The warmth of your heart, like
Sunshine to my face, the
kind which shines through
transparent windows,
hitting their sills to gleam like milk,
and flicking between
the trees, (yellow).

The familiarity of your eyes
felt like a map to me, of
my hometown, where each road
wanders back through every
memory of us, (navy).

The happiness of your smile
calls to me, like the words to
my favourite record,
deep under my chest, my lungs
when I am laughing out, (silver).

And I was not myself until you strolled
into view,
out from the peripherals, (golden).

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I opened my bedroom window, wide to the
ghostly calls of springtime,
Spent happily. Memories like

Blossom clings to the whited limbs of
of outstretched trees,
and they fall,
by one.
Their departing inevitable,
but still they leave in earnest, freely
to the ground.

They lie pressed to the dry earth in
perfect freedom; pink, pretty, purposeful,
like the things you once whispered
to me,
one drunken dry-grass night.
Whiskey-fuelled and dark eyed,
Those words like golden obscured honey,

And now, daffodils line beds of
brown dark mud, yellow and alive,
Reminding me of sunrise,
reminding me of home.



Nobody is watching me.
But you, patient, wallow in my words,
They were once so angelic to hear.

All that is left is a distance, unreachable. 
And, I think,
'​how strange', now that the houses in your road,
they align, like strangers in a waiting line, when they seemed so familiar back then.

Now, their doors resemble places uninviting,
And I see now, how their Persian blue paint seems to
flake away.
And the hanging baskets of those houses,
contain nothing but weedy flowers,
​wilted and dry.

So as we drowned in the English rain,
My smile, to you looked now sallow.
You longed for my body to belong to you.

And I, never longed to belong, you see I

Always have to go.

And you, you thought you knew me pretty well, pretty well back then. 



You have made me feel dull,
the way a slate sky
partially covers the sun.

I am not your dream,
thought I thought I might have been,

When you gave me this book,
and pressed your hands to my bony, still girlish hips.

Orange eyes, your beauty, your laugh.

I put my hand to your chest, and feel love, 
rushing hard. And you, as you always do,
kiss me the way you only kiss
a person



I had this thought, just the other day. It was a Tuesday, and it was raining outside. The sun, a luminescent wafer, still shone in the milky sky.
I thought about my childhood, I was eight. I had a friend, and she lived in a mansion house.
It was surrounded by black iron gates, and had a stony driveway which led to a glossy black front door. I would walk along the footpath, and skip the cracks by heart.
Inside, the wallpaper was yellowed, old and floral, and the carpets a mottled sage green.
Like forest floor, I often thought.
The walls were wood panelled, and upstairs led to a small hallway, which led to a secret library, with a PlayStation One, and a 1990's television set.
We could never save Spyro the Dragon, not without a memory card.
The bookshelves, thick with grey dust, books about the Brontes, and how to survive in the wilderness. I remember thinking, I would quite like to live in the wild, I could live in a tent forever, and catch fish from the lake for my dinner.​
Her room was dark and pink, and she had a plastic Barbie dream house, and sparkling Polly Pockets, lined up
in perfect size order, tiniest to largest, along the chipped window sill.
I never know why I remember things such as this, but I do.
I remember how I loved that house.
I remember wishing that we could be friends for a long time.
Strange how things don't always work out the way you would have hoped.



The memory of your name, calls me out of impeccable white sheets, drenched by moonlight.
Over to the window sill, the stillness of my breath leading.
Winter has set in, morning will soon arrive, and slice it's pinkish golds along the horizon, and the trees with their bare elms, will seem austere and dark, emboldened.​
I am dreamy eyed over this starlit night.
Just a mirror of glass, between this dark garden
And I.
The reflection steals sight of my ribs, how
wondrous, how divine.
The way your hands would
search for them, under my jacket in the cold.
A first love, a first lover.
When the stars seemed forever glittering,
and you told me
I was the
strangest woman you had ever met,
but still I was the sexiest,
most quick-witted
you could ever need.
These thoughts,
are empty memories,
where your name no longer pains me,
just a memory,
erased from my heart.



I wonder if the twang of sadness felt just now, in my car, driving home through
low-slung Autumn sun, is the belated backlash to the sinking of your heart,
the pain that you felt when I
said I that did not want you.

You said, drunken, slurring, 'I never fell for you'.
Such words to speak,
so bold, and so sure of themselves. Is that what you told yourself,
looking into the depths of dark eyes, which shuttered next to yours?
Yellow curtains drawn, a bed, and a closed bedroom door.

Your friends say I was the one to open you from the inside out.
I was the precursor to her.
Taller than I, but the same chestnut, straight, strong hair,
and that familiar lone defiant glare, could easily resemble,
could easily

Summer walks, hands clutching, nervous,
fields of countryside grass.
Smiling, driving,
Awkward car sharing.
You buying me Vegan milk,
before I even arrived at your doorstep.

Kitchen counter, bare feet, sundress.

Shoulder length black hair.
And you turned to me, smiling.

We, in the clutter of your warm living room, laughing.
Wide eyed, with skin tight jeans.

And one Sunday, our hearts beating in the passenger side of your black car.

You rolling me in the ground, like a child, making me eat the dry earthy grass.
Your laugh, a bellow into the air,
now a whisper to me here.

And then, your odd way of control.
Just lust to a twenty three year old girl, everything to you.
I led you on to leave you, 
A girl who preferred nature over restaurants.

You muddied up my converse, filled my lungs with fresh oxygen to inhale.                              
Y​ou shaped my mind again, wired it differently, in your hands.
You taught me the annoyance of zippers on jeans,
                             a terrible hindrance. 

And you said you liked all of the things that I did,
you changed your true self, just to entwine me.

You felt like I was yours for just a minute of time,
but to me, you were a stepping stone across a murky lake.
Like the one we balanced on in the middle of that place that time,
And the water trickled beneath.

And yes,
I am sorry, even after all of this time has passed.



The crisp whiteness of a frost-encrusted lawn
reflects the pallid yellow sunlight, as it illuminates
against grey inky sky.
Twisted trees, stark and skeletal,
no leaves
protecting the modesty of their crooked arms
as they reach,
as if craving the alms of this chalk oval,
which emerges over a
chilly morning,
only to pause at the pale pink horizon.

The night is no more than a memory.
Clusters of twinkling lights,
over a dark leafless hollowed town.

And I,
in my thoughts, lost in
I never saw a thing.



Not all of my writing is written purely from personal experiences. I include fictional ideas also in my work, although not one topic, person, place makes up the entirety of one piece of literature. Just one piece of writing that I create can often contain an amalgamation of all of the people I have ever met, the places I have been, and the feelings I have experienced.

My writing is created to cause ambiguity, as almost every - if not all - literary works often do. My works can arouse vastly different emotions and impose certain meanings to some, in comparison to the way I have implied meaning with my own intention.



Your voice, it pummels through this empty room,
a demolition ball cracking down walls,
which never felt like home to us.
Coral rays now search it, now that there are no windows,
doors, nor bricks.
The glow of a sun-drenched afternoon is painfully ironic.
She mocks me.
It seems that today should be filled with
many smiles, and bellows of chiming laughter,
the kind which sounds like bells
on Sundays.

Yet, here your words puncture, icy and cold,
meaningful, they kill me.
A moment which would lie with me, for many months to follow.

They would run with me, watch me curse at food,
Mock me in the mirror,
Thinner, thinner, thinner.

The collapsing of this room, has spread out like the outlines of a paper made box,

Before it has been put together.

Now out in the open, with bare feet still pressed to the cold floor of this broken down room, I breath in
the outside world.
It is strange and
rather terrifying.

​I watch as these dried out hills, they wander into nothingness.

Yet, I cannot let these syllables define how I see
myself, nor how you see me.
For this was our moment of weakness,

But still, You did this to Me.