Poetry by Natasha Jones


Broke. Barely money to buy.
Bullshit. Borrow some.”
Sorry mum.

Bang. Beats HEAVY.
Break it.” Pill broken.
Now to use the powder as a bomb.
New text.
“Bare eads ere. Don’t gurn.” Teeth gritted.
Barrier. Skrillex. Skankin.
Blood flowing, throat burning….
Five quid for a double.” Fuck that.
Everything’s a blur.
Finally, blackness. Time for the bus.

Repeat in a week.


You taught me so much that night.
How the wind whispers to the moon through the grass, helping each blade dance to the sound of our murmurs.
The moon replies with a gentle spotlight to highlight the morning dew. We couldn’t see much else, but who needed to?
We were happy sitting with our fingers entwined like ivy. Unnatural, but natural all at once.

She was 14

She idolised the models in magazines. I wanted to remind her that real life doesn’t come with Photoshop, so she should compare herself to them, but before I could comment we had to sit down to eat our tea.

Believe me, I always notice how she butchered her meals. I guess she felt if she could see her plate she had eaten enough. Only minutes after sitting down she becomes lost, trapped in her own mind. I assume this was the time where she would calculate what was worth eating. 72 calories for that egg, but if I skip it I could have a few chips, which Mum and Dad will notice more, but broccoli is a superfood, but… A never ending calculation, where no one ended up happy.

As routine, she always left the table early “to go to the toilet”. She struggled to stand as her bones always ached. A baggy shirt could not hide the loss in her heart.