Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

I Took Her To Blackpool

Last night,
I took you to the place I used to haunt,
in my fleeting moments of freeing honesty.
I used to stand,
betrayed by the barrier, and how she kept me from the darling depths of forever,
and I’d stare into the swirling sea foam,
wondering if that was the year that I’d make my own.
I’d never had anything of my own, you know,
but it didn’t seem to matter because I made it through the dull days with a dedication to myself,
yes, someday, somehow, some way.

The lights were as bright as I’d come to feel,
since finding you,
LEDs and neon fantasies filled the strip,
and I tripped on timid confessions of affection,
trembling at the terror of a sudden realisation that I was a placid prisoner of the passion I had denied myself.
I was trapped in a way that felt unfamiliar.
Being bound behind bars wasn’t new,
but this time, I was willing, waiting, wanting,
whispering your name into soft shells with pretty patterns on the back,
because I thought that after so much misery,
they’d be pleased to know I was doing better.

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