I thought of that cup

The one I bought from Ikea, all greenly gold and new

The one I drank my morning brew in

The one that saw coffee swish within its China skeleton

Like a dinghy at water park.

My lips fat and swallowing, teeth chinking against the sides

It took us months to get through that giant bag of Costco coffee

The beans floated to the top, never ending

And everyday I’d start my morning with that pastel green cup

Finger my iPad

And wriggle my way into consciousness.

mental health

Poison berries

Give with your mouth tomorrow

And your heart

But let your mouth do the talking

And your fear do the shutting up.

You see a sea of faces before you

But they’re just a cluster of blood and matter and cells

They have brains to think about themselves

Not you.

They may judge

Like sprightly lawyers

But judgment doesn’t have to seep through your words

And clad them in dull-grey hate.

You’ll speak, they’ll listen

Fear is futile

And worry is work.

Let your mouth do the talking

And fear do the shutting up.


Daddy issues

I go for them because they look after me

Keep me safe

Give me fake

Love and adoration

I feel stony-faced elation

Papa’s girl, the ultimate dream.

To have a man shield me with his arms

To protect and worry

To dash to me in a hurry

Should I need anything.

To fear for my safety

Send messages to check I’ve arrived safely

And then keep tabs on how I’m doing

Like no one has done before.

It’s different with a mum

Not that hers matters less

Or her worry rings less true

But a man I’ve never had

Never picked me up and held me tight

Read me stories late at night

Tucked me in and warned my boyfriends

Not to hurt me

Or treat me poorly

Or leave my heart sorely.

mental health

Pub talks and safety nets.

We were thrown together

Like two strands of spaghetti

Smashing against the side of the pot.

Both new, both nervous;

Like beating hearts in shiny new cars

And porcelain dreams

Full of promise and potential.

I spoke to you, my safety net

Sitting at the corner of the table

Knees bent upward, awkward

Eyes shifting from main speaker

To the guy I fancy

And the girl he’s dating.

You had me in your pocket

Snapping my teeth at your ear

And moving my lips in a desperate display

Of wanting to fit in and have something to talk about

Trivial chit chat

Insufferable small talk

Jokes I don’t get

And references that leave me puzzled

Being dragged behind the conversation’s tail

And acting like this is the most normal thing in the world

Horribly effortless

And impossibly possible.

love, poetry

Crushes suck

I don’t much like having a crush.

Those slippery thoughts that slide like snakes through the creases of my brain

The pitter-patter of lust that falls like rain

And tiptoes quietly around my head all day

Never lending me enough space

Always there, encroaching and invading

Day-dreaming and cascading like a waterfall.

I’ve thought about him and his billowing tufts of blond hair

All weekend.

Intermittent passing thoughts which I guess I sought

And kept wedged within my head

What it would be like to go to bed

With him and speak in muffled whispers

Speaking into our pillows til our mouths blister

And then getting up for coffee runs and middle class chores

Picking rapidly-ravaged clothes off the nightime floor.

I don’t want to think about you so much

I’d like to kick you to the curb or cast you to the side

But the truth is you excite


And frustrate


And charm


And it’s been such a long time

Since I had that luxury.

love, poetry

Manager amor

He looks like an average bloke.

He’s tall, yellow-toothed

(but I don’t think he smokes)

He plays football like every guy

In this whole wide world

And he seems a bit awkward too

Like he might have gone to an all boys school

And maybe his luck with the ladies

Never really reared its head

Like maybe he doesn’t

Charm many into bed.

And I feel like his parents are probably rich

And maybe he’d have nice lips to kiss

Running my fingers through his sun-kissed hair

Even prodding down there…

But this is all theoretical



Because I’m not too fanciful

And he’s probably not into me

Doesn’t lend me his thoughts

Doesn’t wanna kiss me.

(Even though I’m actually quite cool

If a little bit small

And shy and lacking in sanity

And self esteem, despite all that

I’ve got kindness flooding my veins

And I’m pretty and witty

If a little bit ditzy

I write like a pornstar fucks

And can appreciate a good monster truck

I’ll always make you feel at ease

Because your comfort (not mine) is a priority

And then I think


Maybe he’d be lucky to date me.)

mental health, poetry

First week jitters and confident critters

Wriggling and writhing and searching for a hiding place

I sit poised at my desk and start to mentally strip my soul

Of sanity.

Invasive thoughts and negative retorts quarrel within my brain

And I’m left quivering, shivering under the office lights

Petrified to say I might

Have just a teeny problem with public speaking.

Those twitches and wobbles and legs that hobble

Mouths that feed information to the room

Feel taped up or severed

Like the Joker’s doom.

And I sit and think and cause a plague to wash over me

Biting my nails and assuming I’ll fail

At every scary thing that comes my way

While others talk so effortlessly.

The words guzzle from their lips, churned from conscious thoughts

And smart ideas which always seem to rear

Their heads

For them but not for me.

I can’t seem to say clever things or act wisely

I make decisions lightly and watch others in fright

I doubt myself and who I am and what I can do

But I’ll shower you with compliments and stop you feeling blue.

I can’t fake confidence but I guess that’s how I got the job

So maybe I ought to try to give less of a shit

And quit having a sob.