The pressures of being
pregnant are as internal
as they are

Ingested right now
in your accusatory
eyes as they will be
in his
                  15kms away.

The pressures of being
pregnant staring me
down as I roll home
hours overdue

                     from work.



This wintery chill numbs the fronts of my
shin bones in 180 denier tights.

The skin below my fingernails, a lake frozen
over by shiny pink sheets of ice.

Three coats I wear, just one on my back.

With my fairy floss hair, stuck cold to my
mouth, spun high in the air.

Lost is all appetite for food, for reading,
for hunger, for words.

A collapse of the mind, fatigued in this cold.

All thought frozen. Standing. Still.


New year.

There’s nothing fine
about being
twenty nine
when your metabolism
gives up
and your willpower
to more pieces
of chocolate and
for-the-sake-of-it cake.


Excuse me, thirty: Perhaps you ain’t so bad after all. Maybe in 2015, I’ll find my long lost willpower, and my metabolism will rise from the dead. Happy New Year. xJ

Shellac attack.

Stop, she said.
But her brain refused to listen. Her subconscious
floated elsewhere, rebellious, like her teeth.

Stop – she warned.
But her fingertips still brushed them. Her lips
ever-beckoned, like little pillows of disease.

Stop! she yelled,
out loud in her own mind. Scolding, disgusted
with her inability to obey.

So she sat there,
biting her nails anyway.