Well... I have not been able to write anything. see.


The worst secret you know should be as taboo as admitting to your mum that you imagined her face when you were born, and wondered if she split.


A poem

Under my duvet

I saw the man I might love take a sharp right out of Waitrose, with a bag of new potatoes and some half dead calla-lillies. I thought he might notice me caught like a leaf in the doorway, but he looked very busy thinking about things.

Some sleeping

I let the long yellow light in through my window because the world is getting darker. Yerp, not the chirpiest poem!