"What is it they say about love? That it's only possession reimagined." (a poem for you)

Happy Thanksgiving, my darlings! I hope you are spending today with copious amounts of food & the company of family (the one you were born with or the one you chose). I think we all deserve this time of softness & rest. I am just popping in this week to share a small poem about food, which I thought was quite apt for this time of year. This piece was originally published in one of my dream journals, Cosmonauts Avenue, right here (do take a look at the full issue, if you are so inclined - it's endlessly beautiful & a perfect choice if you're looking for something to read today).

I'm thankful for so much today, but perhaps above all else, the incredible community that has formed in this small space. Thank you all so much for your letters & comments, your support through days both bright & dark, for your noise & quiet, your joy & ache. Thank you for staying. Thank you for listening. Thank you for letting these words make a home inside your chest.

I love you all. Happy Thanksgiving, & enjoy. xx



Love something tender,

chewy, broken in. Translates to ache without border,
expectation blooming to fit the space it’s assigned.

Her name is overcooked. Say it anyway: bright,
memorised, some kind of holy. Nightfall over

& over consuming the skin. Tongue as its own
meal. The girl only as beautiful as she is gone.

Her first love is all these masks. You can’t compete.
Torso threaded in mourning. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m 

nearly finished, I swear it. She is the answer to empty-
handed. Always the smell of burning. The want of

sex in the stomach. It’s evening all afternoon, &
these are the sacrifices you make to finally feel full.

Don’t say summer. That’s too obvious, too clean
for gay girls. Instead, move into vivisection of

history & all its seasonings. Introduce her to your
parents, your gods, your sharpened knives. Fry.

Roar. Eyes in orbit of her mouth. Horizon as edge
of every circle. Didn’t I tell you this would end in tears

eventually? Now here she is in your oesophagus
again. You could kill or kiss her for that. Or

invite her to dinner & pray you remembered to
set out an extra plate. What is it they say about

love? That it’s only possession reimagined. That
it lives outside the body. That it’s florid & empty

& cheating & thankful for so much, so much
it doesn’t know how to name. All her life the girl

has eaten. Now it’s your turn. Doorbell ring.
Quiet bruise. Price of deadly. Anything is yours

if you swallow it.