Portrait of the living

Specks of dust, encrusted crown-

Portrait of the living with

My head upon your knee, so that I may be forgiven.

Jewels tumble to your feet, aqua blue with being strangled

And entangled in your ring-less fingers’ greedy grasp.

I breathe golden embers, glowing and pulsing

Infatuated with the drug that presents a gift for me to bear.

Upon my shoulders, the weight of a heavy silence

My head throbbing with echoes of stories, times, places, dreams

Frozen solid like oil, waxing and waning in short bursts

Rhythms pounding with desperation.

Classical opera ringing in my ears like a dainty bell

Time for tea, dinner, breakfast, lunch, tea.

A gentle sip is all I need; just one intake of that perfume.

Slender wrists for eyes, glinting cloak for hair

Ebony musk for breath and poppies for blood.

Gentle swaying of a breeze, I feel it in my fingertips

Kissing them so lightly, grazing my face and lips

And it slides over my body and I’m adrift

Sailing through my mind with nothing but an empty casket.

I am ever so lethargic.


Stretch deep and feel.

Feel it slipping away.

Live it.

Live a warm, dizzying feeling of calmness.

Be the lamb who settles down.

Breathe out.

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A hasty return

Sometimes I remark at how foreign I seem to myself. I look down at my body and I see folds of skin marked “brown”, the gentle dips of pores dotted over my hands, and the width of my thighs as a frame.

I haven’t written on this blog for a while. I know I say that a lot, but like life, my posts have troughs and peaks. Though, I would hasten to call this a peak, so to speak.

It seems remarkable, in fact, that I should look at my posts and chuckle at the girl who wrote those words with tears in her eyes, looking at the door constantly in case someone should walk through and smash into her life with a word-shattering force, rendering her mute. It also seems remarkable that the girl in question is a past version of me, for I have no empathy with what she mused.

That girl is dead. She’s dead to me.

You might find such a statement curious. But the fact of the matter is that I am increasingly prone to forgetting who I am. These things come in cycles, and I do not recognise “myself”. It is not even frightening anymore. It’s just a fact of my so-called life.

My posts might start to be erratic. I might seem gloriously dark and gloomy one day, and then absolutely vile as a person the next. Then an hour later I might be the sun shining over mountains yelling at people to wake up and enjoy the view; that is, the sunrise.

Overall, I encourage you to ignore me. I always like abrupt endings. Now I’m getting distracted. I forget about the reader but then, this isn’t so much for you as it is for some function of me, is it? Hello people who know me, goodbye those who don’t.

Au revoir.

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Looking for silence.

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I have this friend who likes to

Stab me in the back and

Shake me.

Shake out all the bad blood so that I can 

Twist on the blade and dance

To sing-song remedies and

Blunt-edged melodies.


This friend will lick my neck and

Kiss my brow until

I’m lathered in moist drops of


Ears bleed from constant chitter

Chatter in my head like a nutcracker

Dim buzzing on-and-on-and



I can’t stress enough-

We’re just friends.


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Nervous fidgets

Constantly squeaky chair from my constant leg movements.

Twiddling with any accessories.

Playing with my hair.

Biting my finger enough to leave a mark.

Pinching myself.

Muttering when I’m walking.

Singing under my breath.

Saying the Alphabet in French in my head.

Translating a conversation into another language to be able to process it with less fear.

Sitting on my hands to stop me scratching myself.

Hitting myself if I am alone.

These are just some of my nervous fidgets. I tend to find it quite hard to keep still, these days. When I am still, it means something is seriously wrong with me and I’ve had to zone out to cope with whatever is happening. When I am not still, it’s mostly because I am nervous. As confident a person as I am, I have my weakness, and that is worrying and fidgeting. I had many teachers who told me I was a worrier, that I shouldn’t be sat up at 3am emailing them about why I couldn’t do an essay, that I shouldn’t be apologising so profusely all the time. But I think my upbringing and my general nature means that I always need to get it right, and by having all these fidgets, I can balance out my natural wrongs. Or, at least, that’s what my brain tells me.

I just thought I would share these for some reason, probably because I’ve been making a very satisfying squeaky noise with my chair since  I sat down on it, and it brings me a great deal of comfort and I wanted to share how my safety lies in doing things to distract me from the fear of not doing anything when I could. How odd we are, as people, people. 

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Don’t panic, no, not yet

I know I’m the one you want to forget.

Fall Out Boy is a great band, I’ve got to say. But they are not the reason I’m writing this post.

I’ve had 4 panic attacks in as many days. The crippling symptoms of panic overriding all your instincts, putting them down to fight or flight, and not knowing what to do have taken over my body too many times this week. This is not the first time I have suffered a complete meltdown of the senses. They are a more regular occurrence than I could learn to cope with, and this has been the worst week for numbers yet. I’ve had them in front of people and alone with my reflection or the dark as a blanket. I have suffered panic attacks in my sleep, waking up to myself frozen with fear and anxiety. These incidences started since I began university, and often I wake up choking. Before then, even my reflection could set panic into my veins, and that’s before we get the moments where I felt claustrophobic in the presence of people who wanted more from me than I could give. Whilst I clearly don’t have panic disorder as they aren’t extremely regular, the threat of a panic attack looms over me whenever I can feel my body starting to rebel.

I don’t think my parents take it seriously, or want to accept what happens when they occur. I think it scares them or they just think I am overreacting. But when you are literally paralysed with panic and cannot move your limbs which are numb yet somehow tingling, you feel like you’re being strangled and kinda would prefer death to switch off the confusion and utter desperation, then I don’t think you can ignore it for long.

This post isn’t really going anywhere; I just needed to document this moment of feeling tired, because I’m exhausted. Thanks for reading, or something.

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Just desserts.

Stone me with your words.

Make terror leak from my skin.

In indelible ink, mark in my sin.

I’ll give you anything


To make it stop.

Pleading cries to venomous eyes.

From earnest truth to blatant lies.

I’ll lie down, accept my demise


Because I’m wrong.

The worn and the wary.

The devil and the fairy.

The murderer and the jury


Is a battle already won.

Hurt me and bruise me.

Taunt me and choose me.

You will never lose me


Because you never had me to begin with.

Stone me for all I care because

I’m done.

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