Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

What Love Is

I like the word “love” because it tastes of lilac in my mouth, like Parma Violets and peaceful desert at the table with no disagreements and the tv just quietly chatting to itself in the background.

It tastes a little like light rain outside of my window, when I am sat, surrounded by my blankets and a carton of cigarettes, setting out a story about the two of us. A sunset. Sometimes, it feels like a sunset. Soft colours colliding in an endless sky that stretches as far as I can see, sinking into the scattered trees. That is how love feels to me.

It feels like I am being watched over as I sleep, my eyes, heavy and my breath steadily ticking along with the sound of the clock as the world fades behind my dreams.

It looks like a new chapter, a new page where I am not bound by the boundaries I paid attention to in the past. It looks like a blank, beautiful page, where anything is possible.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Stolen, Not Sick

I was stolen, in an instant, cool metal colliding with my crowded thoughts and then they just… stopped.

It was so loud, and I had learned to love the sound. It was like a street party. I was the Queen of my own chaotic playground. Walking down somewhere safe, somewhere that makes sense and letting my senses get lost in all the noises and the colours, because there’s nothing to be afraid of. It makes no sense to anybody else, but it is mine, my own little mind, and they… took it. They just strapped me down, reached in and took it.

One swing, and something snapped. One shunt against my spirit and suddenly, I was living the life of someone else. I was no longer found on that familiar street, I was walking through my body, my echoing bones and brain, desperately asking why it was all so quiet.

I could reach out and almost touch my thoughts, but then they’d scuttle away, and I’d open my eyes to see everyone staring so expectantly, like I had said something brilliant, but maybe I had just imagined that, because I’d always be banished back to the chair in my bedroom, with a simple cross stitch and a mug of lukewarm milk.

I’d wander every second I got. When I woke up. When I couldn’t sleep. When the nurse gingerly scrubbed my shoulders as if my condition was contagious. “I’m not sick Miss.” I would tell her. “I’m just a little bit lost Miss.”

I would wander through the mist. I’d just wander in the dark, looking for myself. I knew that I was in there, the way that I was before they wedged metal into my skull and stole my essence like the pirates from the storybooks my guilt ridden Grandmother would read to me.

I used to read her the words of Wilde, but those days were gone. That girl was gone. I just knew that I had to be in there, and I’d call to myself, sobbing as I stared down at my arms and how weak they had become now that I had been kidnapped from my own body.

It was always back to bed after that, with a lecture about “getting too excited”. I fell in love with sleeping, because it was the only time I could see her again. The real me. A confident swagger, volcanic temper and a mouth that could barely make it through one idea before tucking into the next. I miss the taste. It was so sweet, even if it made no sense to anyone but me.

Let me be a Queen again.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Little Wooden Boat

Stormy skies surrounded the seething sea as it rushed around us,
waspish waves that grow tall and then crash as the wind whistles and nature bristles with indignation.
The boat is a beautiful one,
blood red paint against the children of the trees in the forest where we had our first kiss. We bore this vessel,
and then we sent her into the incensed ocean,
just to see if she’d survive,
and though the water is rough,
and the wind is wrathful,
she still smiles and sways to and fro,
as if she doesn’t have a care in the world.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

A Little Something For The Straight Man Who Haunts The Only Gay Bar In Town, Looking For Me

I am behind bars at the bar,
parading myself like a prize at the fair,
but my intended audience is never there,
just this one guy, with grey hair and grey skin who always wants to buy me drinks,
fumbles his fingers across my pendant and mumbles pedantic, pretentious nonsense about how his soul is pink,
printed with my name,
and my eyes go on a journey from his smug face to the back of my head.

He tells me that my beautiful eyes are wasted on the beautiful girl across the room (he uses a slur to describe her, but I will call her beautiful),
and half of me thinks he’s right,
because me having a flacid fan club around me all night seems to have given her the wrong impression about who I am intending to attract,
and then I am right back where I started from,
night after night,
bored to baby blue tears as he babbles on, despite my blatant disinterest.

I have been polite,
and I have been puerile.
I have said it in so many languages to try and show the girl across the room that my tongue is cultured and intelligent,
but she can’t hear me over the blithering idiot that haunts a home he will never belong in.
It doesn’t matter what I say,
because he sees a pretty dress as a pretty clear sign that I’m just “going through a phase” and he sees himself as some kind of King of conversion therapy,
(It is just a piece of fabric, and he is just an unnecessary man…)
so he persists, undeterred by my constant resistance,
because the world has always belonged to boring men, so he doesn’t know any better, and women never know their own minds anyway, according to his phallic philosophy.