Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The Difficult Second Wife

Bursting from the past’s shadow to initially engaged applause,
she steps onto the scene and the crowd falls silent,
there is a cough from the back of the auditorium,
a whistle and crash as hopes fall like ancient bombs,
for she is the difficult second wife.

She is the dreaded second chance at love,
the one who was ACTUALLY the one, according to someone who spent a long time and a lot of money investing in the idea of another,
up until recently,
BUT!!!!
…this time,
it’s for real,
apparently,
and it’s HER,
undoubtedly,
and she fit a reused ring so perfectly,
so she became the difficult second wife.

The difficult second wife keeps her secrets in a locked diary,
so full of distrust,
she locks lips like she has something to prove.
At the sight of the first wife,
hell hath no fury like the long legged girl with the short temper,
but the sex is electric,
because she’s new,
fresh,
not bored of you yet,
immune to your flaws and the causes of your difficult first divorce,
so her frenzies are forgiven.

She is, of course, eager to please,
knee deep in dirty looks,
thrown by family and friends who insist that they’re just adjusting,
and that they don’t mean to be cruel.
She catches each insult and shoves it into her mouth,
fashioning it into a crude smile that she shares,
without a single word,
because the difficult second wife doesn’t want any trouble.

When the sun sets,
and you’ve fallen asleep,
she pours all her pain into the pages of her diary.
There are places, glances and love songs that are lost on her,
because they came before her,
and can never belong to her.
She may be today’s love,
but can she compete with the ghost of a great love?
The difficult second wife dies on the pages of her diary,
desolate and dangerous as the tears fall,
with nobody to hold her.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

What Is A Woman?

Luckily for me, and my lackadaisical little woman brain,
there will always be men, making sweeping statements on my behalf.
Battering down my kitchen door to bellow definitions and debating with shadows,
while I give a bemused, indifferent glance,
glazing over as the pasta boils over, and I pray for some peace and quiet.

Luckily for me,
the lads are on the case.
They are standing up for “their women”,
of which I am apparently one,
despite being rather certain that I retained ownership of myself.
Those same lads who can’t locate key parts of a woman are here to holler about what a woman is,
to a woman,
who knows where everything is,
and knows what everything is,
but they’re using their serious, sincere voices,
tutting at me, though I haven’t said a word,
so I think this is something they’d like my attention for.

I just… don’t care.
I have so much more to do.
I don’t have time to get into a row with an uninvited guest,
or time to pander to his need to feel important.
I’ve got pasta that needs cooking,
a movie that needs watching,
and he’s just… not that interesting.

Where were these men, with all their concerns and condescending chat when I needed them?
Why do they look away in embarrassment when their feral friends follow me down the street?
Why do they waste my time, waxing lyrical about how “sorry” they are for their gender instead of sorting out their siblings?
Why, after centuries of patriarchy have they decided that they’d like to “save” me?
Why do they assume that they are capable of saving me?

What is a man?
Beyond late, boring and surplus to requirements?
Completely incapable,
completely intolerable.
Loud for the sake of being loud,
and just eye roll inducingly dull.

Is THIS your king?
A man in my Twitter mentions,
at the big age of 45,
diving into arguments with an actual woman about who she is, and why he’s the authority on it?
My dude,
don’t do this to yourself.

Anyway, back to me.
In case you wondered,
I was in the kitchen of my own volition,
peacefully cooking my pasta,
dreaming of dinner and a movie,
alone,
but a man has deemed himself ever so important,
despite having no place in my palace of solitude.
Some dude has something to say,
not something to ask,
but something to say.
He will scream something that he phrases as a question,
but it is really a statement.

He asks,
“What is a woman?”
but what he means is,
“I don’t like how women have handled this conversation, so it’s time that they listened to me.”

“What is a woman?” He pecks the question into the air like a furious, fevered bird.


“What is a woman?” He wants an answer, but he only wants it from his own mouth, so shut up and let him FINALLY have a chance to talk.


“What is a woman?” SHUT YOUR VAGINA AND LISTEN TO HIM BITCH.

A woman is someone that men talk at, not to.
A woman is someone that men call incapable after incapacitating her.
A woman is something that men want to protect from everyone but themselves.

A woman is not the concern of a man.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Ingrained

I sewed your silhouette into my subconscious,
staring with closed eyes that were too starstruck for words.
Your stare was stuck to the cinema screen,
serene love story lit up and reflected in your eyes,
sweet fantasies,
shared in secret as time ticked away,
and we dreamed devoted, devious things.

My head felt heavy,
hoping to rest on your chest,
but propped up by trepidation.
Esta noche is endless,
or at least it will be when I remember it,
for you are my first true love affair,
and your stare stays, fixed to the cinema screen,
but your hand rests softly in mine,
and I will forever be aflame at the thought.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The Race

All I wanted was to beat the sun back to my bed,
and tell you the truth before she got to you.
I didn’t want her to pull back the curtains,
to bleach my beautiful dreams with her harsh light,
for there are things more frightening than the movie you watched last night,
through your shaking fingers as I pushed popcorn past your lips to suppress your screams.
I am half asleep as I hurry,
but awake and alive enough to know that my wooden heart is in flames,
collapsing under the bright burden of the inferno,
and I don’t want to love you,
but I’m captive to your whims and wishes,
sold down the river by the sun,
who whispers the truth to you,
and leaves me, languishing and longing.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Head In The Clouds

Head in the clouds,
kept clear of the Earth’s echoes,
all the things that I cannot face fall away when I wander the halls of heaven.
I have picked out the poppies for my graveside,
gracefully gazing at my name and a list of accolades on the sandstone.
I’ve been living for my last days longer than I have been breathing.