When the colours seem so unnatural, pasty and stale. Garish. Surreal. When the voices inside your head are louder than the sounds of your surroundings. 

When your limbs feel heavy and time moves at irregular pace. 

When you feel like someone else is breathing for you. 

When your existence is forced, not lived. 

I’ve been totally obsessed with hands recently¬†

Have you ever looked at your finger tips? Really looked? At the grooves, the ridges, swirls that tuck into themselves and spiral out of control, curve and cross section, flows and interrupts. The tiny pathways are so small they’re hard to follow, impossible even. Have you ever tried to count how many little lines are etched into a single finger tip? If you stare for long enough you begin to notice the extra scratches, hidden amongst the rest. These scratches are so intricate, personal, will anyone else ever take the time to look at my fingertips like this? Could they be bothered. Note the punctuation; not a question, an answer. 

I’ve been totally obsessed with hands recently¬†


There is so much that I don’t say. That never passed my lips. Never even gets the chance. It just stays caged up inside the soft sponge inside my skull. It makes such a racket. 

These words are the ones that escape, not through my mouth, but through my bicep, forearm, wrist, fingers and tips, pen-nib, ink, paper. I keep reading  them, like my mind wants them back. It can be selfish like that. 


As much as I want to hate her I can’t. 

For someone in the world loves her, and who am I to undermine their love? Who am I to question it? Something so pure, my very opposition taints it. 

Who am I to form opinions as strong as hate based upon something as whimsy as my own emotions? Something as temporary as fleeting thoughts and feelings, an explosion of devastating consequences, the provoking act over in but a moment. 

Who am I to pity myself? To judge you so harshly for my own flaws. To see you not as you but through the filter of my own ego. 

 I’m sorry. 

Sorry my heartbeat is so loudThe thought of it pulsating in my chest disgusts me 

I’ll tell it to shut up for you





Even breathing is difficult 
I’m so scared that this will hurt but I’m equally terrified that if I don’t go through with it I’ll never feel anything again. 
Why is my mind trying to hurt me so much