The lyrics that have inspired this piece are from ‘Undiscovered’ by Laura Welsh, which features in the 50 shades of grey soundtrack. This is an exploration of sexuality and intimacy within Chronic Illness, providing a different insight into one facet of it.

With love and light xx


‘I am interested in the gap between what people say and what people think- The undiscovered world’s of peoples lives’

-Richard Eyre

glitter tongue

I am but parted lips, nothing but a nibble between each. One is my thoughts and one is my words. If you know me at all, you would know that what I really mean is one is my truths, and one is my lies. And the bite between? That is the difference between your world, and mine.

You tell me that you want the truth. That you really do want to know; all of it. You always do. The vomit and the fucking and the maybe-I’ll-be-better-tomorrow’s. You claim that you are different, that you aren’t like the others. My lips are tempted to scowl, show you to the door and thank you for trying all the same.

Instead I vomit into your lap and let you show yourself the door.

So here it is. One is my truth, and one is my lie.

I can’t be someone that I’m not. To make it up to you.

You had wanted the truth, of course you had. And I had handed it to you, littering ‘Slippery when wet’ signs around my ankles. Ergo, get out while you still can. But it was an easy truth to swallow when I was perched in front of you, all short shorts and wild laughter. I was sick, that much you understood. But I wasn’t sick yet, not really. It’s always easier to play pretend when my blood isn’t seeping down the drains of your house.


I learnt to barter a long time ago, fluent in trading the fucked up variety. When I have to cancel dinner for the third time that week, I will slide the lace around my ankles and I’ll kiss Thursday better in all the ways that your mates could only dream. When sick and blood are the only words I speak between sunrise and sunset, I will take your fingertip between my teeth and make you forget. And in the evenings that I am too broken to peel off my own bra, I will drag you into the steam with me and try and make us both remember the kind of health that I never really had.

You’re the only one that I’ve got, but I can’t get lost with you.

I want to get lost with you. And I need you to believe that, just as I try to believe you when you tell me that you will teach me how; that you are here to stay. Oh how sweet it would be to believe that somehow I am enough, and not too much, all in the same suckled tryst. You will take the neon signs around my ankles and place them above our heads. And then you would kiss me, together owning my disease and it’s warnings equally beneath our plastic holly.

sexit up

I don’t know how to get lost, or at the very least I do not remember. It’s easier to be seated on the edge of my predictions, heckles raised and waiting, than it is for you to slice me in two, telling me that you never signed up for this kind of life by way of explanation. I hand myself to you, full and open, only to curse myself and flush with regret, a cocktease of the emotional translation. I am the personification of two steps forward, one step hurtling off the concrete pillars, and I’ve got no idea how to be anything else.

When all I want to do is get next to you.

So these are my truths and my lies. Perhaps they are a pair of truths. Perhaps they are a duet of lies. Or maybe it’s a parted lip; 50/50. Here’s my real truth; I will never tell you which is which, and it’s up to you to decide which you will kiss.

I just hope that you do.


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