I can’t shake it off this time.

I can’t fake it away.


One good thing about watching a really terrible film is that it can often give you inspiration.

I’m just so



My sadness is the pancake mix

Left in the pan

It runs and


Until it just covers


It neither swells nor


It just

Covers everything



Do you ever watch something and you get the feeling that you’ve watched it before yet have no recollection whatsoever of doing so?


I’m so many things. Labels.






Yet I fail at all of them.  Badly. Constantly. Unstoppably.

Because beneath the what requires a who.
Only there is no who.
I’m no who.
It’s just empty.

I’m just empty.
So fucking empty.

The emptiness is so fucking exhausting.

And consuming.

I try and fill it, ignore it.

Swallowing books and binging on series after series on Netflix. All day. Every day. As if in some numb trance.  Only when you blinker out everything from reality can you check out of it.  Out of the agonising effort of pretending to be someone.  Out of trying to feel something; anything. 
The panic and rage that surfaces, explodes uncontrollably, when you resurface and you’re forced to respond and react like you’re someone.
And you know. You know what you should be feeling. What you’re supposed to feel. How you’re supposed to react.

And it’s hard to know which is more destroying.

The fact that you feel nothing.

Or that the few things you do feel you can’t translate nor express adequately; or even at all.

Or the fact that they can’t see it.
Then there’s that fear that maybe


 One day they will.
I heard the fireworks at midnight.
And I cried.
And cried.
In the darkness of my bedroom that I’ve been in for hours. 

With the glow of Netflix on my Chromebook.

And the soft sleeping sighs of my beautiful 3 three year old.
Who battled for three hours with me at bedtime. Making me so fucking angry. Because anger is one of the few things I do feel and can express. Mostly when I don’t even want to.  It just…. Engulfs everything.

 Three hours.


And now she’s sleeping. 

She’s perfect

And oblivious to my thousand whispered apologies to her.

I’m sorry.

I’m so



My loneliness

Isn’t a cavern that needs to be filled

But pockets

Exquisitely tight

And treacherous

That beg to be discovered

And explored

It’s the penny wish at the bottom of the well.

It’s the moth in the dark

Who’s envy of the light

Stinks of desperation

And banishment

It’s the speck of confetti

From a carnival you never went to

Now stuck to the sole of your shoe

In-between the mud and dog shit.

It’s the language you can’t decipher

Spoken behind you on the bus 

That you tune out.

It’s the hidden message in the cracking

Dark snowstorm

Of an untuned TV channel

In 1993

It’s the stubby lipstick 

In a dark drawer

You forgot you had.