Do you know what it feels like
to live inside a stranger?
To hear them speak
To hear them scream
To never really know
which one outside
and which one in?

Lies inside

The story is nailed to my bones
and I don’t know if it shows
or if it’s grown gory in it’s glory
but I know just how deep
the morbid fear and failure go

In my marrow I keep the narrow
definitions and definitives
Can no more resolve to
solve the lies than
stand bones dissolved in lye

My joints are filled with glass
cracked from mirrors of selves past
And I’m sure that when I die
someone will piece back the façade
Rack crying tears for the life
of the one who’d never last

Sometimes I don’t

Sometimes I don’t wash for days
The written word I’m working on
cleanses deeper than water touches

Sometimes I don’t eat even
though my stomach cries
I am sustained with the fullness
of expression unrestrained

Sometimes I don’t sleep even
as my eyelids are sullen children
The lightness of my pen flies to
tuck poetic progeny in right


I am not good at eating
but in a different way than before.

My life then was so empty
felt sure I needed to be too,
controlling food controlled my worth,
never felt deserving of that either.

I did not understand my body
or even what my problem with it was,
and I felt my failure as a female
meant I needed to try work harder
at fitting it into nothing.

I was not good at eating
but in a different way than before.

Ironic sad it was my attempt to fix this first
problem that threw in and up a second.
I felt worthy of so little that when I took of any
I had to make that lurch and scratch in same.

My life then was so empty
but mind bloated full of shame
and I got danger caught forcing my system
to stuff and shed and pain.

I am not good at eating
but in a different way than before.

My life has opened up now
and finally I have too.
A life so full of meaning, bliss
of joy and silliness,
wild words and stillness,
of love and warm armed calm.

A mind now so quiet inspired
almost forget possession of this body
for this body means so very little
in any scheme of things.

I am not good at eating now
because I am too busy
living dreams.


A picture, a name,
a word and I’m there.
A lurching swing,
the tiniest flinch,
and I cannot even breathe.
The overwhelming sense
of being mute
smothers over my skin
and I am screaming
inside that head.

I shake myself,
the wild eyed collapse,
and drag myself to the mirror
and I scream at myself to look at it.
There! Look! See!
You are not there any more!
You aren’t her!
It isn’t really real!

Other times there is nothing,
no electric shrieking blister.
I look at it,
I try that body outfit on for size.
But it feels like nothing,
an empty ghost,
and I can’t even connect.
I can’t make that body move
or start up again at all.

But oh how the easy breaths
dance luscious lovely then.


Coherent, cogent clarity.
This plain, slippery panacea slides
smoothly through my skin,
tugs briefly on the adipose
as it passes into the muscle.
Slowly, slowly I depress the plunger.
Contrarily, the depression
of this tiny rubber tipped plastic wand injects miracles,
exquisite transformational power.
Decades of desperately grasped hope,
dozens of coated, scored,
encapsulated sparks of professed potential,
controlled releasing nothing
but side effects and disappointment.
But here in this unassuming fatty conduit
lies the entirety of existence,
the ability to unlock and unravel me most completely.
I do not expect this.
I do not fathom the world inside that is still to explode
into a glittery symphony of bright noise and stillness.
That this thin, metallic bridge that extends into me,
that pushes slowly the infused oil,
will set my mind and body alight with the coldest flame.
This oil intently greases the levers and cogs of thought,
aligning the dilapidated creaky mechanisms
stuck tight and pained for so long.
As production progresses, the jarring, clanging gears
that grind and shatter any attempt at revolution are replaced,
perception and sensation
no longer scratch and scream and stab.
My mind seems to open up,
I fling open long closed doors to untold horrors,
only to realise that the hand and heart
that wringingly sealed and recorded the contents of these rooms
is very different to those opening them.
Torturous terrors, recalled in trembling script,
frightened someone much smaller,
brutally fragile and fraught.
Light and distance bring perspective,
each room faced and cleared offers more air,
more space to exhume and examine.
The corpses of the past turn to dust.
I let them blow away.