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Swimming between red flags. 
(Published in ia literary journal)

I am standing in the ocean
watching a wave rise up
above me.
The space within my ribcage
Te kore,
tense
in anticipation
of the grand finale.
It’s the encore, and
you already cheered so much
you can’t scream any louder.

Te kore.
The void.
But I can feel it now.
I watch, and watch.
The body stiffens.
I am preparing for the descent
the spiral downwards
deafening silence
the absolute
inability to breathe.
Emancipation.
Just put your head under.

I can swallow very big pills
without water, and
I am rising to swallow them
each morning
and at night,
red waves.
Gulping down mouthfuls
of red wine and half-pills
my half-truths
I am sleeping with
a red rock in my bed
I put it on my chest at night
so maybe I’ll feel crushed.

There is blood in the water now.

You say you see
a sadness in my eyes
that others miss, and
I remember standing in the sea, and
wonder if you could have seen it then.
or when I drove through the night screaming
to return home with hushed smile


You remind me of the time I stole
1000 origami cranes
strung together by
a needle through the abdomen.
tiny birds of hope,
destined for those in need.
But, hope is just a hook
for gaping mouth
the cranes died scattered
across my teenage bedroom floor.
we don’t belong in the air
we belong in the sea.

Now I’m swimming between red flags.

I’m an expert at this;
(drowning).
I’ve been here before
when I was young
swallowed up by lake Wakatipu.
I know how this ends, but
not why I haven’t turned to run,
or what happens if I tell you
that knowing you
feels a little like drowning.

waves.
your arms afloat
the rise and fall
of my ribcage.


The wave rises up,
and up

You say;
“don’t hold your breath.”









Dandelions.
(Published in Salty)

Stop taking love
so fucking seriously 
someone once told you
that it was a finite resource, and
you believe them
still.

You’re so preoccupied
grasping onto your little cup
that you can’t feel the river water
rising at your ankles 
it’s lapping at your neck now. 

You keep trying with your
imaginary moth orchids, and
I’ll keep planting dandelions. 
I like them better to tell you the truth.  
Those pervasive little bastards remind me of myself.  

and,
I could look you in the eyes
tell you
that I can see your insides
that they are made of love, and 
I could show you the ocean
tell you you’re drowning, but
it wouldn’t matter because
you have your headphones in , and
this is an orchid farm, and
I am but a weed. 








Less to lose    
 (Published in Oscen)

I have less to lose and, 
I have less to lose. 
I’m short-
dated stock.
Damaged but 
might make a nice accessory
to your ego
or your diversity quota. 


I’ll play the disability card 
if it gives you a moral hard-on
baby,
pity me.
Let me be your
inspirational story
your 
two dimensional trope 
a point to measure 
it could be worse
a narrative so deeply internalised
this must be what they mean by
having a spare rib. 

The black bib 
to hide the blood 
adorned on me at birth 
My bread and butter.
Wash it down with 
intense feelings of isolation, and 
all the times I made 
molehills 
out of mountains. 

I grew up knowing 
I’m pretty 
passable 
as long as I don’t speak. 
I speak anyway. 
and let’s face it 
I do have to be better than
you
meet someone new and, 
hope they see 
your 
polished Instagram selfie 
I walk in and, 
that ship has already sailed.
Hashtag nofilter. 
I don’t need you anyway 
denial is my best friend
and we go    
   way,           way,         back.  

I remember thinking 
I can’t be 
retarded and fat
I remember thinking 
I’m not stupid 
I remember thinking 
it’s ok if I’m pretty? 

(Yeah I bet you didn’t mean it that way.)

Is that self esteem or denial talking?

And
all the times I spoke 
you mouthed words back at me. 
patronising hand-hold 
makes my skull turn inside out.
Shove those words down my throat baby,
spoon-feed me while you’re at it.
Cerebral palsy didn’t make me blind.

Wash it down with
violets for breakfast
and this
homogenised breastmilk
I am weening myself of
I am starving myself of

maybe if I get small enough 
they wont notice my speech.
I could probably take
a selfie
that would make me look good enough.

And
just look how big 
your body looks 
next to mine. 
Throw me around babe
I’m the perfect combination of 
pretty 
with low self esteem. 
Toosmalltofightyouoff 
I’m your dream girl. 

Wash it down with 
red wine 
the natural healing properties 
of turpentine,
and memories 
of when your father taught you 
the most humane thing to do 
with an injured bird 
is to break its neck. 







Swim.
(Published in ia literary journal & Verb Wellington)

First there was the womb, and
then the exile.
life welcomed me into its
arms of blackwater 
demanded I swim.


The cold took my breath away.


Mother.
Mother, catch me.
Mother,
stretch out those olive
arms, hold
my hand, mother.
Pull me in ward


kick, kick,
Straighten your    legs. kick,
harder.
Father teaches me to survive.

Blink, blink
tilt the head
back
mother sees blackwater filling
eyes.
You learn to know it’s
working when you
taste the bitterness
in the back of your throat.
You,
the expert in blinking things back.


Move those arms now, darling.
Open up that hand, and
swim.
Move your body for us,
sweetheart.
Show us how you tilt,
bend.
Show us how you’ll walk,
now
bend over, let me
see that spine.
Doctor
doctor, tell me I’m a good girl
now,
run your fingers up my
puzzled bones tell me
my foundations are
right
enough.
straight
enough.
able
enough.
to support myself?


show us how
you’ll float,
dearest.
make it look easy now,
the key is to relax.
Didn’t you know?
Smile now.
Your smile’s so
beautiful,
little one.
Give us a show.


The sun moves behind
the houses
turning slowly
dark as the light
gains.
peach tree shows where
they cut her
bone flesh, and


I am tired.
tired
of self,
soothing
self
medicating
self
induced coma
me,
the doctor.





Stop.

Stop until the blackwater pools
round your eyes
you were still cold, just
numb.


I am here I am here I am
here I am
nowhere to be found.








Civil warfare.
(Published in Chaleur Magazine)

Before the war.

Before your mother told you
where to hold the shame in,
you held your stomach softly.

Before all the women touched it,
called it cute
before all the men touched it,
called it sexy,
leaving imprints on your skin
handprint after handprint
oppressive indentations
until there wasn’t any room left.
Until it wasn’t yours anymore.

Before you left
because of the crowding

Before they weaponised
your body
against your mind.
Before you learned to weaponise
your own body too.
My body was not a weapon.
My body was not a weapon.
My body is not a weapon.

Before they laced your drip with compliments
an IV line of external validation
before they turned you into an addict
before they turned you into an artwork
before “American beauty”
taught you to objectify women and,
fetishise litter.
Before the linen blindfolds
wysteria hysteria
pissing contest -
lawn watering.

Before they turned you into an aesthetic
before they turned you into a problem
before they filled your mind with
specific descriptions
on what is and isn’t
good enough about you, and
you watched as
time
clawed away
at your self worth.

before you learned to hate your body
you held your stomach softly.







All rivers lead to the sea.
(Published in ia literary journal)

Forests for me,
have always been a symbol of death. 
I walked to the top of the hill and I wept. 
A sea of grief,
stretching out in all directions
smothers everything. 
It’s salt mirrored on my cheeks, and
did I cry a whole ocean?
She tells me the salt in our tears will heal our eyes.

It’s so much bigger than I am.
It’s so much bigger than I am.
It’s so much bigger than I am.

I hear the sky
growing lighter towards the horizon, and
I am looking at a fine white line
the glowing ethereal lie
binding two lovers.
Fishing line strangled the earth.

Ko wai au?
I am the ocean.
Ko au te moana, ko te moana ko au.

I hear water
carved arteries
‘cross curved landscape, and
that didn’t stop Maui
tearing her body outwards
to bite of frozen air.
not vast enough to hold her!
in the safety of its embrace?

and if it couldn’t hold her than how can it hold us?
and if it couldn’t hold us than how can it hold me?
down. 
I hear time
heals all wounds, and
as the banks of my veins flood
I sit quiet, watch.
waiting for the current
to wash us all away.

Ko wai au?
I am the river.
Ko au te awa, ko te awa ko au.

Rivers,
pinkened by the touch of Rangi
stretch outwards in front of me
great resting limbs
pointing home.

and,
in this forest
I hear no birds.
I am listening to find
my way, to the
thudding against rocks.
I will curl up inside the oceans great lung.
I am a thud between heart and rib.

The forest loops
back, and
back, and
back,

tangles underfoot. 
Blackened roots gasping for air.


Tree roots melt
to sea of black.
I float, gazing
upwards
waves gently licking
eyelids.
Skin melts too, and
I am the sea.

This is the blackening of the mind.
I am the wave.
I am the infinite black.
I am the salt in your veins.

Here is stillness.

The earth turns, moving me
inwards
towards the light.
Tangaroa looks back at me from hard earth,
tears on her cheeks.








Waterboarding.
(Published in A Fine Line Magazine)



Have you ever seen
apple eaten by mouse?
skin whole,
inside hollow.

Tap left dripping, and
ten years on
you have me
just the way you wanted me
drowning

in the same 
blindfolded blindness 
I didn’t choose.
You didn’t listen. 
a wave of stagnant fear 
knocks me down
and,

I see now that 
you, 
are the undertow. 

still,
the mouse nibbles
a quiet plague
creeps back into my eyes,
you.

filling my blue river
veins with lead
you,

the executioner.

The well beneath me 
opens up
and swallows me 
whole. 


waterboarding.

tears sit pensively behind my eyes
all day
the mouse nibbles
tugging at the threads of my mind

unraveling
unraveling
Monsoon.
Monsoon. 











Sensitive skin from my daddy. 
(Published in Salty)


I come here and 
I can’t tell 
where I begin 
and we end 
my body is this home and, 
everything aches.

Sensitive skin from my daddy.
it’s showing on my face
in a house where everything burns
we don’t know how to do anything 
but disintegrate

It’s showing on my hands. 
what were you thinking 
when you 
carved me into this 
lover 
this feeler 
this hurter 
of everything. 

It’s showing on my feet 
what were you thinking 
when you 
carved me into this 
day dreamer 
night thinker
soul chaser 

How do you do it? 
How do you keep everything 
inside your body
the way you do? 

Oh surrogate womb, I
crawl into her 
clothing and 
meander around 
pretending to inhabit 
this flesh you created

Tell me 
I’m good at being honest 
now teach me 
how to do anything else?


I come here and 
I can’t tell 
where I end
and we begin 
There is no hiding in skin is this thin.










I hear birds sing at night
(Published in Salty)



A few years now they’ve
visited me 
in my darkness as it
shines through my eyes
I hear them and
like a chasm
I hear you breathing

Still
I am
Infinite
I am
a fountain of loose ends

They are
about as real as anything is
in my mind.
Sleepless rumours,
gossipers of divinity,
and always, 
and always,
I hear birds sing at night.

I am
a soul
too big for a body
in a body
too big for this mind.

This is just
a slow turn 
towards the sun
when I will be 
too busy
eyes closed
filling my collarbones 
with dejected hair
too hear them.

be ground
be crumble
be ground
be crumble,
be crumble.

I am
a pillar of pain.
I am
the fat cheeks 
of creative expression.

I crouch
in restful darkness
moonlight shadow
and let street light strips
paint my skin.

I am 
trying 
to fill my soul
with the fruitfulness of life
as solitude sings its lullaby
and I try to make peace
with the dread of birdsong.

I am 
waiting for 
a silent nod
to show her its time.







Tall poppies.
(Published in Salty and Overcommunicate Magazine)

Tall poppies 
get their
red heads 
lopped off. And,
maybe they deserve it? 
I want to be like long grass, and
lie low with you
until our energies sync.
Even cut down it smells like honey, and
wears it’s bareness like a brand new suit. 
I've seen you do the same.
Hold still
until the the grass grows through you 
your ego decomposes, and
flowers come up where you lay.
My body’s been bathing in salt water
for so long now
I’m afraid my soul’s dissolved.









Your carelessness makes me hate myself a little.           
(Published in Haunts). 

You;
Drape your underwear over the lampshade,
a flag on a post we mustn’t raise.
We both know we are blinded.

You tell me it’s to create mood lighting, but
I think
you only want to paint the parts of me the light lands on.

Me;
with my nails too sharp for my hands
and my teeth too sharp for my mouth.

I have been watering myself down for too long.
My stretched out skin became so thin that it is
becoming translucent.
My tabletops were all rice fields.
I worked until the canvas was sodden, and I
drowned in the mud.

We;
lay down in the colours I muddied.
I hold on tight to the plug in my puku.
Keep water out by holding pressure on the wound.

Tomorrow I see
my watercolour paper skin, stretched out
over my thighs
dry and burning
in morning sunlight.
and,
my teeth too sharp for my mouth
and my nails too sharp for my skin.










Debris.
(Published in Oscen)

All you have to do is
squeeze 
the littlest bit
pressure mounding in your fingertips. 
The shell cracks open. Shatters,
glass into flesh
bone between teeth 
salvage what you can. 
Everyone you know lying scattered 
ghosts from a past life.
There is a genocide on your kitchen counter
paw through the debris.










Life is reductive.
(Published in Sisterhood Magazine)

Every morning I wake up
my fingers grasp at endless sheets of silk
scrunching them down tightly
into a trivial pocket
probably that of a businessman
or of ‘Cotton On’ jeans, too tight for any body to fit into.
A real feat of mans design
simultaneously serving up your flesh like
a rump steak with hollandaise, and
punishing you
for having one.
A steak,
or a body. And,
the pocket isn’t real either
woman don’t need to carry things
they just need to look good

You know it’s bad when you find yourself alone in the dark at night pouring spoonfuls of dry nutritional yeast into your mouth because even though you’re 27 and meet about 4 out of 5 of the recommended requirements of being an acceptable human being,
you still don’t believe you deserve to eat

Whip me across the face
with the side of your
tailored suit jacket
as you pass me by
babe.

LISTEN,
I just want to love without restraint.

Listen,
that includes myself.


I tried to self-love
but who needs roses when you can eat Turkish delight for breakfast,
bathing in white powdery self-loathing.
Sugar is the worst kind of white powder because at least cocaine makes you thin.

Real life is when you lie in bed to listen to the rain pouring but all you can hear is your cat licking itself. and,
when you can no-longer tell the difference between genuine self-esteem and maladjusted coping mechanisms
Is there one?
and,
me trying to figure out if I can make your name rhyme with cunt.

I don’t want to need you I just want to want you and when did we decide that needing someone was romantic?



I’m always looking through binoculars backwards
and this
is the light that stains the back of my eyes


It’s there when I try to close them
it starts when it starts.
Engrained by florescent hospital lights
a frequency only woman see
when we weren’t clear enough in saying “No” to exiting the womb.
Life’s cattle-prod.
God’s branding stick
Eve really fucked up by succumbing to her temptations.
We are born
but with strings attached.
You can fuck the puppet master but he still won’t give you your freedom
he might just let you hold the spoon.










To sleep with curtains open.
(Published in Salty)

Can you tell
that I am only nibbling
at the threads of life?
Crowds of glass people
and
everything in this house is crooked.

You speak of your suffering
with such
sovereignty
I consider
that if we are 60% water
I might be 60% tears.

Tell me
does my voice give or take from this?

Sometimes my soul sheds its bones and
the earth keeps turning on
without me
I am
a figment of my own imagination

Sometimes all I see are
atoms
blending and vibrating
in the
trivial nothingness
of everything

With you
humility is a verb, and
I feel it in my puku.

You tell me
to sleep with curtains open
to let the moonlight in
and I do.










I miss my skin.
(Published in Salty)


I miss my skin.
Winters deep oppression has reduced us to mere acquaintances.

My Mind got the memo and the memo said;
“busy yourself. “
Your skin doesn’t want you here anyway.
My skin got the memo and the memo said;
“bury yourself.”
Weighted blankets for weighted minds.
My soul got the memo and the memo said;
“hide”

I’ve become a disembodied head with severe attachment issues.
I want to rip off all the layers, and
show you my insides.
I want to bare it all to the sun
as it licks me down
like a lover
telling me my insecurities are stupid.
I want to sit cross-legged naked, and
flip the bird
at anyone who thinks I’m indecent.
I want to write letters that say;
“I miss you, can we be friends again?”
like a wise child, and
hear a familiar
“Yes”
instead of
“seen, 8:21am”









Mum.


Last night we watched home videos
some with my old childhood dog
he had to have melanoma cut out of his
white fur.
Years passed, and
still
he was left with a patch
bare, fur-less skin
where they’d shaved him down
a constant reminder of his affliction
his body, not quite able
to repair itself entirely.

And four years after she left us
we stand
still,
a pack of dogs with bare skin.










Fig season.
(published in Anthropozine)

The atmosphere has changed here, and 
the air has cooled. 
I am noticing how easily 
this new breath fills my 
white 
cicada lungs, and 
I am noticing where 
this earth has softened. 
Rain poured through us, and 
took with it 
everything in its wake. 
There is space here now.


I can see 
the cool blue earth 
much more clearly
with its white bell flowers, and 
I can feel the icy lick 
of oxygen running 
through my insides, like 
the tension in my puku 
that I will no longer keep 
a home for. 

I’m not saying that I 
haven’t adored 
the shelter of these 
full green arms
that have been here 
for so long now, but 
as they wither, and 
fall softly too, 
by the earths gentle tug 
I will not fear 
winters cold light 
as it bleeds 
through bared branches.


I am noticing, 
the smell of pregnant earth.
The way it 
fills my bones with birdsong, 
as the dirt sings back 
Into the thudding of my feet.


I dream
of spider, like fig 
flesh squeezed open
watch her pinkened arms spread 
watch her bloom
under the pressure 
They keep her in a small 
tuppaware container
they say; “She really comes into her own
around me, 
you just have to let her “ 
I am handed the small prison, but 
I fumble, drop it 
tuppaware falls open, and 
the spider blooms early.


I am beginning to feel 
the earths pull once more 
as it turns 
and I turn with it, 
pulling me down 
into its womb.


I couldn’t tell you 
when I started 
eating rotten peaches for breakfast 
but Autumn has arrived, and 
the figs have ripened.


Let me rest in the mud now.
There is an intimacy 
between this earth
and I,
will not just be a visitor here.
I will return 
again and again 
hand twisted round
umbilical cord pulling myself 
outward 
and, inward.
One collective breath 
oh, white cicada lung.


and in the distance 
I see light
between my fingertips. 
You returned, but
backwards with your eyes closed.
I can tell it’s you 
by the way you close the door. 
You close it softly.









Black dust in a shell.
(Published in Catalyst)

Salt water licks my ankles
your body
black dust in a shell
In cupped
hands of my father

I try to
pick you up
in my fingertips
course ash fills my nails, and
tiny
red
specks of pigment

A new pair of Dr Martens costs $289, and
somewhere in here
are the burnt remains
of the purple pair
your sister just bought you.

I can still see
their tips
peeking over
the walls of your casket, from
the doorway
where I stood
hardened in apprehension.

We throw you into the wind.
It is inconceivable
someone like
you,
could ever be reduced
to something so
small.









Inhale

Sometimes
I go to say things,      but

they
     
fall
           
                                down
                my
throat.









Beet root.
(Published in Anthropozine)



There is a wildness in me.
An irrepressible hunger. 
It has me barefoot 
feet slapping pavement 
backpack full of beetroot. 
Carrying all the 
heaviness of life. 
Driving my heals
down
into the earth.
It’s hard to feel lonely when 
each footstep, 
an embrace.

I carve one beet into a heart, 
veins run like tiny empty canyons
flood them with wine
display it on my coffee table 
feast your eyes!
Dance around it 
like a melodramatic totem pole. 

Here’s to dancing around the point.

I should have been sleeping but,
I was too busy 
watching curves of soft flesh 
carved into shadows
on the wall.
They move when I move. 
They dance when I dance.
It’s hard to feel lonely when 
you contain 
the whole universe. 

I sit in darkness and eat 
tomatoes. Whole, 
omega plums.
Two kiwi fruit 
Three mushrooms 
Eat the skin. 
Eat the core. 
Do not waste 
one single speck
of life
each cell made
of the tears Rangi,
the blood of Papa,
the energy of the sun. 

I eat like the hungry caterpillar. 
I feel like the hungry caterpillar.
Insatiable. 
Transitional. 
Body disintegrating.
Imaginal cell goo.

He told me I was 99% fruit.
She nods heedfully and says
“that makes sense.”

“You are what you eat.”
 
The flesh bursts open.
I am ripening in the moonlight.
If fruit bled, then it bleeds 
down my naked chest   
it’s cool touch reminding me 
my body is still here. 
loyal companion, 
the original bosom buddy
It hasn’t left me yet. 
Do not waste
one single speck
of life
each cell made
of the tears Rangi
the blood of Papa
the energy of the sun. 

She told me 
my body 
can never leave me. 
That makes sense. 
Tied to my mind
like a Peter-pan shadow. 
Shackled at the ankles, 
I guess the earth is stuck here too.

Some chains can’t be fixed 
but others just can’t be broken.
I can’t put a gold star of David on this one. 
I can’t validate it with pen on government issued paperwork. 
All I can do is beat my feet 
raw into the earth 
and let its hard embrace
heal all wounds. 

Papa throws her arms up 
envelopes me 
and dances around 
her ripened fruit. 
My body 
a melodramatic totem pole.

The beetroot heart sits 
and watches me.
He’s never seen fruit like this before.









Seeds in the gutter.
(Published in Salty)

This morning the birds sang, and
they broke my heart again.
today,
and everyday.
I’m not sure why I keep letting them,
staring lovingly in their direction
thinking
sing you beautiful darlings!
I’ve come up with some very elaborate ways to self-harm.
Tonight I’m picking wild daisies, and
dreaming of intimacy
between wilted flowers
and evergreens.










Sugar rush
(Published in Salty)




My heart is like when you’re a kid and you eat too much sugar and vomit everywhere.










Copyright Maisie Chilton 2020. 
Running on Cargo