For the parents and children of the world, but, especially, the girls and their mothers who are separated further than the length of an umbilical cord — A willow leaf abruptly swept beneath the roof of her ear, a soft spot for tea leaves, I too like to feel the loose rustle between my fingertips she has grown into her seat of collected poise at the table’s end Confused intentions, her stare rests on a watercolour petal,

do I understand how I’m straight and don’t want a little world of love without men? uh — you are approved by me, with a lip glossy wax seal and kissed good night down in bathroom glass, dressed up in kitten heels, a tatty jumper and tiny mini skirt, what I like, lash slick, and cloud paint, steaming frappes in the pouring rain, how romantic, gift wrapped in…

Teenage attachment angst… It’s unnerving, funny, and the strangest. (I am a teen and I know no else) Seventeen, wise. So Soft, the universe said. Lightness, here, take this Flurry into madness, dizzy high, The flood, the rush, the knocks on the door, So consumed, so lost. So found. Insane. …

so… can I get your number? I think this is the thing I’ve made I like best, edit 2: this is the thing that got me out of my writing rut, 2022’s day of birth, so thank you for coming 22. new years like birthdays always make me melancholy, nostalgic and hopeful, and happy because of what happened, and it’s sweet to switch lenses between rosy and grey, it’s fun to articulate it (or try to) edit 3: who do my school think they are sniffing at leaver’s hoodies

turning back to turn away, for a whole season, this is all I have to say, I think, that I can a butterfly clings to a twig, for flowers, flowers, fly, trapping summer like water on a rainy day, as the pretty star wakes in the east, shaking your lids…

proving I am capable of constructing something a soft blanket passes by, shivered by the wind, a soft blanket cradles you in a past, kisses for your salty lips, looking for home in the sea, as the clouds darken, pitch a canvas for the moon, she strings on, in a…

it’s noon somewhere, it’s noon in your head, in the hair tucked, through your ear, rolled up in bed, dyed but never dead, soaking up Camden’s daily dread, there’s a black chair, under where you’re sitting, messy red nails posing, dancing in your organic manna, staring, sitting, you’ll stop outside…

do you like them or are you meant to like them, edit: I still don’t know how to l- I’ve been thinking about love a lot, and in the first few pages of Erich Fromm’s The Art of Loving (which has issues), I’ve been instructed, told, that society’s idea of…

poems for the girl growing up in the big smoke, I made myself stay up to do this one — but the poor eggs are more tired of my brain/head/lack of either — Friday blues wild she’s tipping the vodka down the plastic Ikea cup that was made for this, it was chosen, to dance with the sparkles of Tesco water, and press up against her blushed up lips, a party, birthday even, hers, she’s singing the booze,