London writer inviting psychic exploration into the human condition.

I love my body, I love my skin, I love my shape, I love my hair and features

Mine burns and rages

And I wake up and realise that the way I feel for you isn’t enough to sustain me

Pain writes all the things I won’t say aloud

All consumed by the irrelevant, the imaginary, the temporary

Covered in scars I don’t remember getting,
And a few I can’t forget.