Hello new followers! Lovely to see you. Toasting you from Edinburgh with a glass of Mortlach 16. Have a creative evening. :)

Hello new followers! Lovely to see you. Toasting you from Edinburgh with a glass of Mortlach 16. Have a creative evening. :)

The City

This is not my form.
I: woman? no, girl. woman, a cloak too heavy yet for me.
I: green girl forced into corset of brick and mortor.
Tower blocks sprout skywards not as birds,
but bars to cage them.
I am no straight line, no thoroughfare, no platform nine.
This is not my form.
I am feral girl with dirty fingernails
I am entangled veins,
stubborn hair,
fluid movement,
is not my form.
My buttress roots swell and push hard against the walls of this city,
Which tempts “forget forget”
as my body begs me to remember
that this is not, and never will be, my form.

zpweston asked: When you become a real writer. Let me know. I'll stand in line for your book. Hardcover. None of that e crap.

Thank you! It’s lovely to know you are enjoying the lima bean that is my writing. I hope someday this book exists. :)

You tell me you lust

for my hourglass curves.

I’m filled up to my neck with sand

a scythe in each hand

Time waits for no man.

When the world ends,

perhaps they will call this (what is this)

the greatest tragedy of (our) time

that I slipped through (once more)

those beautiful hands

(I always did chase beautiful things)

slipping down again

through the cracks

back to my earth (and mine alone)

myself again (and mine alone)

slipping away, like so much water

between those beautiful hands.

I smile to think of what has been

(but memories do not hold)

and I slip away.

'the girl'

When you meet a man,

you like him. you (like) like him.

you get close. (really) close.

and he tells you about ‘the girl’


I saw what she looked like over Facebook.

There it is. He’s moved on, someone new.

And I see you now, arms around her,

hands in hers. I remember how it felt.

She’ll ask about me, and I’ll be nothing more,

than two lines in the story of your life you’ll tell her.

‘The girl’ who stole two years of your life.

Fucked you over. left you.

And she’ll fawn and say

‘poor thing’ like I did once

and she will look at you

like a broken thing, she can make new.

And I don’t know why it bothers me

but I think about the lies you’ll tell her

And how when I become those two lines

that’s all I’ll ever be.

'the girl’ who stole two years of your life.

Fucked you over. left you.

And she’ll fawn and say

‘poor thing’ like I did once

and she will look at you

like a broken thing, she can make new.

You won’t tell her, 

how my hands shook so hard I couldn’t hold a ciggarette

or how I never cried until you left-

how you were my fucking everything

or the thousand ways I found to love you.

You won’t tell her,

and I don’t know why that bothers me

because it didn’t work out

But I don’t want to be just those two lines in the story of your life you’ll tell her

when our narrative will be written on my lips forever 

and in every poem I ever write you’ll live in these white spaces

and I don’t regret this

but I’ll never lie about what you meant to me

because you were my fucking everything once

and all the while my hands keep shaking just the same.


You saw what he looked like over Facebook.

She’s moved on. someone new.

And if you saw me now,

you’d see his arms around me, my hand in his.

When he tells me about ‘the girl’

who stole two years of his life,

fucked him over, left him. 

His skin fades to broken tiles and 

he’s my mosaic man

and I look at him like I looked at you.

Like a broken thing, I can make new.

The past just keeps repeating itself.

And my hands keep shaking just the same.


You are afraid. Afraid of things you don’t know how to speak, the shadows in your mind. You are afraid, because everything around you feels so false and you feel so very real in the midst of it all. You are afraid, because the world is so big and you are so very small.

So you write.

You find shape for the shadows in your mind through the prose that pours from you and as you drip it feels so right, to write, and suddenly that darkness has a form made up of sound and shape that you can conquer. You write, and connect with your own reality, listen to the blood coursing through your veins and see the beauty in it. You write, and you are not so small. You are suddenly bigger than the world inside your head. You create characters, and you are every person that this short life does not allow you to be. 

You write. You break the rules, you capture the fleeting beauty of your life. You live forever.

You aren’t afraid anymore.


Edinburgh, Scotland


Edinburgh, Scotland

(via supercoolygirl)

I found my match made in heaven and burned down hell.


I used to have this problem with sharing my writing because I thought it was “too girly” and “emotional” and corny, but what is wrong with that? Why did I think it was so wrong to feel those things? Why does society look down upon a woman writing about her emotions, of how she is sad, or mad, and depressed, or upset with her life. Why does society make it seem as if it’s stupid and naive for a woman to document and express what hurts and aches?

Why did I think it was drastically weak to express my emotions? Having feelings do not make me weak. Writing about them, only makes me braver.


Ming D. Liu (via mingdliu)

(via yeahwriters)

On the importance of being lost.

so a friend of mine showed me an awesome spoken word artist and I thought I’d try it…

I haven’t changed the world. Yet. But fuck me I’ve seen it, loved it, breathed it. I haven’t seen the world. But I’ve seen my world swell to bursting and seen it contract in the depths of grief, and I survived it all. I’ve ran my fingertips over your lips in the light of a day not quite begun. I have loved with everything that I am. 

Standing on the bridge as the sun went down I felt so lucky to be alive, that today like yesterday I got to live- to see yet another beautiful thing.

When we were teenagers we got drunk and I told you that I thought life was the pursuit of beauty. You spray-painted it on the steps. Every day is a gift, every day there are a thousand beautiful things happening all around you if you just stop at look. I haven’t changed the world. But I was here. And this glorious life is more than enough.

Tonight there is no place for taste at this,

stained, rusty table.

There is no place to boast, to plump our feathers

with talk of, this degree/this job/this book I’ve read

no place for pretense.

But there is a place for us and this mottled bottle.

The same one weve been sipping since 16.

There is time here, still-

for us.

You wonder why I leave my things

on her chair, when she’s not there

or by her window, where she will spot it,

glinting, as flames light up a Belfast skyline

or on the dashboard of his car

taking journeys I never will.

I do not forget. I am the girl who reads,

and yes, I’m always thinking 

these things do not slip away from me.

As I slip away from you, always.

I do not lose things.

I shed them.

I think of them as the boat pulls away,

as it always does.

It is easier indeed to feel the sun without them.

You mean so damn much to me.

I wish I didn’t have to go.



I do not wish to be forgot.