» Limbs

What am I but a mess of parts

Words, fingers and greedy lips

A stiff neck and back

Loud laugh and tight waist

Things you noticed most

The days you woke up in my bed 

“You’ve got a beautiful way with words”

Singing with my eyes

Smiling with my hips, legs

It’s why I’m home when I dance

When my limbs aren’t suffocated by the sound of my voice

A heavy noise that dropped my head

When I wanted to kiss you a hundred more times

(I told you I had greedy lips

The closest my heart can get to touching your skin)

But the ones without the tangled bits

Who can lift their hand

Wiggle fingers to the sky

Disrupt the air for a little while

Without their stomach dropping to their feet

(Adding dead-weight to dead-weight)

Worry me

I’d rather raise my arms

And have my feet follow suit

So I can chase you down the street

With my stomach bouncing in my feet

Dead-weight to the dead-weight you made me that day

(I’ve never been good at goodbyes)


In The Morning

I’m so jealous that the sunlight streaming through the blinds
Thin enough to slip through cracks I can barely fit my fingers through
Gets to run itself across your lips
Envelop the bits that took my hips so long to get used to
A rhythm that I was only used to in my head
For so, so long
That I screamed
Not just because I felt my heart explode in five different places
But because I needed to hear my own voice yelling out what I had thought for so long
So that every sense was burning enough for me to know that you were real
And that even though the sun gets to dance on your body first
I will be the one on your mind,
The echo in your ears,
The scratches on your back,
The taste on your lips.


I just do me how I want to do me and I’ll only discuss that with those I love or those who ask - because nobody else should care. I just hope everyone else is doing the same thing.


To the beach

I’m so grateful for the sound of thunder when I’m alone in the worst way.


We are constantly surrounded by overwhelming amounts of beautiful inspiration. The issue with many people is that this intimidates them rather than light a creative spark - or it does both, but the fear of not living up to what inspired you in the first place scares you; it’s backwards really… A muse is meant to be an idol. The perfect object from which and for which we build a thousand dreams and realities. It is meant to be unmatched, or else it wouldn’t be all that inspiring, would it?



Tragedy doesn’t need to be political. My heart goes out to all those affected.


I find it so fucking awkward when people fix their hair while bawling their eyes out. It’s just such a mess of raw emotion and shallow habit.


Egypt with the fam, years ago.

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