I am not very good at writing introductions so I decided to write a little poem instead about myself but it is more of a clutter of words. I am Tilly Daisy and this is me and the things my little heart and head like and think.

I am soya milk skin and blossom tree cheeks; my veins carve words beneath my wrists of books and books: of dickens and tolstoy, and plath is my tongue: the bitter delicacy in the blood that flows to the flowers of my lungs, with little closed hands sometimes stopping the breath that dusts the window pane at night when the stars swallow me whole and I think about light and the ground above the sky, and the hard, cold soil beneath the feet that the shy heads of daisies grow up through, smiling as I smile; giving me my name, even as the air washes over my senses and I think and wonder about things that do not exist, and the shapes and faces of people and places, and ideas my bones could only ever starve to touch before they dissolve, and my mind is swept like dandelion seeds, floating on ponds and becoming the unknown itch in someone else’s heart.

July 2013