Beeme
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My stories
Today I am not eighteen
I am not a eighteen year old girl, slipping into tights which elongate my legs. Placing my hair into a silky bouquet sensing his eyes wash over me like breath;
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Photosynthesis- blinded by light
My uncle’s fighting today, the air in the living room is un-breathable. I study my nan’s antique vases, watch her tired hands rearrange flower heads. She is so happy that they are alive;
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Cleanse
If you’d told me five years ago that today I’d still have these feelings. Shifting in my bones like memory, and that a sense of loss would stain my cutlery with fingerprints every night.
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We think better
There is only a short distance before it is all black; someone has taken a marker and scribbled through the axis of my body; I tell myself that it doesn’t matter that it is you
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Freedom
Houses are framed with dust, like ivory along dormant windows- sits squatting in the horizon. Blinking like a golden Buddha’s head rippling in the sun.
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