the storm to be (she)

Image courtesy of: Weewill

trigger warning: to be safe, there are mild allusions to self harm, body image issues, depression etc.

grey skies
and downcast eyes
the lost girl
leaves a trail of
silence and half-lies
in the hopes
that she’ll find
before the storm

she has already tried
drawing maps
on her arm
to help her navigate
the cold black nights
but she could never
find the way
before the cross-roads
faded into jagged lines
that mark her skin
with rods of blinding light

Continue reading “the storm to be (she)”

World Suicide Prevention Day: Guest Poem by Jess Rayner

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Image courtesy of: Hahanoui

For anyone who has thought suicide is the best option:

If you were to die today,
the sun will still rise
even if you’re not here to see it.
The stars will still shine
and the moon will still glow
and how beautiful the flowers will be
even if you’re not here
to appreciate them.

If you were to die today,
your mother would still be a mother
and Joy would still be a sister
but your girlfriend,
she would not remain so –
she lost her title
as soon as you lost your battle.

If you were to die today,
our group of three
will now become two
until one of us could not carry on
as an even number.
We were meant to be odd
and oddity doesn’t come
from you dying
it comes from you living
even if you do not want to.

If you were to die today,
we would lose a boy
who has lyrics instead of blood
coursing through his body.
Your beautiful body,
that you do not want to live in.

If you were to die today,
no one will get the chance
to fall in love with you.
No one will get the chance
to wear white
beside you at the altar.
We will all be in black
beside your grave stone.

If you were to die today,
you think that we would be okay,
that it would not matter
because no one cares about you
If no one cares,
why am I writing a fucking poem
about you dying
and crying about it?

If you were to die today,
the best part of me will die too.
We are oceans apart
and my hand is still holding yours,
no matter how you feel.

If you were to die today,
the world will still continue,
but don’t you dare think
I would want to it to.
Don’t you dare think
that I would want to carry on
in this world
that slaughters young men
who are so desperate to hold on.

If you were to die today,
don’t you dare.
don’t you dare die today.

I really wanted to write something for World Suicide Prevention Day because I think it is such a great opportunity to raise awareness about this huge issue that always deserves to be talked about more.

After reading this poem Jess posted into a little poetry group on Facebook that we’re both part of, I realised I really couldn’t express my thoughts on the topic better than she has. With her permission, I am sharing this powerful piece with you all today.

This is the only post where I will actively ask you to please share if you can, because I think it is such an important message that really might be able to help someone that needs it.

Have a good day everyone.


Lifeline (Australia): 13 11 14

Lifeline (New Zealand): 0800 543 354

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (USA): 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

The Contortionist

Image courtesy of: Megan Missfit

one day,
the contortionist says
she does not want to be looked at
any longer.

she begs and prays
for someone to lead her
off the stage
only to realise
her ego wilts
without the warmth of a spotlight
and showers of applause.

poor little flower
she still nurtures
scraps of pain from childhood
that root her insatiable desires
to be loved widely and deeply
in crimson shades of impossibility
that a singular he
could not hope to
ever be.

and so she,
tarnished thorns and famished leaves,
returns to the freaks and rejects
re-paints her mask
and twists her feelings
into familiar almost-disasters
and the crowd cheers
(like the old days)
(like always)
but they nor happiness ever stay.

who knows
when she’ll realise
false nourishment
does not sustain life
and it was never about the circus
or him (nor him nor him)
but her?

Internal Monologue of the Innkeeper


every night,
I deliver my elixirs
of counterfiet happiness
to weary travellers
looking for
something more
to live for
but cannot find
anything beyond
the belly of the beast.

their journeys
have sapped their sensibilities,
turning them
into passive accomplices
of the monster of death
so today,
(or rather, every day)
they light up their necromancy sticks
and summon the reaper.

he greets me
in the form of wispy white tendrils
that soon wrap around my mind,
clouding any thought of escape.
taunting me with a deep kiss,
he leaves me breathless,
eyes stinging and throat burning
from the aftertaste of resignation.

he wants me
to always keep him
at the back of my mind
and who am I to complain
when I am nothing more than
an insignificant side character
at a pitstop
in these strangers’ adventures?

so I offer him a wager,
gambling on my future,
by hedging my bets on today.
in other words,
it’s just another typical night
at the inn.

Continue reading “Internal Monologue of the Innkeeper”

humble wordlings


to fellow humble wordlings:
I see you.

all paper skin
and glass bones,
trying to find home,
do not give up
just yet.

join me
in the search for solace
in tomorrow’s sunlight.
let us
reel in untethered minds
and remind ourselves that
we are seperate
from shadows of the past
and that there is always something more
to look forwards to.

“being bodies that learn language thereby becoming wordings, humans are the symbol-making, symbol-using, symbol-misusing animal, inventor of the negative, separated from our natural condition by instruments of our own making, goaded by the spirit of hierarchy acquiring foreknowledge of death and rotten with perfection.” – Kenneth Burke on what it is to be human

A Letter Home From Melbourne

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guess what,
people are packed closer here

foreign bodies stick together
under putrid heat
I can barely breathe
as the crowded tram
crawls up swanston street

and the boy
with sharp elbows
digging into me
is tethered to sanity
through lime-green earphones
that barely blocks out
6pm traffic
and all these strange heart beats

Continue reading “A Letter Home From Melbourne”

fo(u)r eyes in my life


to the doctor
who looked into my eyes
for the very first time
I wonder if I was
the 4th baby you delivered that night
and all you wanted
was to get this new stranger
out of your sight
or if you paused for a moment
and saw endless potential
in a blank-slate life?


to my mother
who hasn’t taken her eyes off me
for a moment since then –
please stop trying to
steer me away from
your predictions of catastrophe.
in my unwritten story
you are no prophet
and I am no doomsday
being delayed
by the grace
of your prayers.

Continue reading “fo(u)r eyes in my life”

A Pair of Poems Without Pictures

i wonder if the charm of mismatched socks transfer to poetry?


i am a fish
circling his hook
with baited breath
and not enough regrets

AU – 79

i choose to be a walking cliche
because actions speak louder than words
and there is nothing wrong
with having a heart of gold
if you have the strength to stand up tall
despite, or perhaps, because of it.

Tiny Letters I Will Never Send: Part Two

Part 2: Exes 

romantic and otherwise, to strangers that weren’t 

To my ex-best friend: I don’t remember what I did or didn’t do but I’m still sorry I hurt you and I wish I wasn’t the coward that run away from such trivial problems. More than that, I wish that I listened to my own mantra of ‘when the going gets tough the tough gets going.’ I wonder if you’ll remember my name when we’re both 80? p.s. I hope you knew that I love(d) you.

To my ex-boyfriend: They say that children are the most hurtful because they don’t think about what they’re saying or doing and looking back, we were definitely children. I think my favourite memory of us was the first time you took my hand and didn’t let go or maybe one of the numerous times where we’d at the back of KFC, shaking salt off of their (overly seasoned) fries as we talked about nothing in particular. The good thing about children is that eventually we grow up & I really don’t think present day us would have hurt each other so intentionally. p.s. I have yet to write a poem about you and I probably never will, no particular reason why.

To my ex-crush: You. You held my attention for the longest time and to this day, I don’t know how you did it. Did you know that I kept a diary around the time that we met? It’s so embarrassing how your name seems to litter every other page mixed in with excessive praise written in clumsy cursive. Thank you for conversations until 4am, for being the closest thing that I’ll ever have to the one that got away and for being my muse for too many angsty poems that I can’t find anymore. p.s. I am often up until 1am these days, watching rubbish television or writing university essays without noticing when the clock hits 11.11 but if I could have just one more wish, it would be for you to remember us sometimes, when nothing else is in your mind.

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To ex-maggy (2011): you weren’t as cool as you thought you were, sorry!

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Last Night [昨晚]


the morning after
she pretended vodka was water
all sleep deprived
and out of her mind
she tried to purge herself of regrets
even if it was mixed in
with chunks of last nights dinner

sticking shame-stained fingers
down her throat
she could not quite reach
any semblance of redemption
she was stuck with the potent perfume of bile
for the rest of the day
and she vowed to not touch smirnoff
ever again

Continue reading “Last Night [昨晚]”