone lurches and hisses at me, and it does not want to respond, but at least I hear a noise. At least I know that someone is there.

Lifting the phone to my mouth for the last time, I kiss it. I hold the phone and I take it into my mind, and it becomes a heart. A heart in my mind. I tell it that i love it and i hold it and i care for it; i cry with it and we cry together i hold it tightly and rock it and the lines on my forehead rest on the curved body of the heart curved rivers on my hands and a sweet breeze of breath comes from the phone i love it, i love it for my whole entire god damn fucking entire life, with everything i have and it costs me nothing but i feel myself shrink with each minute and it combusts.

As if an art critic, I am confronted with all of it at once, blown away by the mistakes. It’s almost too much to take in. Maybe if you hadn’t used too so much red? More yellow perhaps… the colours don’t blend well. You seem outside of yourself.

I don’t like the shape, either. Maybe you should make it bigger. Although, it’s already bigger than it seems but just… not big enough. It’s too big and it should be smaller. But also, Emily, you haven’t done it right.

What do you mean, Emily, that I haven’t done it right? I am trying.

The phone pops up, out of thin air, from the floor, and starts at my feet, touching each corner of their skin. As if slowly filling me with conversations. It’s a start, it’s only my feet, but I am being filled.


How to untie a knot

A poem.


I finger the delicate bind of the rope,

The frays lace between my fingertips,

they teach me how to laugh;

it tickles.


I feel the spiral of its bind,

up, up and on forever, it seems,

the ivy wall of the rope,

reaches up as it teaches me how to climb.


My hands explore their tissue paper skin,

feel the crinkle bound to their skin,

endless skin,

and I know it all.


I feel the rope wound around my nerve,

and I feel it slip,

and I tug,

and I don’t know why.


But, I tug at the rope wound around,

and around my nerve,

willing it to unravel and-

and all of a sudden, I know nothing anymore.


The nerve stands alone, bleeding,

the canopy of midnight encasing its agenda

my own nerve, as it wants to watch me bleed.



how it is so true.


Nerve- no not brave,


I am nervous and I tug,

grip, grapple, will,

want, beg, plead for the rope to come undone





I want the rope to fall away


for a minute i want the wind to pick it up

i want the damage to be done and for the frays

to spin themselves into nothing

the game of tug of war only has one player and its me


i can’t watch as the hurricane winds around

me and my endless skin goes on

as my fingers move to route march its corners

finding all of the hideouts i didn’t want to find


the ground between my rope,

oh and there is so much.


i want to find nothing, feel nothing, see nothing,

be nothing, i want to fall away into nothing

as the midnight rain washes me into the ocean

and out into orbit


i need to be away


i don’t need to be fixed

the rope doesn’t need to be mended,

tug of war was never meant to be played in teams

the frays aren’t there to be tied back together



i need to be sewn, glued, designed

and ordered to stay, sit, stay stuck

i need my arms restrained and my nerve a fountain of sticky


sweet, sweet glue.

I need never to reach for my endless skin and the suffocating rope

throw me in a barren land where no rain falls

and if no rain falls i can never dream to be a hurricane


destroying nothing but myself.


This is on feeling my skin but not being able to touch it, of plaiting my hair only for it to become undone. Its sister specialises in turning up the volume only to feel nothing and in writing when the sensation of communication is lost in all words.

What’s worse: wanting to be loved, or knowing that you’re not? What about both at once? What about feeling unsure about the both of them. What about asking 3 questions when there should be none.

When the bridge leans over you, when it reaches around your neck and tells you that there’s a door at its other end, that’s the worst part of it all.

This is on being lost.

Of having too much skin even when you know you have too little, of trying to be everybody’s friend when there is nobody. Of farming when there is nowhere.

That is what I am writing of, on and for.

I write for being lost. As a compass to tie to trees and throw to the sky, to lose in rivers as the mud pulls my shoes off and pulls me down.

Love letters to the forest breathe clean air and save me none; after I am done knowing that I am lost, I am not allowed to know anymore.

No matter the effort, how much strength I steal, how much clean air I pirate from my deprived emotions, no matter, I am empty. There is no going backwards and certainly not any going forwards.

What is worse: knowing that you’re wrong, or not having the energy to be right?


Fucking crazy (a poem)

fucking sick,

fucking hit me like a tonne of bricks,

fuck me,

fuck it.


Hell only knows,

my conscience only shows,

my smorgasbord of sins,

mistakes, but its too late.


Fuck him,

fuck her,

fuck hate,

fuck this shit.


Flowers and roses,

look at our big noses,

from our years of ferver,

wanting to go further, mad.


fucking wow,

fucking let me show,

you the way,

to my dungeon of things,


things in your dreams,

things you can’t eat,

or think, or see or taste or breathe,

or swallow.


it’s hard to swallow.

I try too hard,

you try too little,

she looks too much,


and he knows too little,

shut the fuck up,

is less a command more a warning,

don’t speak or i’ll sin once more,


i’ll tell you i love your voice,

and he’ll tell you from hell,

it’s from heaven,

we love it, the grass,


and we bathe in the mud,

our skin licks up its suds,

your dirty words clean my dirty hands,

i like the taste,


of your mouth,

she likes the sound of his wealth,

lately, have i shown you,

everything we’ve done.


fucked up?

shut down, we’re corrupt,

have i shown you,

im awful,


fuck this,

fuck that,

fuck her,

fuck this fucking hat-


ill lay it out on the table,

i’ve got a presentation,

of how its all wrong,

it might take too long,


my nose is too long and my,

heart hasbeen wrung,


can i be done?


i can’t do it,

we shouldn’t do it,

our conscience should know its all wrong,

far too fucked up,


to show your innocent,

soft fingers,

the way into this world,

shut the fuck up,




close your ears,

its all something you don’t want to hear.


Kissing girls

Kissing you is like kissing stars.

Girls are soft and delicate, beautiful and strong, powerful and bold. Girls kiss with intention and they kiss like they mean it. Girls mean it.

Kissing you is like kissing pillows, you are beautiful and intelligent, witty and enthusiastic.

You are out of my reach. You like me and I like you, but I fucked with you one too many times. You are soft and delicate and I want to kiss you again.

I want to hold your face and kiss your neck and I want to lie with you and feel your skin and I want to be with you.

Kissing you is like kissing dreams. You are so much fun. I love you.

Fuck Yah

Exams done.

I am going to read so much. You have no idea. This list of things that I am going to do is very long- I have been under so much stress and have worked non-stop, revising almost every night for the past two years. I have revised at least 8 hours a day everyday for the past 5 weeks. Sometimes more. On weekends? 12 hours. 9-9.

First: I’m going to Spain. And I’m going to fucking enjoy it. I’m going to eat churros. I’m going to hold my arms out to the sea and have it embrace me. I am going to learn to love the sand as it tries to burrow into all of my food, and the sun as it scolds me for enjoying it too darn much.

Second: Books. Lots of them. The Life of Pi. Weathering Heights. Emily Bronte. Everything Dan Brown has ever written. The fucking dictionary if I can.

Next: Eat. Everything. I’m going to fucking enjoy myself. It has been two years of just exams and wanting good grades. Please. I am not even kidding. I am going to devour every single chocolate cake that has ever existed to be eaten on this Earth.

After that? : Yoga. All day, everyday. I am going to read whilst I do yoga, I am going to eat, laugh, cry, talk, learn, love whilst I do yoga. God, I miss yoga. I had to stop doing it to revise around February. I want to get to know my body again.

Na: Learn Dutch. Dutch is the coolest language and I will not hear otherwise.

And Then? : I AM GOING TO FUCKING WRITE. I fucking love writing, man. About 2 years ago I started writing a book. I am about 100 pages in and I swear to the sweet Heavens above if I do not make the time to improve, add to and decoupage this book I will go to the Heavens and I will drag from it everything that it has ever loved. I am very serious about writing. My bad.

There is nothing that I am looking forward to more than this 12 weeks.


God I can’t wait to write.

What is it to write?

To write is to create, to sing and to dance to music with no sound, and to hear the call of the birds when there is no nature. To write is an invitation to be elsewhere.

It is the remedy to all sadness, the food of hunger and water of thirst. When you write, you are elsewhere.

I cannot wait to write- to create.

For, time is not always crucial to a good piece- I write this as a daydream (judge for yourself if this is ‘good’), fleetingly, wasting time that I don’t have- but it is like the sugar to make a cake sweeter, and the juice to stop a babies boredom.

Time is handy, it makes it rougher as the storm to which you never want to leave- the sense of belonging as rain hails down on you. Not the right metaphor, but the right feeling.

Writing is hard, but I can’t wait to do it.



What is a song without its writer? A dance without the music? What is a soul without its truth?

What can a symphony be if not beauty, grace, spirit? What can a symphony be without you?

You have symphonies in you, kid. You have the B-flats and the E-sharps that many dream of knowing. You have symphonies running through your bright red blood and through your big red heart and out of your fingertips through to the page, the piano.

You have symphonies in you, trust me. You have secrets bound within your soul and deep within your beautiful mind and in the nature of your will. The dream is the synthesised mixture of hope, glory, and talent, and you have it all.

If ever there was a game, you could play it, a song and you could sing it, a dance and you could learn it. Anything that you try and grasp becomes yours; your dreams give themselves to you. Your legs belong to a ballet dancer and your hands to an artist, and a writer, your humour to a comedian, and your wit only to yourself. All you have is so innate and yet so learned, it is mastery of form.

You are a mastery of form, and yet form has made you. You were formed from the symphonies of kings, the soul of a star and with the light of the sun. You have hope living inside of you, magic making a home in the forest of your soul.

You are a masterpiece, a sculpture, you are the gold dust which hurricanes inside of  us in the face of beauty. You are a masterpiece and yet you carved yourself, paved your way, built your house with bricks and pure desire.

You have it all but you’d give it all away. You would give it all away and still have everything. You are an enigma, gold dust, perfection.

I feel a cheat to call you perfection, because you are not. You embody perfection, touch it like a feather and teach it how to talk and walk and love and laugh and learn. You are the student and yet you are the teacher, the moon and yet the sun. You are a shadow yet so full of light.

Your breath is confidence, your voice is our hope.

You don’t just have symphonies, kid, you are the symphony.

Panic attacks

I splutter, my body shakes and it feels worthless.

They are not as bad as other people’s but every little thing matters.

It’s not as if I can’t breathe its just that I can’t not cry.

I want to succeed, I have the will, the motivation, the work ethic, but I don’t feel like I have the smarts, what if I am not as good as everyone thinks that I am? I am so worried that I will not be able to prove myself in my exams, because I do believe that I can do it, and I do want to go far in life.

It sucks that this is what determines if I go to Oxford or Cambridge or the college that I want to.

It sucks that there is no second chance.

I know I try, I just want them to know too.

I love it when you cry

Or do I?

When I see the blue rivers stream down your face, I love you. I want to take you into my arms and to comfort you; I want to be your coffee cup, warming you up and talking you down.

But I can’t. I cannot find the words. How do I find the words? How do you tell somebody that means everything to you that they mean the most to you whenever and whereever they are?

I love it when you cry. I love that you have emotion, a passionate fire within you, encompassing so much that it brings you tears. But I do not love that you feel the fire lick your skin, that you feel it breed ashes on your arms, on your legs.  I do not love that you have to find water to extinguish it, to besiege your opposition.

And so you are the source. The source of your own pain, yes. But the source of my love, my amazement, my stars, my moon. You are my night and my morning.

You are the source of your own river, aching and trembling as you fight back the desperate destruction which hunts to kill, roams only to destroy.

When you cry, it is the most beautiful river, but the most destructive flood, and you are filled with the most red fire, which only you can fight, only you can combat.

I am the one watching on. Stargazing. I want so badly to take you into my mind, to help you to explore the ways in which I love you, I want to take you away into safety, refuge. I want to say a thousand words that will make you feel better.

But I can’t. I cannot find the words to fight your fire. I cannot find the water to extinguish your flames.