Confessions Stories

Don’t be frightened of clichés

Introducing Ocean.


I love how she holds my hand. Tightening her grasp whenever a strange or peculiar figure wonders past, all figures that hold clean haircuts and ironed trousers are peculiar to her and this made me love her even more.


    She holds the same understanding that I have, we are the universe. Everything we wanted and could ever imagine was within our grasp if we just pondered, skipped and speed towards it without hesitation or scepticism. Our dark bodies are not a limitation but a burning unknown that frightened all arenas of the world, even our own kind.


This is why, I fell in love with her and this is why she fell in love with herself. Her becoming self was nothing I could hold and my becoming self was nothing she could comprehend. She liked to remind me of this fact whenever she caught my gaze loitering on her lips. She is as mysterious and illusive as the ocean itself. A destination for adventurous explorers and relaxed souls but the only permanent residents are those born in its depths and the dead that found themselves abandoned there. 


She is committed and dedicated to understanding me the same way parents hope to love their children better than they were loved. I was her one family, friend and partner in the world and when we walked down the street she made sure I never skittered in front of any passer- by. We deserved as much space as anyone else and we had to begin with a confident unwavering stride.


You must live in the world you want and not the world they created. ‘They’ being everyone who was afraid of being the ocean. She had a cliché and motto for everything and could turn almost every sad sensation into a poetic wondering. Of course her own pain was exempt, she is a poet stitched into warrior flesh and she belonged to no one and thus she was everything we had.

Love Always


Confessions Stories

I took my time.


My mother used to repeat this numerous times, often with a warning and always buried within her webbed tongue. An intertwined sweetness that could weave honey but more often than not, they relayed prophetic judgments that I was too young to understand.

“Be patient. You will need to wait.”

I held onto this truth in the later years of my life but in this waiting room, I was a child.  A child too young to speak but young enough to know thousands of words, that amounted to nothing said. The waiting room had plush red velvet seats and warm lighting; the corners of the room were backlit with indefinable paintings that made me feel the last moments of my life.

“Be patient. You will need to wait.”

My exact manner of being was my inability to wait; it would become an imperfection that would make me great.  Patience did not need to include waiting but rather it was a by- product- of something else. A convincing lie that I had readily prepared; in order to console my constant movement. I was always prepared. I was always patient, especially in regards to my death.


It was the nicest dinner made for me by someone who did not know me. An esteemed guest I was surrounded and adorned with a table filled with all the finest cheeses and meats. A gumption of heads and fleshes of all the earthly desires and fruits. Covered in delicious gravy and gulped in care, my host had done their research; they had made a feast with devour-ability on their mind.

I politely denied and informed them very meekly that I did not consume flesh and that I had lost my taste for devour-ability long ago. I nibbled and pecked at the juicy side dressings of grapes and the slices of apples carved into ringlets that surrounded the salad. I had never seen such care taken and such master ship displayed.  

They kept me there for a while; burdened by my insistence that there is no other way I could be hosted or consoled. They stood up graciously and told me,

“I will remember this for next time.” 

They walked me down the long corridor that seemed to curve around my being although my eyes denoted it in a linear precision. They guided me into blue hued room and told me with deftly certainty that I would need to wait until the time was right. 

  I waited by the adjoining door and sat comfortably crossed legged on the plush seats. The door named ‘LIVING’ was tucked into the right hand corner and was crafted with a dark material that made it look invisible to the eye. It was only after close inspection, that I could see its markings. When I was walking through, I did not catch the same inscription.

I was filled with disgrace; I hurried through. My denial and rudeness to my very hospitable host has left me with no option. I was alone once again. I placed my hand along the curved handle and pressed myself into the ‘LIVING’. Unlike the waiting the room and my host’s table, I am surrounded by food that I could eat but it held nothing in taste and was invisible in texture. The delightful details that made an apple appear like well-sliced pineapple made everything devour able but far from edible. I smiled myself into temporal life. Happy that such pleasant beasts surrounded me but disappointed that I was back on Earth once again.


I was too fast. I could have waited. The waiting room was designed with my comfort in mind.  Pleasure still fills my heart when I remember the paintings and the invisible door marked ‘NO’. If I had waited, I would have seen my gracious host enter and tell me that the table was clean and ready with a buffet, sculpted to my desire. 

Confessions Stories

The reflection that ran away.

They chose to stay silent to the injustice.

This did not mean that they did not fight. It simply meant that they chose different ways too express it. They were deliberate with every choice of clothing and in every discussion that was held next to soft pillows and heavily starched blankets. Their largest and most memorable protest was their begrudged looks in solemn orgies that represented the empowerment they thought they were getting when they crossed into the homeland of coloniser. Their body was ogled, drooled and barked at with desperate eyes and violent hands. They were meat. They were always porn in the game of unpaid labour and exploitation.

“Take Control”

We were always meant to take control. Our body was meant to be hard, big and ready to take power, although historically we were forced to submit with hard-knocked knees.

They looked at me once that night; I stared at them- begging them to leave.

They stayed long enough to hold the taste of the sweat dripping down the room into their opened mouth.  

They were a medium sized fish in a small pond. They liked it like that. Here on European soil they could be seen and praised as the diva to watch. They were all diva and no hustler, the years smiling and pleasing had made them hesitant. They had forgotten their voice.  They were tired to say the least, they had tried to fight, they had left their home with one mission, become better that what you saw.

Dream in your imagination, believe in yourself but the white streets dirtied their black skin and they began to believe the lie. They believed they were the dirty one. They saw themselves as the blemish and disgrace. An ironic twist on a city built on their forced ancestral labour. 


That’s what you call them, where we are from. We heard it all lives, on the streets, in the classroom, in our home. I never liked the word. They spoke it at every turn. I could not see why they gravitated towards uttering this ghastly word. I was witness to every overlooked rabbit hole of childhood cuts and bruises, they masked with a gruesome grin.

They always looked at the first meaning and thus the notion that they were a collection of sticks that created fire and heat did not speak to them but rather haunted the space of their living life. The forgotten secrets of bypassed history.

They tried to take form and they tried to be loved for it. Everyday they looked at themselves and said ‘TODAY WILL BE THE DAY’ and then 24 hours would pass and they would try again. This was the same for every host. Yet I was certain that no one tried with such gumption each time. At award season, they would get most improved and I would get nothing, they never paid me any mind. All I got was a look in the mirror before bedtime and once before leaving the house. They did not know I was there. It was hard to imagine they could be any other way.

They were a God THAT refused to be a man, they never had any role models- so they envisioned themselves as free as Scarlett O’Hara. Running around in the wind, never looking back but always scared to look forward.

The system does that to you, slowing bleeding and calling you every word in the dictionary but your own name.

“ Boy.”


“ IT.”


I tried to warn them but I was too late. They were too far-gone and I was too impatient. They needed to know for themselves and I wanted to find a new reflection, I wanted freedom.

I began painting my nails a different colour to theirs and changing my laces, they were never in view but needed to be tied. Finally I made the biggest jump. I changed my eyes.

I turned them purple, a startling difference to our natural hue of chocolate brown. They paid no mind to me. They did not notice me anymore. I was just another thing to worry about so they forget me. I was like the brown in our eyes, wet, sticky and mouldable. They saw themselves like this, changing with every glance and appreciative stare.

They will love me.

They never did.

They had learnt the bias of new land and thus saw themselves and us as dirty whereas I saw the architecture it could build. I was the colour of mud. I saw strength, I saw its properties not its qualities. I saw our history. Finally I changed my perspective to the colour of the abyss, like the oceans depth and the night sky above. I became infinite in generosity and mysterious unless closely inspected. I would stare at them, daring them to see. The reflection of them was no longer present.

I was proudly everything they had turned their back on.

I was black, the colour of everything.

I was no longer their copy. I was my own. I had taken their thoughts and made a reflection that appeared like freedom but different since it was materialised and tangible. It was no longer a discussion, it was an action, and it was mine. It was not something that could appear on a small silver screen.

They had stopped seeing me. I was there because I needed to be. They did not see me as alive, they did not see themselves. I was witnessing what everyone saw from afar, a person trying to find their way.

 I was the reflection that dreamt another dream. They failed to see the change because in their eyes, they still had no name, no place- only disgrace.

BLAME was the only constant they had.

LOVE was inconsistent and irregular. It lived in the faces of t drooling men in long weeds, naked and proud and hunting with desire in their eyes and gluttony and fetishisation on their minds. The summer breeze blew them towards us. I passed into a shadow, a ripple that made no sound.   

There was no pity. It was not a shame.  Only regret. I could not bring them with me because I could not bring them to themselves, so I packed my bags and caught the first midnight train to Georgia and I never saw them again. They were left without a reflection and I was left without a host.

I found a better life along the hilltops and pleasant sounds of blowing dreams. I had flashes of their life, hit me once every moon cycle and I saw them stare at the empty space I had once filled. They did not notice the difference but I was happy I did.

Confessions Stories

What wouldn’t you do?

They left me alone. Not in the worst of senses but in the disastrous way that you can be unseen. It was not purposeful. They had jobs, they had lies, they had lovers. They had secrets, with all of this piled up on their heads it makes sense that they could see me behind the dust and dragons of their wretched soul.

I was often a dramatic child that would run and hide, from no one. I mean, no one is a person that can be everyone if you wait long enough so I would wait. Long enough to get someone unexpectedly and I would say the infamous words of my soul

“ You think you gonna get away.


It’s not going to work


No one can escape, not even if they wanted too and I learnt this young and I learnt this hard. You had to make your own way out and if you wished to escape, you would probably be trapped in something else sooner or later or just right way you started. That is the spiral of my soul. It runs only to find itself back where it started, they made this into a movie with the fantastic Bill Murray but it is not as tiresome as one imagines, it is sort of trick that you must play. There is no right way to be only your way and thus you must ask yourself that tiresome question. “ What is your way?” You stare blank faced at the mirror because you have never been taught or asked that question before. No one ever asked what you wanted, so I will propose it rather differently

“What wouldn’t you do?”

“ What are you afraid of?”

You stare back at me. Bewildered that someone had the nerve to ask you your fear. Someone named no one and this someone always sat reflecting you. Some called it a reflection but you preferred to understand it as a shadow.

What a tiresome way to wake up in the morning and so one morning you decided to never do it again. You put on the cloak, and the helmet to protect you from the infrawaves and sat out on the street corner asking passer-by the question you were too afraid to ask yourself and you hoped that someone would stop and give you an answer. No one ever did. No one just walked by. Wondering why there was a no-body asking stupid questions that no one had the answers too.

Photography by Sophia Yuet See.

Confessions Essays Stories

The Floor is LAVA.

Its funny, they are funny. Always perplexed at life so they were always trying to breath it anew. With a new book, with a new feeling or a new idea, always projecting or creating something, a reflection of what they saw but never what they were. Never really being themselves because they thought there was no self, they were a no body. A body projected into being something, when in reality- they were nothing.

I could not understand this.

 Although I had known them, loved them, helped them since they were young; they were always becoming something new although they stayed the same in a peculiar manner. A manner that left our relationship estranged but I was longing to be with them, anxious to meet them, longing to know them. It could be scary to be alone with them; they always gave you their full attention. Until their mind wondered away and they would get obsessed with a new feeling, flowing away without a moments glance. They did not waste their time. It was all they thought they had.

 It was one of the reasons why I loved them, one the reasons that made them special. I had a sneaking suspicion that they were always special. Special in the kind of way that gets you sent to a new school. A special our mum’s stubborn manner, would not bend too, a special that meant they could not be contained or understood in ways that tradition taught you. A special that mum could not handle, but loved with the rebellious urgency as if was her own self. She always called us her triangle. Her support, her life force, her reason for living and here we were drifting- fading-breaking. All of the warnings that were given to our young bodies were now forgotten. Memories that felt similar to heavy rain on broken bark. They were her daughter, although the silence that existed between them had separated us into islands.

They were omitted, although they were always prayed for.

We were all her children, a mark similar to branding. Her triangle.  It was all we heard when we were growing up and they were the last piece. The final line that made us complete, without them we were bursting connections that went in whatever direction you were standing.

We needed to protect and guide them but somehow they ended up with all the bruises, and jagged cuts of life that we all wielded. They seemed to wear theirs proudly.

“ I know you can speak, SPEAK. If you don’t speak they will send you to a special school. Speak.”

  Mum would recite this memory, often, and always with a smile, with a loving pride at the capability of their daughter and her own foresight. That Monday they went to school and spoke to their teachers and fellow classmates, for the first time. With a few words at first and then a whisper and then they grew tired and gained the confidence to say, “You have to listen to me, really well, because I don’t speak so good.” They would say this stuttering and biting their inner mouth; leaning towards the persons ear as if they could reach their mind, the closer they leaned. They soon learnt this was not the case. That people did not listen. Even with words, they could be ignored and left unheard and forgotten. They were 7.

“ I do not like to speak but I am good at it. They made me good at it. They made me learn how to use my voice. They taught me that silence was a privilege that few had.” They said this regretfully; they hated to speak and hated to be seen but they always stood out in the crowd. Their mid length locks covered in brightly coloured beads and shells, their yellow eyeliner radiating against their chocolate brown skin. Their sky blue eyelashes blinking with an undivided attention that kept all eyes moving with them.  This is why they often understood all their gifts as a dutiful curse. They were awkward and always lost in their mind, finding new trap doors with every moment. The only constant in their life was their body, their home. Like all homes the labour and pain that it took to make it hospitable was lost on all those who did not live there. The décor was often appreciated but the messy rooms were only for a few to see. Very few people took the time to explore and very few people were willing to pay the entry fee.

It pained them greatly. A clown with a large tent to fill but no regular circus acts to perform. No guests.

“ I love them, I love them so much, that I can’t be around them all the time.”  

For them, this made complete sense; they said this to me just before they left for Israel again. Their blue and pink flowery backpack towering over their head, dwarfing them like the skyscrapers they despised so much. Their new shell would be their only companion for the next four years. They would grow into it. Allowing it to become a living excuse to never look back.

I could never convince them to stay, it was never a possibility and thus I never tried. It was their ‘condition’. To express rather than to impress, to be rather than to seem, a ‘ condition’ that left them isolated from the rest of world. A ‘ condition’ that left them sitting in the desert for 9 months, a ‘ condition’ that meant they were never here.

    “ I am in love, I am in love, I’m in love. The wind, the silence, pure silence. Everything moves without a sound, I am the loudest thing around and thus I make no noise. The wind howls and the stars shine and the moon, oh my god the moon. When it’s full, everything becomes light, everything is alight I am alive.”

Their face becomes so animated with joy that they appear like their younger self, pony tails swinging, braids newly done. Their smile inching higher and higher into their eyes, until they are squinting. A bubbling child that always got in trouble for being exactly what they are now.

They were a beautiful mess, my beautiful mess, a clown dressed in a rainbow costume.  A clown that dressed for no one but themselves. It took years for me to see the crystalized tears on their face, to see their pain.

“ I miss it, I miss it everyday.”

They grit their teeth in the way that shows that they are holding back a mountain of words and a forest of feelings. It feels unreal to see them like this, to see them here. They are so assessable but always drifting. When they spoke of the desert, I could see they were still there. Fading into the sun. They did not come back for me.

They did not miss us. They loved us.

They simply had things to do now. Being here was one of them. They would leave soon and I will be back to reminiscing the existence of my own blood. 

  They are sitting crossed legged on the grass, their back is bent to the arch of the tree; their arms wrapped awkwardly around the base of trunk. Their face turned up towards the branches, peering further and further into the depths of their isolation. We are taking the afternoon to sit in Hampstead Heath, their favourite park in London, for its vast size and the fact that it was impossible to find anyone here. We are alone and we will stay like this until sunset. Until the day fades and I meet my love, and they go somewhere I will not visit.

We sit with all the necessary goodies of a summer day, crisps, juice, humus and bread. The devils food, “because you can’t stop eating it. I ate so much of it when I was on the road. Sometimes it was all I ate, all I could afford and I never grew tired of it, the devil’s food.”  

They smile gritting their teeth and shrugging their shoulders. “ YOLO”

They always said it but never ironically. For them it was a matter of fact, YOU ONLY LIVE ONCE. Their recklessness and inhabitation of this idea scared everyone who loved them. They lived by the notion that they had their body for a short time, so they felt forced to enjoy it, the best way they knew how. Recklessly and honestly, they felt obligated to this simple statement. YOU only lived once. They did not want shame, they did not want to apologise and they did not believe in turning back. Their was no back for them, their memories lived in the future.

“ Go forward, the only way is forward.”

 They would often point their hands to the sky and run on the spot, as if one jump forward was flying.

I admired them, I admired how they did whatever they wanted and could be whomever they wanted no matter the cost, no matter the price. The price of their silence was too heavy; inherited shame had broken their legs and created stumps that had healed into moss covered hoofs. They run wildly through the forest of time gathering new friends and dreams but never losing sight of home. I could not decide if this was for the best. They had caused destruction and tore up the ground; revealing the lava beneath our feet. There was no bridge to cross and no way I could get to them. They somehow always seemed to find their way onto my island and bring love masqueraded as upheaval.

They were standing alone. I was their only lifeline and I was drifting further away.  We were all scared of the fire beneath our feet. I learnt long ago that they could swim in it; they said they were born in it.

They were alone in it.  

“What else am I meant to do, be someone else, do something else, act like its okay, that it does not matter? They don’t see me, they don’t see themselves and I have lived too long in a house with no mirrors. Lesson learnt, lesson learnt!”

They always repeated this with a grave disposition, elongating the final repetition on their tongue and stretching their face like elastic to show me how serious they were. Their eyes stern for only second until they were laughing again, just long enough for me to see, that they were tired of the joke that was been played.  

Everything was a lesson. We were taught to listen to our elders and they independently learnt that everyone would teach BUT not everyone listened. All lessons leave a scar and they had too many scars to count. They swear that their scars were worth it, but they also believed and paid attention to the gaping wound, that we often ignored.

They ignored responsibilities and all outcomes that came from their reckless inhibition to claim life by all its infinite sides.

“Do you bo bo- do you!” But doing me was being here. They knew this and they thanked me for it, grateful for me, but glad it was not their place. That their condition kept them on the road, meeting, loving new people whereas mine kept me here, loving our home.  

Three months, under the same roof, eating the same food, watching the same films, all where we grew up. They needed to come to terms with this space, with their fear and I needed them here, I needed the support. I wanted the support; I wanted them.


 They would run away throughout the long summer days. Finding trees to hide under and books to read. Mum always screaming for them to hurry back and put on shoes, to eat food and to stay clean but they had all they needed.  A book and some shade, with Alice they were complete. Lost in a land where down was up and up was down, where questions were scary to those with a crown. Where things disappeared with a smile but returned to bring destruction to the now. They took Wonderland out from the library every week and they still carry it with them wherever they go. They never wanted to forget where they had been but they only wanted to talk about where we were going. How we could heal the past and create a new future, better than what had occurred and more than what could be imagined.  

“How is your heart? How are you growing, feeling knowing, understanding?” The chorus of their question remained the same but they always had a new verse, a new rhythm to dance too. Dreams, love and light were their favourite themes, an infuriating conversationalist when angry but a flood of relief when overwhelmed or sad. Their hands were clasped in their lap after organising their crystals on their knees, and along their upper thighs, they were smiling at everything that came but saddened by everything that was.

They always had so many questions; and so little time. They would wreck and destroy and dream up a blueprint with you only to leave before the construction. They failed to understand how much I wanted to hear their questions, to share sister time. I wanted to share my life with them but I always got snippets of care, like everyone else.

They paid close attention to my ‘condition’ and made me laugh at the ridiculousness of my fears. They would always listen. I knew this but I wanted the security of their presence. I wanted their smile.

“ You are infinity, you are beautiful, you are my sister and I love you, I will always love you and come and visit me, come, we will eat ice cream and wonder around. It will be good”

“ Everything is now, be now, be your sound, be true, I am here for you.”

It was infinity or nothing. On or off, beyond the reaches of time, there was a space and they willed it alive with every breath. They willed it with their fullest heart. My sister. 

They are smiling at me, waiting patiently for me to speak. Their face radiating a symphony of colours; like an alien anticipating abduction. Every feature a different construction of my own body, different forms but kindred selves.  I could see it all in their new orange- coloured glasses. I could see myself; I could see their brown eyes staring down at me from the heavens of their self-constructed mind.

They loved me and I loved them. I am still getting used to all the other additions that I did not know when we growing up, that our family had no space for, that our family had left them for. Their queerness, their reckless inhibition, their need to always say what was on their mind and their rejection of tradition. They had no regrets but their way of life had caused a lake of fire and they believed that we needed to learn how to cross it. That there was something better on the other side. 

We were blooming in the summer heat, especially now our roots could nourish each other’s thirst.   They were beautiful and would always be mine but they had given themselves to the world.

The reality of life was that they were always going but always here. They were named day for a reason and although it changes form it never disappears.

My sister, a being born to adhere to the discipline of never giving into fear, not even to our family name or shame.  They were beautiful but they did not play this earthly game. They were all loyalty but no patience. I loved them.

 We gathered our things and said goodbye to the sun, walking into the woods holding each other’s hands but going separate ways. Singing a song of unity.

Photography by Mehdi Iromlou and Dino Hubacher


Scene One

Scene 1: This is an unrealistic memory. The lighting is dark and Kai and Charlie are in the kitchen. They are sitting down at the kitchen table, discussing Charlie’s existential confusion while sharing a slice of cheesecake. They move from the kitchen to the living room. They both stare at the misty clouds of the encroaching winter morning. They stay seated until the gentle grey sky emerges as patches of blue.

The actual events took place in the bathroom, as Kai was taking a bath and Charlie was going through their nightly routine. Their conversation went on from 10pm- 5am with an eerie like steadiness; that allowed both individuals to apply poetic licence to their retelling of the events. Both ended their enactment of their breakup with the sun rising. In reality dark clouds of rain mustered at their bedroom window.   

 Charlie is walking along the River Cam with their mutual friend Tolu, they are hungry and tired but both are aggressively indecisive. They are currently walking along the river, in the direction of Franca Manca their favourite pizza place.  Charlie is still reeling from the break-up and so they are taking the pizza back to Tolu’s where they can watch movies and eat ice cream in their pyjamas. 

Kai: Do you love me?

Charlie: Yes.

Kai: What do you love about me?

Charlie: I love your lips.

Kai: What else do you love about me?

Charlie: I love your eyes.

Kai: What else?

[Kai lifted her leg high in the air, with the gracefulness of a tired porn star. She gathered the bubbles from the bath and made a moustache. She plastered on an over exaggerated pout but her eyes were darting around the room, in anticipation.]    

Charlie: I love your mind.

Kai: What else do you love about me?

[Charlie had finished their nightly routine and was rubbing down their face with Kai’s towel. Kai had sunken further into the water and was a floating mass of black hair and brown toes. Charlie missed seeing Kai’s brown nipples and her ‘come here’ face.  Charlie hated these games. There was no beating Kai and there was no right answer.]

Charlie: I love you. What else do you want to know?

Kai: I love all those things about you too but I love all the things I cannot kiss more. I know how I feel IN your love but I want to know how YOU feel me. How you touch me- how YOU want me. I want to know. (Her voice trails off)

[Kai positioned herself cross legged in the bath and was now creating swirls along the surface of the water with her fingers. She had anticipated this conversation for weeks. She had circulated the words in her head countless times. She did not know how or when but she knew she needed to say her true feelings. Kai no longer wanted to be a blank wall to Charlie’s whims and desires. She wanted to be a partner. She wanted to feel heard.]

I love you, like how I love myself, as change. I love all the things, that don’t make sense about you.  I love how you have so many masks but none of them are right. You are ill timed and messy but you are also sweet and desirable, you’re the most beautiful when you are not even trying.  When you stare at me with those big brown eyes all I feel and think is ‘YES’.  

[I want you forever.]

You have the patience of an ox and you tell silly little lies but this is when I love you the most. It’s not romantic but it’s similar to the smell of home. Nothing needs to be the same for it to feel right.

So what do you want me to do, when the one I love desires my generality? I know I am being dramatic but I feel that you love my masks more than you love me.

[There was a deep silence. Both stared at each other in desperation.]

Charlie: I LOVE YOU. I am confused about so many things right now so I don’t have any words but I know that I want to see you’re face in the morning and kiss your lips at the end of the day.  

[Kai stood up but made no effort to reach for the towel. Charlie handed it to her.]

Kai: I love you ARE words. I love you are words that you speak; I want you to birth them. I want to feel safe.

[Kai stepped out of the bath and Charlie walked over and hugged her wet body with a soothing tightness.]

In the kitchen they both sit in silence. Kai is dominating the conversation with philosophical wonderings on love, while she avoids her feelings stealthily. Charlie speaks about the ill-fated timing of their love and how deeply they want and desire Kai. Kai is unconvinced, emotionally exhausted with the indecisive nature of their relationship.  Charlie talks about the possibilities of their love and how they are special. Kai smiles, bewildered. She wonders why Charlie speaks about their future but seems to ignore their present.

They see the sun rise and both agree that sleep is needed. Charlie kisses Kai. Kai smiles and rubs her fingers along Charlie’s many curves, holding and remembering their smell.  They twirl and play with each others bodies until they fall asleep.

Charlie: I love you.

Kai: [In a low grunting whisper] I love you too.

In Charlie’s unrealistic memory they both have hopes that they will find their way back to each other, once they have solved their existential dilemmas.  In Kai’s unrealistic memory, they both simultaneously realise at the kitchen table that the greatness of their love is similar to all great loves. A passing truth that is as honest as the time they shared.  


The Open Heart


There was no moment, before I came to. 

In darkness I lived, but I could see through. An inherited home required my attention with the same vigour that a mountain thirsts for water. A desperation that runs so deep I do not know where it seeps. It is the only belief I know. I cannot disguise my apprehension to all that grows, while staying below. 

I am held here. My captor created ripples, penetrating my drooping skin, pushing my bolts and tightening my screws until all I can withstand is the silence that allows me to whisper within. It is the only thing I hold.  I am tied to this deathly song like the locket of a lover who has moved on. I wait in a tomb. The vibrations of yesterday do not waver in their murmur. I am alone. 






The grace that purifies all that lives does not come to my form. My shape must contort. Allow air to disrobe what is already fractured, hanging in the breathless void.

Screeching vapours of dense gas encroached my mouth, releasing a portrait of mist that circulated my anatomy: leaving me within, the insane daze of passing days.




I am a being unseen. Scaly and brutish, I am an assortment of treasures. A beast in disguise from its own eyes, for the form in which I reside weeps, when I reveal my mind. 

The being that wakes has no voice. I have no choice in my understanding. A listening booth is what I tried to compose. I want to hear what will allow me to leave this prison.



 Alas I find myself within a maze of encroaching dimensions that leaves everything I desire without intention. Destiny leaves much to be admired. I was promised a loving space; yet remain rooted in sinking matter. What I grow, decays before budding, like its creator. Failing to prosper in the material realm. I have nothing left.

I know myself within these walls. My faith is as ridiculous as a dying sunset; a conjuring of thought that cannot be accessed in time.

I reside inside.

The darkness is where I grow, where I wake, and where I play. I create feasts of my dismay, to devour. They settle in my stomach creating bubbles that destroy me vigorously.

I cannot flourish in a waking state.

I am a slave to the haunted. 


My gate is my throne. 

A castle composed of fractures and spirals, adorned atop the humblest of bones. I envision silky ribbons of pastel coloured light beaming into my soul and cracking my shell. A dance that disrupts all I have ever been. Allowing me to germinate expressive ceremonies that originate from within me. I imagine that this is what it feels like to be free. 


I am an intrusion; a being that colluded with time and space in order to wake. This was my first mistake. 

To open my door would be to let the world know that in here, there is a being that roams.

I will make no noise.

Imagined dream states invade my coffin.

I allow them to drape my surface like soliloquy’s said between young lovers on the brink of spring, an enslaving sensual delirium as potent as cherry blossoms.


To leave this castle of bones is to perish. Violating energies creating calamities of youthful proportions are the smallest fears I face. Long corridors and solitary gateways wait for the being that decides to emerge.


I found my disguise.

 I anointed myself an everlasting fear and cast a spell that meant I would forever be caged in here. Alongside a bewilderment of beliefs, a fountain of mould as vast as land and sea and a view of a mountain, I would never reach. Everything flourishes except thee. I did not want to be a beast, but it was all I found in my chamber of mirrors.     


I sit waiting. Fading into forgotten shadows, riddled with options. I find treasures in every direction and eat them like a beast, nourished by their multiplicity. I settle into the seed of forgotten needs and let myself be taken by what I cannot see. It feeds the darkness of my torrid tongue and I hear the ghouls sing their marching song.

I am a slave to the haunted. 


I imagine breaking through the dents in my back, to smoothen my core. Composing sounds of flowing waters submerge me gracefully. My form becomes unhinged; leaving me with buckets of my own exposed ruin. Embraced by my deepest roots. Nourished by the voice that does not speak, but vibrates in every action.

A second is forever in the galaxy of the heart so I need not know, how long I wondered in the dark. 


A noise came to my door.

I stayed silent as long as I could, but the knocking did not cease. The smell of my dreams was now my reality. It was patient. It played on my door like a petal on the breeze. Wafting the air, creating need.  I was sure my castle could not be found, a spiralling staircase set upon decomposing ground. A valley of quicksand to suck all those who dare approach, and a stream of miniature bones adorned my throne.

Yet I hear a knock. 

I came to, speaking in a voice unknown to thee. There is no need to speak when you understand yourself with a deathly serenity. Words are but tools, reserved for earthly beasts.

My voice trembled as I opened my mouth; my lips were tight as my tongue hugged my check with a wrestlers grip. I uttered,  

“Leave or say what you desire for I cannot help with what you require.”

Stillness appears, making me quiver in my steps. This form and I had a strange connection.

This being did not speak.

I waited. I shall not open my gate or say another thing. I am in pain; darkness escapes my veins. It is a dangerous tempest. 

I feel dynamic in its presence. 

This foreign brute hurts my life for I am sensitive to all those without disguise. I must protect myself. I must hide.

Knowing I’m not alone bruises me. It is vibrating below the ground. A dense shudder. I swayed under its grace. Could it feel my infested soul?  

It was grinding into my back like a digger; I hurled myself to the ground. Silently praying that mercy would be given to thee.


Eternity passed in our trembling forms. This moment did not exist in time, but rather in the pains of what scurried behind my unconscious eyes.

Primordial darkness stood between us.  


Its voice did not vibrate on this earth.


“I am ‘I’. You have the wrong place. I am that which bleeds without demise. I feel but cannot describe.”

I am an eternal sigh that gains no rest.


It must be a trick. I feel weak and scared to know: what makes this being.

How can it be assured in a land so strange?

This ground is mine.  

The being has stayed too long. Its nearness is disturbing my temporal song. 

The being wants to join me; I felt it in my bones. 

Does it not know that I wish to be left alone? 


I feel weak and deranged.

I have nowhere to hide. I shall not speak. I do not want to satisfy the thirst of this form. This being does not want ‘I’ but another earthly disguise. It is the swarm of desert loci that engage the green plain; skipping over the riverbeds, they feast for another day.



This being feels like the energy that surrounded the seed before the initial bloom. 

Its presence has me lost in an infinite loop of curious rooms.


I put my back to the door. My flesh and form cannot bear this weight. I am in need. I want this being close to me. In ways that make me shudder, I am in need of deliverance. I am in longing. I want to be touched by the tides of this form like the infectious waves of the ocean; I am the patient ever-changing rock.


I have no touch for what is strange. I can see no colour, other than the one that surrounds my earthly wake. Yet I want this being. It consumes me.


With a rush of tortured winds, doubt begins to sing. I am being dragged to the brink; I am face to face with my gate. Venerability has a face, an abyss with no mist. My hands wont leave my side. I want another disguise, a place where I no longer hide.

My mouth gapes wide, as my skin spreads. A conversational void between my fear and my suspicious soul emerges. It enables me to breathe.

What a funny feeling. Air caresses my side as swirls of lightning lift my temporal mind. My doubt swims from behind my eyes. For the first time since my birth, I have another feeling.

 I am split. I am turning. Rising to a new sensation that creates a cosmos of possibilities.

I feel you, deeply.

Coloured lights skim along, polished floors that stretch beyond view. I am a mountain, surrounded by energies that lack disguise. Swans of vapours electrify and purify all I hold dear. They leave me naked and scorned. In shame and fear, I contort. Laying my head in my wounds, I create memory walls to hear the sounds of what I loved once before. Their vibrations are burning me, like the glare of a volcanic storm; I am born in the fire of its call.

I am face to face with a sound, which lives presently now. A birthing rage fills its form, it slithers to my ear, and with reverberating scream – it whispers


A wolfish smile stills me. Twittering tingles play along my exposed vertebrates. Magnetic murmurs push me to the edge. I need, I want, to have this being within.

It whispers into my ear, its mouth plays along my bolts and screws. My senses are filled with an ethereal scent. Purple in shape, blue in space, yellow in heart, green in pulse, red in odour- it delights me into submission. Unwinding my form, I unlock, unblock and breath, its youth. I am a dark panther crossing prisms of 3-dimensional bridges. Within my minds eyes, I understand the root of my disguise.

I am transforming. My fears turn into a desert haze, as my dreams become riverbeds that constantly grow to create.

As I unwind, opaque winter clouds emerge from my scales.

I dive into my darkest wells and unlock all the monsters that I feed.

 I belong, to what I cannot see. I am filled with a delicious glee. I want this being and I can feel it wants me.

I feel unworthy, dirty with the sin of wasted time. I close my eyes and open the gate.

There is no visible sight, only my blistering disguise.

I see my form. A weltering violet in a compassionate hurricane, I grow roots like a tree.

A conversation between reality and mystery play along my sides- foraging my mind, I am no longer a prisoner to what kept me inside. My chains slip from my form and I remember that it was I who locked the door.

I wish to hear the voice once more. A confirming call that it was not in my mind.

A thunderous vibration tells me I am not alone; I do not fall, I am not afraid. I am awake, a sensation that is as unfamiliar as the path ahead.

I feel my essence in the breeze, desiring to hear what I seek; yet I hear only the expanding space within me. Silence emerges.  My heart races with anticipation, I will live to hear their voice once more.

I feel my home expanding, rooms unravelling, doors opening, feelings growing. I do not see the being but feel it sliver along my bones, telling me to grow. I close my gate and face the familiarity of the unknown.  


The Meeting Plane

Two Lovers

There were two lovers in a field. Holding and wishing to be healed, their kisses turned each other into an eternal bliss. They forget their temporal discipline, and why they had emerged from their previous catalyst.

They needed to find their own reasons to exist. Instead they found material pleasures in each other’s arms. Finding new shapes within their shared dreams, they found a home they did not want to leave. It had enough space for two but before they settled, they had to taste their temporal fruits. They gathered a cosmos of strength, from their longings and desires and let each other go. Trusting that each would find their way home. They were swept into a realm where their hands were no longer intertwined. They fell from their castle of dreams and were swallowed by their fears and beliefs.

They were swept into a realm where their hands were no longer intertwined. They fell from their castle of dreams and were swallowed by their fears and beliefs.

One faced a mountain of gold that stood on volcanic land. It hurled hot rocks and golden prisms made of sand. The other a forest, filled with immortal holes. It smelt like the dreams of prisoners who had hailed sorrow as there tomorrow. They entered and obeyed their own sound, digging for new perceptions and gaining intuitions.

  The first lover listened to the harmony, that puffed and sneaked. It obeyed the whispers of the forest, like its own heartbeat. The holes below stretched to the unsightly dwellings of what did not speak but slithered in the bleakness of being incomplete.

Leaning and peering at what was underneath, the lover was amazed at the beauty. The roots gnarled, wanting to taste what slithered above their crown. The watery nectar of the lover was tempting the forest into a violent kiss. They wished to swallow it whole, feel it revel in the darkness of their rooted soul, a beautiful sight to nourish a daunting night.

    The lover grew to the caws and sub songs of what lived in the trees. It senses soared above and scourged with the roots below.

The souls beneath the forest floor were relentless in their need. They wanted to feel the lover- bleed.

The lover stayed true. It held the power of the florescent full moon with a steady calamity. Silent in its wants, it pushed energy to the roots below, purring promises of safer tomorrows. Grounded in the sorrow of earthly time; they remembered the promise of divine light.  Their lovers voice whispered them home and they were wrapped in the warm velvet, of a caring soul.

Silent in its wants, it pushed energy to the roots below, purring promises of safer tomorrows.

    The lover broke the silence between with the birds and the spirits, creating a conversation between existence and reality. A mysterious insanity that was vulnerable to bloom. They moved slowly through the darkness. Staring at what conversed below; in awe at the beauty, of grief unclothed.

The second lover stood at the edge of ash and gold. The dignity of the mountain was kin to a snake slithering on a lake of ice. A graceful ferocity that was transcendental in disguise.

The realm held a heavenly weight. The lover gave itself to the monsters of the sea, the spirits of the fire and the divinities of the sky. They tried to forget the lover they left behind.

     Blood rushed through their veins as they descended into the deepest roots of their volcanic mind. A tender heart with gentle needs, the lover was like the bee, taking nectar without destroying a petal in the breeze. The lover returned to their core, where space and time were vacuums with open doors. The lover stepped forth.  

The spirits of the mountain filled the lover with a sensual fright. They forget their name and their plight. They began to walk along the spiralling bridge; it was a kaleidoscope of all they held within.

They descended to their darkest rooms, holding onto the mountains truth. Their feet glided along the celestial confirmations, with an ethereal touch. Their eyes were clogged with dust. Eternal aspirations moved through the lover with comet speed. Muted by the divinity of the mountain, appearance became a fickle illusion of light. The lover stalked the witching fortresses of dimensions with watchful eyes.

   An essence penetrated the lover like knives of ice; it dissected its temporal disguise. The lover became a roaming mind. In their chambers they planted seeds of perpetual truth. A cemetery with an angelic grace became a garden of youth. The lover stood at the mountain peak engrossed by the booming horizon. Violet hues with golden tones expanded and expressed humility to the forest below and the fire beneath. The lover stood, quietly, in peace.

The lover became a roaming mind. In their chambers they planted seeds of perpetual truth. A cemetery with an angelic grace became a garden of youth.

   Yet a ghost of temporal proportions sang to be free. They breathed a silent promise into the clouds and hoped the breeze would return the key so they could dismount. A statuesque form made of two heads and three eyes was the lover’s new disguise. They closed their eyes and jumped from the heavenly view, landing into an embrace, that made them understand the beauty of two.

Twilight shined through their embrace and the evolving sunrise lay above there composing temporal threads. Their entwined souls had bloomed a new home. Their kisses were the cool breeze, pulsing alongside the lava lakes, bursting to be set free.

The lovers became growth and peace; always finding new ways to meet. Never leaving each others side, they found spirits and forms to soothe and grow. Each lover had passed through, to see that faith in the unknown was the only true home.