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I don't write. I create.

You came to me and apologised.
I hadn’t expected it but I do appreciate it. I’m happy you did last night – it seems that you’re here to stay.
Sometimes I know I can be impulsive and I run away as fast as I can.
I’m a mini fan of ginger. Walls up, I can always do.
I sometimes imagine you’ll think one thing over the other and I convince myself that is the way.
I think maybe one day, we should spend a weekend together in New York City. Come back and adopt a rescue dog.
You said sorry and I felt it.
Thank you.
We are feeling this space and I feel sprouts, seeds and aubergines. You feel my hands.
What can say?
I’m ready.



The Inside of Love
I pressed call and called you and you answered.
We spoke and I laughed, you cried and we understood one another.
At that point, I believed we clicked.
Only, it wasn’t too long before you faded and the pages caught fire. I wanted these words to be permanent. Life does not kiss hearts with pink.




You say one thing and do another.
You’re like, ‘ask me anything, we can talk about anything.’
I speak and you act like you’re shocked by my choice of words. Then you go silent for a while – resurfacing as nothing happened and ask, ‘are you okay?’
I mean, we are grown!
Yet, you act as though I have poisoned our conversation and crawl back to base, only to whimper a little.
Why are you so conformed to a false narrative, delivered by our society?
I look at you and think? Right! Okay!
The things you choose to do, allow me to see you under one hundred, hundred-watt lights.
Get some sealant and box yourself in.
Stay down.

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