Ying and Yang

She wrote about another half: baked in chardonnay and smooth tunes.

She wrote about another half: full to the brim of ideas and opportunity, colours and numbers.

She wrote about another half that never bothered to write about her.

She stopped writing.

She painted.

She wined.


He thought she was a disco ball: a spinning beauty.

He waited for her to turn to him.

For better or for worse

My better self smells like aftershave, the expensive type from the store with symbols as letters.

My better self talks with vindication and nods politely when it hears mistruths.

My better self drinks red, when it wants to drink black because it’s had a red day.

My better self sways a tired child to sleep, a moment to rest its own eyes.

My better self says yes when it feels like saying no.

My better self rests my head to sleep when I cry into its chest, that I have not done my best.

My husband.


She glued eggshells on her heart so as no one could see it was broken.

She covered her mind in eggshells so as no one could see it was cracked.

She fastened eggshells to her shoes in an attempt to tread lightly.



There is treasure underneath the rubble of my generation; engagement rings turned to shared custody; short lived loved burned by impatience and frustration. Dig beneath the blood and bones of stolen hearts and broken homes, swim beneath the burning desire, fallen friendships and lost hope. There you’ll find solidity, truth and power and a love that’s free. Where music once played and hands held truth, kisses were longed for and sex was a continuation of said love.

Look beneath the rubble of which we drown.

We are a people of love turned upside down.


If he took her for all he thought she was worth, he would end up with very little. So she took him for all that he wasn’t, for his lies and broken promises. She took him for their past love and the memory of their first kiss and she walked away with it all.

A richer woman indeed.