top of page



I am a girl of the inner western suburbs.

Too posh for Blacktown

but too anxious and annoyed for Town Hall.

I could never walk through the shopping centre without shoes on

and materialism was bred into my

middle-class blood.

I grew up in public schools

– it’s my fucking terrible language that gives it away.

Step through the door of my nostalgia

(my bedroom)

and you will find I was

brought up by a television, a thousand books, and the internet.

Here, I collect postcards to remind me of the places I want to go

but probably never will.

Here, I keep a broken honey pot to remind me that the things I want

won’t always be useful in the future.

Here, I keep a hundred glow-in-the-dark stars

to remind me that I am almost nothing in comparison

to what lies beyond the clouds in our

daunting sky.

I hope, when the time comes to take them off,

they rip away the paint.

At nighttime,

my bedroom

(which is merely a room in a house)

screams recklessly in my ear

and I’m afraid the neighbours hear it

holding me back.

I won’t forget you.

But I wish you would.

The soft toys under my bed

scream for a better home

and oxygen

amidst the dust

but how could I let go of them when they

mean(t) the world to me –


I’ve tried, so I can tell you,

that taking photographs

will never capture the life

I’ve lived in between these walls.

You would never believe the things they could whisper to you.

Recent Posts

See All


Giovanni groggily sat up in his wheelchair. He had fallen asleep again. He gripped the inner wheel as he pushed himself along the sterile hallways. The hallways were so familiar they appeared even in


bottom of page