i, mechanical

i do everything with oranges except eat them. they say love is in the peeling, is in the separating of the segments, one by one / slow & wholesome day at a time. who will do that for me? with all the white bits still attached—i miss her, all too much, & still lie / awake for the feeding. a horse clips down the street & i have no apples. just a body full of warm milk laced with honey or something else that stings a little, with more sweetness than i can take. at least it's something / i have tried. i've known of people to not even do that. i give them their space. during which / a friend & i spend time together & afterwards, my calves ache for days. this is love, the good grit & dirt of it all. we have bananas & apricots & we know of each other's pain. lay on the bed together & after, still laugh the same. my mother was wrong about so much. still, i can't see that / oftentimes. i am on edge & i'm not sure why. i know i lie / awake for the feeding that will not come. see, both hunger & fullness make my stomach hurt. i don't talk about this—there are other fruits to peel—finally, i allow myself to feel the sticky innards—& / then rosemarie says she is sorry for the feeling of what might have happened to me, & that maybe next time i can look her in the eye. i tell her i'll try—i don't / & all gone is this hold of mine

an edited version of the full poem achieved an honourable mention for the heidelberg author award 2025 🥹

i.                      white lies: i like eating chicken & i like eating. i do not like petrichor & yes, i feel comfortable in my own skin. i got enough sleep last night & haven’t skipped any meals. i am not tired. i am really not tired. & i remember how warmth feels.

i am dismissed & can breathe again. sometimes i see a scarf as a snake, writhing down from the scalp, twisted round the neck, tight. i / remember the first time i did that, waiting for my own venom to take me down. to spit through this body, to make me holy again, i was / perseus, new-aged & the first to be slain / this time. i was a child turned to stone from the inside. i taste / the blood & out comes the coral / of the red sea, hissing through the gullet.

“I would love to be ruined if it means I am sacred enough to be kept close.”

i // am statuesque. no colour & grotesque. i am art, i tell myself. i am worthy to be looked at, especially this way. this is love. this is love. this is —

i am dismissed & can breathe again. sometimes i see a scarf as a snake, writhing down from the scalp, twisted round the neck, tight. i / remember the first time i did that, waiting for my own venom to take me down. to spit through this body, to make me holy again, i was / perseus, new-aged & the first to be slain / this time. i was a child turned to stone from the inside. i taste / the blood & out comes the coral / of the red sea, hissing through the gullet.

happy world poetry day 2025! i’m very honoured to share that my poem ‘mother medusa’ has been accepted as part of pigeon publishing’s special edition on the subject of intimacy. you can read the full poem on their website, alongside all the other great submissions. this is particularly special as it was a call made to all 52 unesco cities of literature, & later today, there will be an event at heidelberg’s karlstorbahnhof where the poems will be shared, with some reading live. i would like to especially thank my good friend @spacedadpicard for recording a reading of my poem to be shared, i really appreciate it 🥹

& everyone i knew / needed august to be kind to them. now, / for a childhood, i was nothing / to be kind to. & when i was, / all my friends decided not to stay.

(ii). & then when she was quiet for a few days—how the police had said she was okay—& then she was / not. how they found her body & how i threw things at the wall

the wind kisses the ground into a state of undress—it rained, pools of water / invite narcissus to see what he wants—himself & today / is the dead girl's birthday & this is hell. someone tells / me you can't see your reflection in boiling water—i walk away. my god, savour the old scratch & sins of the flesh—this is the debt, to be alive / is to be plentiful with the unrest. at least a starless sky is smooth, even / -ing out the evening time—at the start, the Word—both a god & word at the same time—the word was nothing until it was named. nothing is created until it is named. The First Sunday Of February Is The Dead Girl's Birthday—logos, against which / the debt is weighed—give your money or your throat or your child to save yourself for one more day—just maybe, the sky will be the brightest blue, the kind where you have to look away—& his hands / & their hair & some shadow found my face, what would he give to take? my eyes / were not enough, even now they hurt with the holes in the irises. i still want my mother, i still want / to be on my knees in the bathtub, up to the navel in scalding water

there is no reflection, nothing to turn away from—take me back there, & / to when my friend was still alive & her body shook against mine—i held her—but / now she has died. how can ribs that i once felt be still? life. now, be gone—i say to god, i too have ribs aplenty—take one & make me / a companion too—i'm no adam, but god am i lonely & tired of being all rib—kick me out all you want but give me someone to go with, someone to peel me an orange, someone / to blame

9, 15 and 20 for Joey please? I love him so much already, hope to see more of him.