I saved this as “gay ass poem.”

My first kiss was with a girl.

Aged 11, a friend’s house, we swear to never tell
anyone of this,
a pact made by 6 of us,
just wondering,
just curious.

And, in my defence, it has taken 8 years to even write of it;
Time has passed so rapidly, I’m not sure if the others,
self-named straight girls, even remember that night,
for them, a blurred memory buried deep with
play-doh fears and lego stacked dreams,

for me, 8 years of ignoring half of myself;
8 years of “crush or friend?”
And I suppose it’s funny, because
When I kissed a boy a year later, it was a huge deal
Pressure of friends expectantly watching, daring me, laughing at my
the buried fear that they would find out;
us dorky queers are taunted enough at school.

But none of that aged 11.
None of that at my queer revelation.
No wondering, just wonder.
No longer curious, but satisfied

in the knowledge that no one would know how much I liked
the smooth softness
and long hair
and sunshine that radiated from her.

I don’t remember which of the others I kissed –
8 years is a long time to sit on a memory
and now I will never remember my first kiss,
stolen from me by fear and time and a promise I no longer
have the patience to keep.


Day 23: A Journey of Writing

Not a literal journey I’m afraid; I don’t really go any where.

Today, readers, we look at a journey in actually liking your creative content.

I’ve always found it difficult to say I like what I make. Something about me saying “I’m proud of this thing, look at this thing I made isn’t it good, I worked super hard on it!” feels like bragging, like I’m desperate for attention.

I mean. I am desperate for attention. Most people who create stuff want to be noticed for it, that’s why we put it into the world.

But I’ve always though there was a difference in sharing something with the world hoping people would like it, and sharing something you’re proud of.

Take this poem for example; I’m incredibly proud of this poem. I worked really hard on it, and I think it’s the best I’ve ever written. And this is the reason I’m making this post – I can say I like it.

I can read it back and not think “wish I hadn’t done that, should have added this” blah blah blah.

Reading it back now, 6 months later? I’m still really proud of it. It’s inspiring to look back on a piece of writing you’ve done and think “wow I can actually make decent stuff,” especially when you’re going through a bit of a block haha no I’m okay, honestly.

There were long stretched of the A38 to pass through a couple of years ago. I did get stopped on the tolls a couple of times by some negative people, and there was a traffic jam in year 12 that lasted a whole year that I don’t want to get into.

But eventually, I’m… where’s somewhere happy and positive? Brighton?

To keep this weird metaphor alive, I started in Plymouth with a cringe-y short story about knives, and now I’m in Brighton staring at a poem I want to put my name at the bottom of. And I’m so proud of that, even if it sounds conceited.


Day 18: The Daily Post – Mythical


Myth: noun – A widely held, but false belief or idea.

I believe in love like I believe in stories of Medusa, of Perceus, of Icarus.

Love is a story told in a hushed whisper,
believed for as long as the darkness lasts,
wiped out by sunrise and rationality.

Hero – he breaks his sword on masculinity.
Heroine – she walk the ground of feathers and complains of sore feet.
Villain – jealous lover, typically.


Same story a thousand times over,
told so much the audience groans
at the narrator for

something new.

Love isn’t new.

Love is older than the Greek Gods themselves.

Day 4: A Poem

I’ve been sitting on this one for a while, editing it as I waited for a good time. With the recent announcement of the expansion at Heathrow, and the continual discussion about fracking, I thought now was a good time. Hope you like this one! See you tomorrow.

Breaths of Green Air

The unrepentant, angular and angrier tink of metal on metal

Disrupts the slumbering melodies of dreams and wishes,

To achieve global dominance.

For our ancestors, the gleam of cogs and whirring of

Smoke filled factory floors

Was the unreal, was just as unimaginable and unattainable

As the brush strokes and ashen sigils which now appear magically on paper.


If beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder,

We are all living as Moles under this cursed earth; repellent

Blackness spreads on water, crisp air replaced by a mockery

Designed to trick our lungs, and we burrow further into the burning,

Acidic soil.

 Unlike our counterpart, there will be no kindly Rat to

Pull us from our filth into the beauty of the world.

The rats are the rulers of the wasteland.


Plastic calling to plastic, metal against metal,

These thoughtful bullies face off against themselves,

Each the devil spawn of a separate Lucifer (of

Which there are hundreds across the globe) who vie for title of Ultimate Sin.


Living without each – now as impossible as living without air.

Untainted air, that is.

Our lives consumed by mines and drillings and toxic convenience;

We know no better.

Safe in bubbles of tar and viscous, rainbow fluid,

Ignoring the sounds of coughing, choking, CPR,



From the Heart.

Nothing goes as you would expect it to.
Things go wrong, things go better,
but nothing goes right.

That isn’t how the world works.

A perfectly innocent crime,
say, a few hushed words to a ‘friend’,
can leave you both handcuffed to the
remnants of your friendship.

Jokily spoken, words drifted out
and intended to be forgotten
are pecking at the pair of you,
sharp beak breaks the bond and quick:


consumes all of you.

So far away, through the lens of a camera.

Not like you planned.
Was there a plan?

The spread of Fear.

One sentence and the spark is lit,

a flint and steel on the wick of terror,

Adjective, adjective, adjective, noun,

the spark becoming forest fire, people burning like trees,

like spirits.

Like paper.


Like paper, black and white, truth and lies;

not even the authors know the difference,

while pokers, drawn quick and fast, stab and rake

dreams and hopes. Pokers of thick

and black,

inky words.


Because Fear hunts in the packs, an unseen mistress,

her voice coaxing, reassuring the mass of who is to blame;

the veiled women, shielding from sharpened tongues;

the non-English speaking shopkeepers, unlearned

to protect

their reputation;


the children of the plight, innocent of all but being alive.

Their grim the reminder of unpleasant integration, the As and Bs the

symbol of meritocratic segregation, their medical care considered

undeserved (they fell on the other side of the Line and we

should not

help them).


Fear strikes cold and deliberate, the match and flames blue, scolding,

oceanic effigy of 13% of the population, white ice etched

in our skin, our hair, our hearts; rejecting her red-lipped

furious lamentations means accepting that

of which

we are afraid.