Under the Skin

As many of you already know  (I go on about it enough!) that I am a sufferer of bad eczema which has the annoying ability to really scrape away at one’s soul. So for all who have skin conditions or even any type of illness’ whether it be emotional or bodily, here’s to you lot. Nobody can really understand what it is like to be the fourteen-year-old smothering herself in makeup because of her acne, or the eighteen-year-old young man who only wears long-sleeved shirts to cover up the blotches on his skin. True, there are so many variations of terminal illness that is so awful and incomparable – but it doesn’t have to be life-threatening to threaten life. Keep your chin up, honey.

last night I woke up with blood dripping down my arm
it was 3 am and in alarm, i jumped out of my bed
and fell onto my floor, hitting my head
I yelled out in frustration
because of the infection that I have on my skin
ezcema, also known as the devil’s grin
the itchiest scratch irritating MY one protective layer
an autoimmune disease that is the slayer
of fourteen-year-olds with red patches on their rosy cheeks.
eczema, the voice whispering to you that you’re a ‘freak’
and you try to seek the trigger
but the itch only grows bigger
while the sparkle in your iris drowns
in the tears of self-destruction.

however, my loves, self-destruction
can be reframed as construction
when you decide to love yourself
for yourself, for your heart’s health
because he’s not worth it. she’s not worth it.
but you are worthy enough to admit
that life is tough and your skin is rough
compared to the model in the magazines
and that girl in the blue jeans
and that man in the limousine
and the libertines who appear to have so much
but my little one, that’s not true as
no one can understand every single war
that each individual soldier swore
not to talk about.
hushed by shouting societies
that interrupt your cries of anxieties
society: an artificial construction
that we’ve constructed to consume
our souls and doom our children of the stars.
we may as well put our hearts in jars
and forget about nature and relive our scars.

my skin is here to hold me together
and yes, it hurts, man does it hurt
but I am going to stand up in the stormy weather
and wear that pretty skirt
that reveals my red, itchy legs because
it does not matter what sex
you are or you attract, for a matter of fact
please don’t hide those beautiful eyes
because you feel ugly.
there are thousands of people, roughly
who have illness’ like eczema, acne
psoriasis, exactly – so let us smile
and let go of the palm that you cling to
and shift your focus on the way
you’re a genius of wordplay
a brilliant maker of souffle
a potential writer of a great play
or even the way you can crochet
the fabrics of your being
into guaranteeing
that you are allowed to love yourself,
so little one, please
love yourself.
Draw on the walls of your existence
with bright colours
filling the distance between you
and the melody of the violin.

let the light in
let the love in
and please,
stop scratching away at your beautiful skin.




melody mirage of rouge buttercup 
notes like honey
collected by the bumble-bees
that survive
drinking delicious nectar
cupped in warm palms and
yellow petals
smile like sunbeams 
a cold cobalt stream rushing
and running through veins
like an ice lolly on a summers day
or that first sip of coffee from your favourite cafe,
two planets orbiting
singing to the stars
in such a sweet, sweet melody
mirage of rouge buttercup
elderflower flavoured cigars,
Nature waking her up,
saplings stretching their arms
to take pleasure

in this instant
a small fragment; no longer distant
peeling away the satsuma’s skin
sipping on tonic and gin,
to reveal the segment of
behind the strings of the violin
daffodils and daydreams;
flowering in the seams
of your ripped white t-shirt.


A Love Letter to the Waves

The sea shapes sharp shards of glass into smooth and rounded fragments, and I remember on that cloudy day walking side by side on the sand you said to me -the sea can soothe your soul and calm your heart. It made me think of the negative space surrounding your body, the way your back curves slightly like a wave which makes me believe that you were once a rugged rock that got lost at sea. The waves shaped you and smothered you but you refused to drown. The sea carved your atoms into a sleek pebble that lives on my shelf. The salty mixture of violence and vehemence rushes through your veins but when the sun sets over your body my breath is stolen from me and you make me forget about everything […] and the solar system is mine once more.

as the sea gently kisses the shore.



i’ve been helplessly rambling in the woods for a long time now.
i wouldn’t say that I’ve been ‘lost’ but I had certainly
screwed up the material map /
consciously thrown it out into the sapphire rushing rivers that tear across the forest.
like a sharp knife
tracing over the page
cutting away roots
a, papercut.

nothing inspired me, nothing invited me and nature was starting to


into the
creases of my paper.

my pen’s ink turned transparent and my paintbrush strokes were only used to cover my body in a protective layer.
the woods consumed me, stole my soul and ate it like a cannibal in front of me, exposing my green gut to the loneliness of the fallen, dead leaves and the darkness of the torn up soil.

and yet the sunlight managed to leak through the dimming expanse of the thatched forest sky

tree branches separated;
i saw trees standing in solitude, departed from the thick and crowded wooded area which was so dense with thoughts and thinkers and judging hawks and red-wine drinkers that i forgot of the robins in my brain. those sweet and small robins that live by my ankle and sing at night next to the street lights.
tree branches separated;

the poet lives on
the metrics of metre and rhyme mean nothing to one who has no -meaning- maybe my -meaning- was to not try and grab -meaning- but to lose -meaning- and grasp onto the hand of someone else.
let nature run her course
course her run nature let

just say that you don’t love me
and then i can love you.

for the poet lives on
through the distress and depress of her forest that is oppressed with fuss of being someone and something but let the robin in

let the robin in.