When I wake up I find the trees outside my windows are wet and fat with thick red dust

And the air smells funny – crisp, burnt skin

I climb out my bedroom window and start to walk

Then I break into a jog

Now I am running!

I am running, in a

Bright white nightgown,

I glow against the morning sky


A bullet

I am dashing through the fat wet trees,

A crack of white light

As weightless as a bird bone.

I lurch at a cliff-side, a perfect, Emily-Bronte cliff side. I fall into a dainty heap. (She does)

I watch how far my breath travels from mouth to tv

And then I put my hand to my mouth and taste it.

Smell it

Suck it back –

Cheese. Preservatives. Milo. Pork.

On my foot a worm is moving

And my greasy hair sticks to my back

I refuse to open my eyes

I wish for blindness

I wish to live in a world without surfaces

I can feel you staring at me

From inside my stomach

I wouldnt be able to see my self


I sit in front of my mirror all morning

Out there on the bridge, I can see you! I can see your black shadow, and imagine when our shadows meet! The bridge. The bridge! I stand. I smooth back my blond hair. It falls through my fingers like silk. You watch my small, bare feet navigate the rock. I glide to the edge, I smile sweetly at the crashing waves. Their violence cannot hurt me, I have beauty. I feel you watching me. The curve of my back. To fall in and be gone… I will never look down again. I have burnt myself awake.

Happiness. A light from here. Away. Take the remnant leaches from my skin and keep them attached to those fingertips. Away. I scream for mercy. Mercy from what? This silence? This quiet scuffling? The extra? You can hold onto the ends of the cuts. Your palms up. Tip tip tip. It’s there. The soft breeze. Knives. Fear. You can suck my dick, I whisper. Go on. I want you to.

“It’s in here, deep here”, I call to you. I put my hand against my smooth skin. I can feel bone, threads and aloe. I laugh. I do it well. It is like morning. You can’t tell the difference. You slip behind a tree. I stop laughing. I turn away, turn back, the rain sends down a delicate sheen to my breasts, another of heavens favours, but your shadow is gone, slipping from tree to tree, blinded from me by the red. I step onto the bridge. My legs make a strange noise, a noise I have not heard before. Like twigs snapping. Where was I?

It was the weather.

(A loud noise – A siren. Hotness. Coldness. Damp.)