damnit, just write.
write as if the beat of your fractured heart depends on it.
write as if revelations run cold and aphotic through your veins.
this is not the place for perfection. this is not the time for lies.
this is 2am – time for unapologetic oblivion, irreverence and wild rebellion,
ink smeared fingers, dark music and darker dreams.



And in he walked, guitar slung low by his side. Casually pulling up an old chair, he sat in the corner without introduction or occasion and began to play.  After an assault of practice strums, the pace picked up, his fingers picking and plucking furiously at the strings. Two hours earlier, she had wondered what had driven her to this ancient city where she had ten euros to her name and no Spanish language skills to speak of and yet as she watched him from the other side of the room, she inched her glass down slowly, barely hearing it touch the table. Her heart had stopped beating and she forced herself to breathe.

Perhaps the universe was rewarding her for her courage after all.


I loved you

I loved you.
Wholly. Utterly.
And in more ways
than you deserved.


Manifesto for the Reborn

This is the day when I back myself

when I give back to myself
when I bestow the compassion that I have been
seeking from others
on my own wanting flesh and aching bones.

Today I take down my high fences and
replace them with boundaries and I
survey the terrain of this heart of mine
and see that it is good.

The day I fit my own mask before I fit
the mask of others around me.
the day I draw a line in the sand and say
this is who I am, and I am
wild and fierce but I am

This is the day that I will go out on a limb and
expect the universe to meet me half way,
acknowledging that what I put out is exactly what I get in return
and that if the devil turned up on my doorstep
it is because I summoned him there,
and that yes my addiction to self deprecation and atonement are
often the same thing
and that yes I may have followed him into
hell and done deals unholy,
but I walked back out again with my
head held high
and that carries both weight
and worth.

This is the day that I will pledge to write my way through
but not at the expense of my sanity and
whilst I will not contribute to the noise I will make a promise
to speak my truth, mindfully.

Today I bow before synchronicity and simplicity.
small moves and simpler words.

I surrender to possibility.
with the knowledge that our memories do not make us.
and that sometimes we cannot reconcile with the choices we’ve made,
but still I tear the pages out of my book, that are black and
heavy with ink and tearstains
and I offer unto myself my own redemption,
knowing that
I cannot save the devil,
but I can save

This is the day I raise a glass to all that has gone before
as I take my rightful place in a new world
and while the road may be long and fraught with danger,
every step I take is a choice.

I have a choice

and I am stronger than I give myself credit for.

I am alive
and my time starts




all I can see are
his words:

“i’m done with you.”

he is done with me.

he used me
and now
he is done.



“most days I am
fumbling in the dark
searching for keys to a
love i can not
and should not drive”


The Call Home

The most challenging dynamic that ever existed is hands down, the human romantic relationship. Wars have been waged, honour defended, rules bent and then broken, promises made and destroyed, tears and blood spilled passionately, sometimes silently over the question:

Who does my heart belong to?
Where do I call home?

For women such as myself – who find the concept of monogamy and settling down tempting but ultimately confounding – it can take all of the strength that we can muster to put on our armour and step outside and face a world rife with subconscious, silent criticism and projection when it comes to everything We Should or Should Not Do in a relationship.

So it might come as a surprise to you that the one that calls my wild heart home, is my best friend, my husband (my third), and the love of my life. I am nothing if not a walking contradiction.

Do you want to know the truth?




his music was like
whisky, that
sometimes she
drank to remember
sometimes she
drank to forget



the fold


and when he returns to the fold, you have lost him
just when you are energized and ready to go again, you realise that none of this is on your terms
it’s on his
that any understanding that you may have shared, was fleeting
he was never yours to lose
and you wonder for the thousandth time that night, how you could have willingly devoted yourself to this neverending seesaw of ambiguity

he comes to you, broken
he comes to you with tears threatening to break through their stoic threshold
he looks at you, ashen-faced and defensive, wincing like a wounded animal that needs your love but is too afraid to do anything other than wrap its protective instincts around itself
you sigh, you begin the dance, and you extend – reaching higher and further than certainly you had ever intended to

gradually, he lets you in – knowing the end of his sabbatical is nigh
promising to let go faster next time
promising to let you in
promising that all he needs is right here in this space
renewed – you find reserves that you never knew you had

and then he is gone

it’s okay – you think
this time – there were victories
this time – he understood
until he returns to the fold
and you cannot shake your thoughts
and yet, you must

so you drink deeply
and begin again



there was a time


there was a time
for biting your tongue
for sliding into the shadows,
apologising for
every heartbeat
every misstep
swallowing lumps in your
throat like
burning sugar
as if the world cared about
what made you cry





today was
a playlist marked x
inside of a
folder full of
fuck you



tell me


tell me where it hurts
she said
how long have you got
i replied




my labour of love is
simply that
i labour
for love
and as for want
i learned to
live without
i say that I want to be free
that I want you to disappear
but every single night that
i climb into bed with
your ghost
i prove myself a liar and
hypocrite and an
addict to a
of my own




rain on a tin roof
red wine staining my lips
fingers on forbidden keys
the agony and ecstasy of birthing
lost songs in the underworld
extinguished wicks. drifting smoke.
orgasmic vibrational harmony from the 
voices of true believers
unbearable compliments
thrusting you against your seat as you are 
off the ground
bad gin in plastic cups
writing feverishly about weightlessness
over some distant land
fresh black ink on white artist pads
jeff buckley
fuck. bon jovi.
warm november breezes on my birthday 
and the feeling that
is possible in spring
movie nights where we forget about the world and 
quote every line that is woven into the 
tapestry of this unconventional family
my daughter’s laugh when everything is right with the world
cat-pyjama hugs
her serious, steel grey eyes
cup of tea truces
my husband’s arms
his endless forgiveness





you were my mirror
but when i looked again
you were never there





my pain lies in a tomb where I buried it after you left
i locked it with keys from my pocket,
programmed combinations that only I knew
sealed it in ways impenetrable to all but me
in my weakest moments and darkest nights,
i have crept, silent-footed to its door, and curled up by its side
it harbours no judgement, but extends its dark wings
its malformed hands
grabs me
pulls me closer
pulls me in
i beg for the familiar
for its razored claws to puncture my skin –
re-opening old wounds until I bleed
shuddering, i offer my track-marked body and
beg for it to make me feel again
as I lie there – the life draining out of me,
numb with the dull sense of awareness
whispering to no-one in particular
it sings me to sleep
dark, ragged breaths whispering a lullaby
that only i can hear
as i dream of dark flight, of your hands on me,
of clawing and scratching and screaming and bloodletting,
of promises and madness and music that plays
over and over
and over and over
and over
until i wake days later, hoarse and gasping and
begging for someone to change the codes,
take these keys away from me
i am done…
this time was the last –
i swear
i am not an addict
i don’t need
i can stop any time 





this was the day she had
waited for
when she would walk into the
the dust of his ashes
the taste of him finally
from her tongue




How simple it is for a tree to discard its leaves once the cold shrouds its heart.

There would be a brief exchange, I imagine. The leaf, realising that its days are numbered, turns every colour of the sunset in its last scrap of sustained energy, fighting to hold onto the life it knew, wondering,

Was it me?
Was it me?
Was it me?

Was I not enough? Or too much?

Did it cling, beg, break down? Did it protest its way through the seven stages of grieving, clinging and weeping and praying to the wind for stability, begging to exist outside of time, protesting every change before it finally accepted that don’t change?

Did it wake one morning with a new kind of clarity – acceptance re-framing every thought and every decision it ever made as it slowly becomes conscious that every last breath was numbered?

Did it then simply snap its fragile stem, and float to the ground, quietly and without ceremony, as it drifted in circles to oblivion, rebirth, god knows what?

Or, did it celebrate every fiery hue, every crinkle and misshapen edge, every imperfection that still warmed the hearts of passersby, sagely serving as a reminder that our time here is fleeting and that our colours are our legacy and that

it was enough for some and too much for others and it was