Ink & Wine Bottles

How much can Napisan fix? How much are you supposed to cry over a break up? How much time looking at homewares in K-Mart and IKEA are you allowed to do without being classified as insane? Asking for a friend. Artists of all descriptions have this really special ability to dive really deep into their feelings. And quite often the more upsetting ones are the ones we dwell on and sit with. Heartache is good for nothing but the arts. We create the most from our sadness. On top of that though, there's love . It's pretty fucking dreamy and nice and joyous and exciting (and terrible on your nerves) and distracting and liberating. It's also a great feeling to explore as an artist. A lot of people will create floaty, flowery pieces of work to celebrate love. Me included. However a couple of months ago I birthed this piece of work. Here she is. In all her angry, aggressive, agonising glory.

A spoken word poem as an offering from me to you. Thank you x

I never felt close enough bracketed in your arms So I worked myself a place under your tongue and between your ribs Crawled inside of you. Hands in your hair, fingernails gripping into flesh – Choked by the need to live between your bed sheets Suffocated by you. I swallowed down the words that made their way up my throat like sick, I let blood and tears and sweat come out of me – (I fucking hate running but I ran every day for four months to get my feelings for you out of me through my pores) But the only thing that made sense for us was language (sometimes). Each day I'd sit in a classroom and make up stories and all of them were about you. (I kept a dictionary next to my bed for a year to find new ways to explain love and heartbreak.) We wrote letters and tried to make metaphors but nothing was enough Nothing was good enough for you Everything was too much for you so I tried to make a home for you Between pa

Do I know we're not right? I have four years worth of debt to prove my commitment to my craft and my commitment to the arts. I didn't just want words to be a hobby, but wanted it to consume me, take over my whole life, make my body ache with language. I had a teacher who announced it'd be ideal to fall in love or to break up with someone before writing poetry. She stood in front of the class and everyone laughed, but I wrote it down like I would get graded on it. I made it my mission to come with a HD in love and pain. The time I spend alone–when I don't have a significant other or a lover–allows me to grieve for love lost. But most weren't even 'lust', let alone love . I was reaching for inspiration. Sitting in cafes and talking and I would be staring, wondering how I could explain their freckles or their eyes and whether I could talk them into falling in love with me. Wondering if I could write my best poem yet. I stare at people and think a

These are some questions I've been sitting on for a little while, and right now seemed like the right time to put them out into the universe. Spending time sitting with each question, and working through each question, then sitting with each answer is something I both dread and look forward to. But why should I dread my answers? They're my truth. I'm working toward being more vulnerable and learning not to be scared of what I might find within. This little online workbook is as much for you as it is for me. Feel free to jump into it, or run from it. What does it mean to love someone who may not be right for you, may not be healthy for you, may not provide positive energy? Someone who doesn't bring everything you want into a relationship? What does it feel like to be in love? What makes you sure of it? What makes you want to commit? What gives you closure? Why does it take a different amount of time to move on from/let go of each relations

Where else will I see you? In a museum that's showing an exhibition we both want to see. A library, staring at books, staring at each other – my arm around your shoulders. A coffee shop, sharing a pot of tea, me itching to reach out to hold your hand. I was never allowed to touch, so I settled for sending text messages at midnight and sending your favourite flowers to your doorstep. Where else will I run into you? I’ve seen you once this year – at a concert. We stood right next to each other at the bar. I thought I was going to die. You didn’t look my way. I couldn’t look away. Where else would I see you? In another city? In another life? Maybe this one wasn’t meant for us. I dredge up the past, beat myself up, and cut myself down. I stare at developed photos of you that I keep in envelopes and allow myself to cry for weeks. Memory lane is the only street that allows us to exist because no one else did. It allows me to acknowledge that I