Chapbook Note / Blog Reference

Chapbook Note / Blog Reference

A chapbook is a small, intimate booklet — a mini‑book of poetry, fragments, essays, and truth‑telling. One day, that’s where all of this is heading. But for now, I’m placing my salty midlife trauma here, on this blog, in the hope that a future publisher sees the shape of what I’m building. I’ve spent years saving pieces of myself on a PC, in Notes, in drafts I never felt worthy of sharing — my written word. Dyslexia, learning difficulties, and ND wiring made me believe my voice was “less,” when in reality it was simply different — raw, sensory, sharp, and honest. This space is my beginning. My proof. My declaration that the work exists, and it deserves to be seen.

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International Women’s Day — We Don’t Share a Body, We Share a Lie

International Women’s Day — We Don’t Share a Body, We Share a Lie If we’re going to have an International Women’s Day, then let’s at least tell the truth about the one thing we’re all supposed to have in common. We don’t. We should rename it: International Unique Hormone Pattern Day. Because we were raised in a society that pretended everybody has the same period. Same hormones. Same bleed. Same reaction. Same PMT. Same everything. Copy‑and‑paste womanhood. Except now I can list at least twenty things that make one person’s cycle nothing like the next — and yet society made us believe we were all identical. Interchangeable. Predictable. “Women with women’s problems.” My best advice? Period Power by Maisie Hill. Learn your cycle. Learn your system. Know that you are unique. And don’t tolerate anything that feels wrong. That’s literally why we have the NHS. Arm yourself with fact information and go. I knew nothing about periods except that they arrived every month since I was 13 — until ...

An electric toothbrush - love and hate. A poem about a mundane daily action

An electric toothbrush— love and hate. 27TH NOVEMBER I love my toothbrush, the circular motion, up and down, round and round. Is it because I’m left-handed, or right-handed? I put it to the left, look in the mirror, rub my gum more than my tooth. One side sore, one side unclean. I loathe toothpaste. I hate it. I hate this smile. I hate the taste. But I love clean teeth— the touch of the tongue across the front, smooth, shining. Every three weeks, my sore gum returns. I forget what I’m doing, leave it whirling, mindless chore. I love my toothbrush. I love clean teeth. I loathe my sore gum. It’s a pattern I repeat, monthly, weekly, over-brushed, sore gum. When I’m old, really old, I won’t brush my teeth. Fifty years, twice a day, since I was nine or ten. Don’t get me started on toothpicks, tape, wax, gaps. But when I’m seventy-five— no more. I’ll rub the t...

Time (Inner Child Work)

Time to be a child, said NO ONE ever.

Hello Wall - Hormonal Heart Poetry

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