the girl who had butterflies for skin

the girl who had butterflies for skin preyed hopelessly to her lover, an old hollow tree who she was once born from, 'the butterflies of my skin are wilting, please grant me new cocoons and keep my youth eternal'. for the old butterflies had now died and had grew into an endless black veil that protruded from her skull. the tree sighed, he had watched his lover turn selfish as she formed her own healing crystals under september's full moon, he was growing old and his patience was beginning to wain. nevertheless, he cast one final black butterfly out of his branches and she caught it on the tip of her long finger. she loved the hollow tree once more, as the butterfly stitched itself into the lace of her skin.






frenchie in the forest.

sleep, sweet constellation eyes; part one

emily the crow wears headpieces designed and handcrafted by myself.

wendybird

annie @ m&p as the wendybird. set design by myself, hair and make-up by alice moore. styled by jaclyn bethany, special thank you to wonderful nicole emyard who hand crafted headpieces, a dress, bralette, purse and cape for the shoot. further thanks to vivetta, wayward daughter, and lady petrova. thank you to amber pitkin for assisting hair and make-up, and thank you kirstin dalton for assisting me and being my own personal darkroom. pictures and words below are in the march issue of SYN magazine.

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i once had a rabbit that was born with one eye, and i watched it sink teeth into my blushing thigh.

i am lying in the arms of an old oak tree, my skin is bleeding from various points but i know he does not mean to harm me. ‘lover, my braid is fraying’, i whimper, and so he repairs it with daisies that grow around his roots. i recall the time he told me that the sky was falling, hundreds of years ago, when lightning cast off one of his wooden arms. more clearly, i remember when he was just a boy, and we loved on a mattress we found discarded in my meadow. a crow lands in one of his uppermost branches; he sings me a melancholy song.

‘fleeting fireflies have no time for crying children,’ my mama told when I was a young child. i sat over looking the ocean, my moon was just appearing in all his majesty above me. i sat very high on a cliff and i imagine the amount of steps it would take to fly off of the edge. i remember a film once, a silent, grainy, memory; a lady in a long victorian dress outreaches her arms and soars down to heaven. my mama comes over to me and gives me jar of stars, my eyes are dry and my mouth is smiling, I am enchanted by their light. ‘fleeting fireflies have no time for crying children’, she says again.

twin sisters live in the house opposite mine, the old mental institution that they had painted flamingo pink. their garden was home to an albino peacock and i used to take my one-eyed rabbit over to play. the sisters wore lace every day, often white and moth-eaten (like my papery wings). I think that it entwined itself into their skin and made their wrinkles appear like floral patterns. the flamingo house was haunted by faeries, i think, the dust in the light was a magic potion and i swear i found a set of wings entwined in their rose bush once. i think the swan ate the faerie. i think the sisters ate the swan.

i awake and my eyes are stuck together with petals, i am in my meadow and today the sky is lilac. madame butterfly is teaching her caterpillar young to fly. they jump from my fingertips and sink to the floor, i do not madame butterfly is well anymore. i am sad to see their bruising skin, and so i curtsy to the pussy willow and make them wings from her branches. the pussy willow is always incredibly kind to me, one day i wore my favourite dress to the river filled with mud, and she crafted me a bridge. next time the caterpillar young jumped from my fingertips they kissed the violet sky. i think they are off to pay my moon a visit. i whisper them a story to whisper on to him.

violet, your tongue licks the necks of the creatures you slay, let me bring peace to your dying day.

satis house

shot for the spring issue of fussed magazine. charlotte benson @ TESS lies betwixt lace and cobwebs, hair and make-up by siobhan drew, styled by tom bloomfield. thank you to issy for letting us spread our dreams all over her magical home.

the birds are sleeping, the birds are weeping

sir, please don't watch the birds as they weep, you are the reason i can not sleep.





i am not sure how much longer i will be here, it is very dark where i lay. my meadow is a graveyard.

a rabbit bid me goodnight

the witch rabbits were a collection of ghostly creatures that i met one day in my mind. they were majestic as they danced with me, and stars were lightly encrusted into their fur. i bite my tongue before i tell them they are beautiful, i fear my love will only make them flea; instead they take me home to their bed of flowers, and cast spells of magic all over me. i drank their elixir, one morning in april, my black feathers sprouted from the bones of spine. soon i was clasping the witch rabbits by my finger tips, we soared over the patchwork of the forest herself.

i have not seen the rabbits in a very long time, they have fleeted, i am fleeting.

i want to play with those witch rabbits again, but the pills keep making them hazy in front of my eyes. they spin. i feel sea-sick. they kiss my eyes; they bid me goodnight. 'sleep tight, shy lover', they'd all sing, 'sleep slient, sleep dreams, sleep, peaceful thing.'

i sit alone in my meadow, it is so very dark and my moon glows above me. the tips of my wings are bleeding so heavily and my moon tries to cradle me with his lulls, but it is winter and i am slowly freezing. the creatures have all left me and all i see is darkness, i think i am in a dream but i scream and i do not wake up.

sometimes my winter meadow morphs into a winter maze, and even my moon is hidden away betwixt the branches that scratch my flesh. i am incredibly lost, and nobody knows that i am here. i can not breathe very well. my naked body swings down towards the ground and the moss sews itself into my skin.

i do not think that i was very well today, yesterday, or tomorrow; my antlers are snapped upon your floor. stop standing on them, please.

lately there has been a fire in the darkness, a burning star. it streams from the horizon in a magnificent red and helps me to find the path in winter's maze again. often it takes a moment to curtsy towards my moon, thankful for his care over me, and he smiles as i wander so curiously towards it. for that time, i am no longer freezing. for that time, i am no longer bleeding.

that is what a girl named kitty is to me, she is that piece of soul i often wonder if i am missing.

one winters night she and her lover picked me up by my wings and took me into their nest. i curled up beneath their dancing fireplace; they baked in their kitchen and told me stories of all the humour that encompassed their lives. they stuffed me with their love and warmth and began to cut away at my darkness. stitch by stitch, they unpick the moss from my flesh. 'i don't see any stars,' kitty said to the night as ice kissed the earth, and i feared my darkness had cast them out. but instead she smiled at me so widely, and we made up words as she filled her nest with the musted sweet scents of lavender.

on the first morning i accidentally stumbled into their bedroom, still caught up in the layers of my sleep. before i hurried out, i noticed the word 'dream' written above their bed. it was implanted against the wall in letters of a dulling gold. i hope that those letters chase away all of their nightmares, i hope they fill the folds kitty's mind with such songs and such beauty.

i folded paper into a swan and left it for them upon their mantlepiece. the swans are another creature from my meadow, they are full of grace but they can not find the wind to fly. i may acquaint you with them sometime.

kitty and i ventured out into the cold air before dusk, and we sat in mud in the park at the end of the street. i placed my moon above kitty's head, and sprinkled her hair with the gold stars she missed so dearly. our bodies began to numb but our souls were very free, we hid ourselves in the corner of a small cafe and slept in the thoughts of each other's words.

before i flew away again, they granted me one wish, and i hugged onto them both tightly as they gifted me two fish.

i feel i am nearing the surface of my freezing lake, although it's further away than i think. there is moss in-between my toes, and it still grows in my hair, and somedays i wish my scissors were not so blunt.

the witch rabbits might come back to play with me one day; let us dance to the hums of the stars, sweet ghosts of my light. never let me go, sweet ghosts of my life.



my fingers of bloodlust kissed the stars of his crown, he gave me back to the river where i started to drown.

annie the hatter

annie in her great grandmother's wedding hat, hair and make-up by amber scarlett, shot for SYN magazine (for which i write and edit).

i had dream in the summertime

a dream i had once, i think. i have to give extra thanks to my team, for their endless patience while i went to hell and somewhat back; victoria emslie and miranda read wilson wear clothing by sarina mantle @ wildsuga, swan costume and set-design made by myself, hair and make-up by laura naish. thank you emily harris for your endless help.