The Unsent Letter

A poet writes from the skinLondon

She is a poet. Here, writing begins before paper: in the skin that has lived it and the private life that paid for every line. The words on her body do not illustrate a poem. They expose where the poem came from. There is no safe distance between the work and the woman who made it.

Crossed legs dense with handwritten lines, hands resting between them

Woman in a white shirt lying on her back, looking straight into the lens

Woman lying on the bed in an open shirt reading her phone, candles burning behind

Legs curled under a white sheet on patterned bedding, faint handwriting on the thigh

Woman on a balcony smiling away from the camera, writing across her chest, pale facades behind

Woman in a white shirt on the floor against the bed, a candle above her, an outstretched leg covered in handwriting

Woman in a loose navy suit standing in a tall balcony doorway, looking out

Hand gripping a thigh covered in lines of handwriting

Black and white portrait of a short-haired woman on a balcony, hand at her chin, ink handwriting on her shoulder

Bare back of a woman pulling a white shirt off her shoulders in a pale room

Woman with a leather jacket slipping from her shoulder looking into the lens, chest covered in handwriting

Woman leaning on a balcony rail with her head bowed, a black coat hanging beside her

Woman lying back across lace bedding, eyes closed, one hand in her hair

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