Little rituals

I no longer sleep in your skin

Feral I am – a self made battle cry

Blood and moon

Earth and air

Sensual, I stand in mud

Up to my knees in tears

Thought-birds pecking at my eyes

I am blind to myself

I curl up, defensless









Two little boats 


Some things burn down to the ground.
Some things turn to dust.

Some things sail away,
Slowly, without drama,
Like two little paper boats,
A soft sadness in their sails.