An Apology

I am sorry
you will never feel
the warmth of the sun on your skin,
or how the wind rustles your hair
as you walk down the street
in that summer dress,
the one that called out to you
from amongst the indifferentiable heaps
at your favourite flea market.

I am sorry
that your every word is filtered,
your every action controlled,
your every desire suppressed,
lest someone should discover
your existence,
your tenancy,
inside this shell
we tell the world is ‘me’.

I am sorry
that my life exists instead of yours,
and that it is my face
you are forced to see in the mirror,
and my name
you are forced to answer to,
in a voice so different
from the soft sweet melody
longing to escape your lips.

I am sorry
that my being in the light
leaves you lost in the shadows.
I was given no choice.

I wish I could grant you
the freedom to love as you desire,
who you desire,
how you desire,
and take from you
the confusion,
the sadness,
the fear
wrought by the world outside
as it reminds you, daily,
that there is no place for you here.
As it dismantles, daily,
that impossible life,
the dream of which
you so desperately cling to.

I know
my being here
makes you feel lonely,
and abandoned,
and that no solution seems in sight.
But I don’t know
where you end
and I begin.
And so
I don’t know
who it is I feel more sorry for:
or me.
Or if it makes a difference.

All I know is:
Neither of us ever truly was
or can be.


On Theory

I live my life in theory
In what-ifs, but-ifs, thens
Insert myself into stories
Experienced by my friends
What would it be
To be there
What would I say and do
How would I there be treated
If all saw me as I do
I conjure place and setting
With rare context of what is true
And imagine that I’m there living
In the midst of all ado
Instead of being trapped here
Inside this prison shell
That puts a false face on this lonely
That makes normal feel like hell.


The noise stops
you in your tracks
So loud it feels the world
is crumbling
A tremble passes
over the ground
under your skin
You look around
to see how others
to this assault
to the implosion of the world
And the tremble
Grows stronger
as you realise
only you
only you
feel this collapse.
You are at war with yourself.

The world shrinks,
2m X 1.6m X introspection –
the dimensions of your cage,
its bars invisible,
their presence palpable.
The air here is laced
with wandering thoughts.
It is heavy.
It is toxic.
It weighs on you.
It poisons you.
You are reminded:
It is possible to drown in air.



The desk by the window
where you pen your thoughts
  is beautiful.
  was here when you arrived.
  will stay when you go.

These rooms,
their walls, doors, windows,
  compose Home.
  are always different.
  are never truly yours.
Home asks for time
  to be found.
  to be grown.
  to be preserved.
Expecting its comfort
simply for showing up.
  is naïve.
  is futile.

Home found in transience
can only be temporary.
They are borrowed walls.
They are borrowed streets.
They are borrowed sunshine.
Borrowed air. Borrowed friends.
You are a guest
  in your rooms, town, country.
  in someone else’s home.
You are at home here
  for now.
You are at home here
  for now.
You are at home
Expecting to escape yourself
by running away
  is futile.
  is naïve.