.collision course.

Sleeping to strange sounds and weird half formed dialogue. Too many thought going at a million miles an hour and pretty, gorgeous, breathtaking lights that flash and shiver in time with my heart that’s thump-thump-thumping without reason.

Reason seems like a silly and fickle thing to rely on, when chaos promises more. Like adventure and joy, and the wind pushing my hair back with the kind of seduction I would only hear under sheets and in between kisses.

There is no confusion tonight, just electricity buzzing under my skin, and energy enough to power the universe.


.ghosts version 2.0.

She lives in scraps of paper, scratched out in a hurry as a conversation surfaces, an endless adventure he grows tired of. He tries to remember a time before her laughter and the curtain of hair that’s forever just an inch too short to be manageable, and all he can see are versions of her. When she first surfaced, stumbling with a building block in her hand, arm stretched out shyly. When she disapproved of his first cigarette, bought secretly without ID, her frown obscured as he focused intently on the stretch and swirl of smoke. He remembers forevers under the sun, bright and relentless and her laughter cooling his temper.

He scowls at her now, body curled up on the floor.

You should be happy. Her voice is never a volume above a whisper, but it grates his ears all the same. Like a brush scrubbing hard against sensitive skin. You should be happy. She insists. Eyes he used to find so beautiful now leave him breathless with loathing.

You should be happy. She chants, full lips pouting. He hates her, hates her, hates her. I remember a time when you loved me. She sighs.

You should be happy. She kisses his forehead. And he lurches backwards violently against the padded walls, arms tightly wound around his side.

You should be happy. She whispers again, fading from sight.

And he screams. Hate hate hate. He hates her. Wispy hair that blows in the wind, doe eyes that never closes. He hates her skin, alive against the world, but never against his. He screams. Hate hate hate. He hates her for leaving him in a room that’s too white, too clean. Too empty without her.


In the dark of the night, when it’s a little too cold, and the very tip of his fingers leave goosebumps on sleep warm skin, I wake up and wonder if we could have ended up any other way.

His sleepy murmurs as I stir is unsettling and I find myself more awake than ever. The taste of memory lingering in my mouth and the fuzzy cloud of last night’s dreams edging away from consciousness. It’s not his voice that coos softly in my ears, whispering a name he doesn’t know, the softest caress of lips on my ears too vivid to be left by ghosts. I cling to his arms in an effort to anchor myself but the thin fingers that clasp mine are vague images imprinted on reality, and the smile that graces my face is one he’ll never see.


Like closing your eyes and being knee deep in the sea, with your fingertips barely skimming the surface of the water. The ebb and flow of the cold water so constant that it becomes a part of you. You think you’ve found peace, with the wind playfully twirling your hair and the sun’s warmth on your skin like a lover’s touch, reverent and caring.

You don’t see the tide, and it brings with it the cold shock of toomuchandtooreal. You’re left with gasping breath because you thought high tide is hours away, desperately scrambling backwards just in case the sea decides to hit you with another wave.

So you sit there, the edge of the water lapping at your feet, a little lost and a little confused. You feel the sand, rough under your hands and you hope to always feel it. Because the alternative is too painful. Too scary to contemplate.

I wish I could say I miss you desperately, but to be honest I don’t think it’s hit me yet. xoxo Bestiepoop. 


“I love your colour.” She says, and for an infinitesimal moment I wondered ‘is this racism?’, her eyes drift up to mine. “You totally rock all shades of blue eyeshadow.”

The world ends and my best friend finally lets herself be honest about how jealous she is about my skin. If I had time to appreciate the weirdness of it, I’d laugh. But as it was, we had precious few seconds before the meteorite is set to crash Earth. “Weirdo.” I decide to say. And I think that it’s perfect that her laughter will be the last thing I hear.

Because I have weird friends, and I love them all.

[blog] permanent brand

Stupid would be to tattoo all the randomly remembered quotes and extracts I love on the limited space I have on my body.

Of course it would be a silly, stupid thing to do.

The thing is, I never claimed otherwise.

Because tattoos are there forever. Of course these days you can erase them, but I like to think that the skin remembers. That once it held an image. That once upon a time it was more than just the elastic casing which held your internal organs in place (an important job, but nonetheless..)

So a tattoo of all those word that crowd my mind would be a silly thing to do, no?

Trying to talk myself out of another tattoo, but it’s not going so well.