grief is a sneaky bastard

grief is a sneaky bastard

Ah, grief, I should not treat you like a homeless dog who comes to the back door for a crust, for a meatless bone. I should trust you. I should coax you into the house and give you your own corner, a worn mat to lie on, your own water dish. You think I don’t know...
IN THESE DISSENTING TIMES

IN THESE DISSENTING TIMES

  Hello dear hearts, I’m transmitting this from cycle day 22 and the ambiguity of wanting to be seen, whilst also wanting to hide. Such is the paradox of these early luteal days in my cycle. I’d tried to write this all of last week, but something was stuck in me....
FOOL’S SPRING

FOOL’S SPRING

We were cycling late last Saturday night and I’d left the house ill-prepared. My hands stung sharply with the cold; the wind whipping my knuckles as we trundled up the hill. ‘Why the fuck didn’t I bring my gloves?’ I shouted, shaking my raw...