Last Tuesday arvo I was waiting for my train at Flinders Street, phone in hand, and I watched eleven reels of a woman in a linen apron baking sourdough in aβ¦
The first time I wrote to my younger self, I was sitting on the floor of my share house in Fitzroy with a stubby pencil and a notebook from the discount bin atβ¦
The fluorescent lights, the paper-thin gown, the gentle press of a stethoscope against skin that has learned to flinch β for survivors of sexual assault,β¦
My rabbit rarely announces what she needs. There is no dramatic sigh when the room becomes too loud, no speech about exhaustion after a difficult day. Sheβ¦
There is a particular kind of hunger that arrives at 2 a.m. in a share house in Fitzroy, when the laneway traffic has faded and a conversation has stalled onβ¦
There's a particular kind of exhaustion that comes with scrolling through yet another listicle or watching another show where the bisexual woman exists only asβ¦
I refuse to share my trauma for other peopleβs education. That sentence is not a rejection of empathy, difficult conversations, or social change. It is aβ¦
Forgiveness is often sold as a shortcut to peace, a single decision that closes a painful chapter and clears the air. In reality, it is rarely that simple. Theβ¦
At night, when the messages have quietened and the day has stopped asking me to perform, I make one final coffee. It is rarely an impressive ritual. There isβ¦
For months after the worst of it, I could not listen to anything on purpose. The kettle in my share-house in Melbourne would scream at me. My partner'sβ¦