If you saw my spine 
Bone-white, white as the underbelly of a fish
Gleaming with all my wishes
A ray of bent moonlight, sublime
Would you know me?
Would you know my crimes?

You don't know me from my lips 
Not from tongues on teeth 
Nor skin, bloodily ripped
Not from the taste of sea salt beneath

You don't know me from my hands  
Their creases and spells 
Scented with basil and mint and lavender strands 
Not the thousands...

This December is different. 

Usually, my Decembers are swimming pools and sticky icy poles and scorching in the summer sun. Christmas is an inverted, surreal dream; gone are Santa's reindeer, here he drives six white kangaroos across the desert. The Decembers of my life have always been plastic trees and bikinis, barbecues and drive in movies. The buzz of cicadas and the sounds of galahs in the morning. The Hallmark Christmas, of powder white snow and chalets in the Alps,...

This December is different. 

Usually, my Decembers are swimming pools and sticky icy poles and scorching in the summer sun. Christmas is an inverted, surreal dream; gone are Santa's reindeer, here he drives six white kangaroos across the desert. The Decembers of my life have always been plastic trees and bikinis, barbecues and drive in movies. The buzz of cicadas and the sounds of galahs in the morning. The Hallmark Christmas, of powder white snow and chalets in the Alps,...

This December is different. 

Usually, my Decembers are swimming pools and sticky icy poles and scorching in the summer sun. Christmas is an inverted, surreal dream; gone are Santa's reindeer, here he drives six white kangaroos across the desert. The Decembers of my life have always been plastic trees and bikinis, barbecues and drive in movies. The buzz of cicadas and the sounds of galahs in the morning. The Hallmark Christmas, of powder white snow and chalets in the Alps,...

The taste of rain and salt sat on her tongue. Wet grass tickled the nape of her neck as she lay, limp, on the moor. If she moved her head to look at her hands, which were adorned with Catherine Devon's rings, she would've seen the blood. 

But she didn't. 

She stayed there, a bone-white mannequin, all twisted and wrong. A crow landed, head titled in curiosity. She smiled bitterly at it. Her job had been done. The Devon legacy...

The taste of rain and salt sat on her tongue. Wet grass tickled the nape of her neck as she lay, limp, on the moor. If she moved her head to look at her hands, which were adorned with Catherine Devon's rings, she would've seen the blood. 

But she didn't. 

She stayed there, a bone-white mannequin, all twisted and wrong. A name fluttered from her lips, but was caught by a crow's caw. Then silence. Only the wind in the...