St Pancras

We had been together six months,

when she asked me again,

to tell her about myself.

I thought about just handing her my press bio,

running from the room,

where I didn’t have to confront my coldness,

and the way it blistered her beautiful skin.

 

 

Would it be such a sin,

to just go home,

put on a record,

and talk like lovers,

the old fashioned way?

With her graciously ignoring how I freeze up,

pushing her away,

when she gets too close to making me feel good,

not vocalising what she knows I’m holding back,

kissing in candlelight,

so she can’t see the depressing depth of my scars.

img_9848

I think about all the pages of my past,

that she might not be able to get past,

scrunched up in the back of my mind,

are the days I’ve said goodbye to,

cautiously replaced,

by carefully curated presentations,

pretty, perfect pictures,

that gloss over my less glorious days.

 

 

We are running for a train,

her and who I currently am,

I turn back,

and see old days and old ways chasing me.

I am thinking again,

about the press bio,

where I pushed away the way things were,

ushering in new beginnings,

where I could be someone she wouldn’t feel sympathy for,

or tread on tear stained eggshells to reach.

img_9847

I think of each and every day before I met her,

trying to trust her enough,

to have the kind of heart I think she has,

driving myself mad,

pretending I was born,

at twenty four,

trying to Facetune my life,

until it is safe for her to see,

so she’ll never know,

that my life overflowed so many times,

when I was too young,

and my hands were too small,

to reach out and reign it in.

 

 

I don’t know where to begin,

and I’m conscious of keeping things light,

not dropping my whole deal on her dainty head,

because I can’t even handle that,

though I’ve been built by all that I’ve been through,

and now we’ve missed the train,

I’m pooling the platform with the bruises life left,

and I can’t catch my breath…

img_9849

There’s nothing left.

She’s broken the walls,

stepping over the stones I placed around myself,

a spell,

to keep what’s left of me safe,

an enchantment that screams

“Please, I’ve had enough”

but

she is brave,

when I cannot be,

becoming my new spell,

breathtaking bricks,

built all around my messed up moat.

her arms speak so loud,

telling me that she has the kind of heart,

that I think she has,

and while the world walks past,

I am learning how to be loved gently.


Read My Books

Hear My Music

RECENT FREE CREATIVE WRITING COLLECTIONS
Drowning In Us
What Ever Happened To Baby Jen?
Notes To My Muse

COME FIND ME
Twitter
Instagram
Ask Jen

Facebook
Patreon

Tumblr
Amazon

Podcast
Spotify

YouTube

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: