She Bled Red Wine

I wrapped her, in red ribbon. I breathed against her skin, and heard her thoughts crashing against the inside of my skull, like bones clicking when stretched too far. She ached. Though I didn’t know why. Nor could I ask. Not yet. Her eyes changed colour with each mechanical snap of the lens. A flash … More She Bled Red Wine

Words Sewn Together

I ache, from carrying the burden of your collected pain. Pain that you gather as you fall down in the door ways of home after home. I could decorate willow trees, with trinkets of sorrow, all yours, for miles. Sadness in every colour. But I sew it all together, instead, and remind you of the … More Words Sewn Together

When a Mother Does

When a Mother Does.. When a mother falls to her knees, to beg, and to pray; to crawl and to get out of the way. When a mother covers her face, and her swollen skin, to hide the burst blood vessels and her fragility within; there is no vanity there- it’s to protect her tiny … More When a Mother Does


Restless and cold, my home; more like the womb of a demon. Broken mirrors, and busted corners, a crawl space for the cleft and gut wrenching begging voices that petition the deficiency in me. The unseen hands that scratch at my legs, waiting for me to kneel. Only the good die young, he said. You … More Home


We can undo the knot, that keeps it all in. You can walk away with it, still attached to the skin and I will unravel. Peel. Fray, and open up like a unbound flower. Allowed to breath from the first time. To breathe, and then to wilt, and fall limply to my knees, and you … More Pull…


My hands are cold, and my skin is old. A lifeless blue, and sore to touch. I cry, soft, in a private space, plush with reds and ribbon and lace; A sanctuary for me, and a faceless freedom. I lay my heart in the bowl, and watch the blood bleed and coat the engraved words: … More Gift

Soldering The Leftovers

Soldered into every muscle, into every collapsed vein, and into every organ that sleeps inside this cold and accidental body; lies what is left of my soul. It can be heard, like warped floorboards, creaking under the weight of the visitors, that come and go like, collectors of curiosities in a museum. Morbid collectables, to … More Soldering The Leftovers