Oops. My Instagram has gone again, and so has Riot, and so has everything I have built, and so I have little fight in me, and so please read this, if you care???
More to life than Meta but the party still goes on even if you aren’t invited. CW: mentions of sexual abuse and digital violence
If you want to help you can support me in person at my poetry and playtext Zine launch, or if you can’t come - spread the word. Wednesday June 10th, Dalston, London - details here.
You can also follow my new instagram here
It is the beginning of May 2026, and once again I have lost multiple instagram accounts. An incident that similarly occurred to me November 2025, that left me derailed, mobilised, depressed and angry. In the creator economy, we pour much of our life into Instagram - a dedicated social network, where you develop parasocial relationships with people you hardly know, share your art, build your business and pretend that life is #perfect.
Currently, Riot Party - national queer sex positive rave, that I co run, is deplatformed. Alongside my personal account, which consisted of anecdotes, and poetry, about men who don’t love me back, or whichever girl I was obsessed with in that current moment, because I am a lover girl, who will absolutely, publish, everything online.
Sometimes too, I would post a photo from an event, but always aware about adhering to community guidelines, because I used to break rules, but I’m a good girl now, #notthatkindagirlanymore - don’t want to piss Daddy Meta off.
Never was that kind of girl on Instagram, not with a mother like mine - impossible. Had to prove always, that my art comes first, and my a$$ second - artist, adherer to community guidelines, activist if you catch me on an angry day of the week.
Seriously though, I am acutely aware about the implications of the Online Safety Act - and lucky me!!
It is impacting me in all facets of my life. The ways I make money when no one is watching, and my exit strategy art jobs and event bits, that give me cultural capital and somewhat paint over the red stains on my skin.
Sometimes I pay an extortionate amount of money to someone who can claim they can allow me access to my audience again. Double fucked on a weekday? ✅
Mum tells me on the phone to focus on posting other things, and I don’t tell her that one time I posted a poem about sexual abuse, and then it was removed and I was given a bollocking by AI, and made to promise to never ever do that again.
I don’t tell her because it feels familiar, how everyone has an opinion on what happened to you but no one asks. Silence a structure to which you become accustomed.
Or how you chop and change a narrative to make someone else feel safe.
Or like how I write something but then have to change it because someone in my life will get hurt, real life censorship - censorship from all apparent angles.
Sometimes, life will present you with a hypocrisy - like this.
Yesterday my friend text me -
And how… perplexing? I can not write about my SA, or “period of sexual abuse lasting 3 years or more” (as detailed by the criminal compensation award).
But a random person online can plaster it, with the wrong date and details - and I am unable to comment.
Given a microphone just to have it muted. Built bricks from a bad situation all to have them burned.
Anyway, that’s besides the point. I guess what I am trying to say, or process, or think and feel - is that maybe this is just life now. An occupational hazard, in a career like mine. Sex positive and self employed. Shifting into someone separate from the place they wanted to save me from. Access denied. Still can’t win. Past that comes written in permanent ink. Game truly rigged.
More to life than Meta but the party still goes on even if you aren’t invited.
If you want to help you can support me in person at my zine launch of “Home Sweet Hell”, a poetry & playtext zine about performing for the patriarchy + doing things I don’t want to do for money in order to support my career as a writer - details here.
You can also follow my new instagram here.
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