Once upon a time…

Once upon a time there was a girl with four eyes and a button nose. She was brittle like the dried grasses she’d press between thumb and forefinger when wading through sunset lit fields; her skin glowing a soft pink mirroring the peach clouds and Jacob’s ladders. She was loud at home and shy at school, two halves of the same penny. When young she loved flowers and fairies, playing princess with her dolls and writing in her diaries. She loved her siblings and friends. But underneath all this familiar happiness, there lurked her fear. She did not want to let go.

As her legs sprouted upwards towards the sun and her fingers laced longer on wrists, the glasses she wore remained but something else drooped. Her wings that started with butterfly colours and sheen were withering in the cruel ceiling electrics of secondary school. Hiding face constellations with thick orange in attempts to please princes who really were hiding something too. She read in the library, and somehow the echo of childhood she so longed to keep frittered away into the holes of her blazer and silent bus stops.

This girl is older now, and she wants her wings back. She knows she drinks too much and gets distracted by fuckboys- but she is beautifully human. A choice is all we need, a choice for love and not sucking our stomachs so hard into rib-cages you gasp instead of laughing. It is not being worried that you haven’t completed x, y and z that you said you would today but smiling at what you have done. It is letting the dogs lick your skin without fussing about germs or anything else.

We all heal from the hurts we have done to ourselves, inspired by the ignorant cruelty of others in a myriadical and blooming ocean of rituals- I read books and write poetry where my brother draws superheroes. My mother rescues hens from factory deaths. We each are small, but so powerful in the realms we can control.

Today’s poem is from one of my diaries being 16- this is a message to the past versions of ourselves that we all lumber. M.G.B- you will be alright, there is nothing to fear xoxoxox

If Honey never goes off, then why do I feel so wrong?

Atonement- a way to
make everything okay again.
Nothing more-
Strawberry seeds of quiet
displacement. Inertly
pressing somethings,
small and sad
into flushed skin of this body.
Fluidity of hurt,
never ceasing to grow broken smiles
and awkward hands from
frail white blossom
every spring. Nectar drizzled
forgiveness is what I crave.
Who do I ask?
Bee keeper pain-
please make my mistakes
somehow right-
undone as the poppy
lolloped rain.


Today wasn’t supposed to be A difficult day, all I had to do was not fuck shit up. OH, BUT FUCK SHIT UP I DID!!!! Picture it: me hot and snotty, hands electrified stones on fire from muscle down to bone. I am crying and shaking and it is so quiet despite central London being packed and this station full of eyes who don’t know what I’m doing.

This posts title is from a song called You by Ta’Shan. It is truly beautiful in my opinion- about not being able to save someone else. I listened to it to calm me down, and I realised no matter what the outcomes of my actions- if I cause pain or happiness regardless of intention, I CAN always help myself. We must help ourselves always.

Panic attacks really suck, but today has not been a failure. I loved myself. I sorted myself out without crying about the fact I was alone. I didn’t feel sorry for myself because, (and listen up loud and clear now) LIFE IS A GIFT SNOTTY NOSES AND ALL!!!!!!!
I can’t share one of my own poems today, (I can tommorow) so I shall share the works of one of my poetry sisters- because loving ourselves and loving each other are all so essentially and intricately linked. Please give hugs more often folks xoxoxoxox

From Eurydice, by H.D


At least I have the flowers of myself, and my thoughts, no god
can take that; I have the fervour of myself for a presence
and my own spirit for light;and my spirit with its loss
knows this; though small against the black,
small against the formless rocks, hell must break before I am lost;
before I am lost, hell must open like a red rose for the dead to pass.