like flour thrown on your ghosts.

i recorded one of my poems and played around with some production…

the thing is… yes, i‘m a radio host - so you might think audio recordings shouldn’t be a biggie anyway.

well… ladies and gentlemen - please welcome on stage:

✨ my fragile self! ✨

firewalkwithme.

i‘m self-conscious about EVERYTHING i do… or don’t do.

it‘s particularly bad when it comes to my body, my voice and every single thing i create. no matter if it’s a live performance on air or on stage, texts i send to friends, poems i write, or a fucking origami heart i fold.

reading my poetry out loud feels like stripping down naked in front of you all -

it just makes me feel so fucking vulnerable and if there’s one thing i try to avoid at all costs, it’s offering a target.

i fight, i yell, i kick and punch - i’m prickly, not soft.

but i‘ve started this Substack to step out of my comfort zone.
to unmask and unravel.

to be completely raw and honest with myself and everyone who’s sweet enough to listen to my ramblings.

so i guess this is just another „free fall without a parachute“ (which is a great Senses Fail song by the way).

one more thing:

i’m not a native speaker so that’s yet another thing to be self-conscious about: my English.

well, fuck it -
press play.

---

like flour thrown on your ghosts.

julie radford, ‘25

and then i just stopped.
i stopped moving, shaking, scanning, escaping.
the world stopped spinning.
eerie silence, dark comfort.

sparks of ember rustling on falling leaves.
my ribcage making way for tiny particles of life seeping into me.

i notice a lash poking out from its crown, longing to break out of its conformity.

i feel the wind carefully stroking my cheekbone,
laying its head on its side and gently whispering into my ear,
short-snouted seahorses bobbing on calm waters,

a single strain of shimmering blonde hair caressing my porcelain auricle.

-x-x-x-x-x- 

blood dripping from my fingers.
thick, black goo whirling in butane gas,
ready to set the world on fire.

the tides rising, the winds retreating.
eyes bulging, lashes trembling, clawing on skin.

bones cracking,
guts shattering.

razor-sharp shrieks

                   sixsixs i c k


eerie silence, dark comfort.
like flour thrown on your ghosts.

shoutout to one of the best on here:
Jozef - for encouraging me to do this shit.