Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

The Truth

I have never lied,

to anyone but myself.

All the things I told you,

spilled over,

pooling outside of a heart that is too tiny to contain the world,

but tries her best anyway.

Always too much. Always too true.

I’ll tell you the truth.

I have temptations but they don’t entice me like you do.

They just become blurs as I walk along the path, that always leads to you.

I understand what it’s like,

to live your life with only shattered mirrors to see your reflection in,

unfixable, incurable wounds,

and the way they cast shadows onto the faces you see, on the pillow as you return to the bedroom,

quietly hopeful,

but well aware that it could be the beginning of more pain.

I don’t know if I’ve ever hurt you,

I’d hope you’d tell me,

but I also know the seductive stare of secrecy,

when it comes to wounded pride and bruised feelings.

My intentions were pure,

my promises, true,

because I’ve always told you the truth,

and I always will,

if you let me adore you.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

It’s Happening Again, and I Am Reacting In The Exact Same Way, Again.

I’m tired of being told that I’m being taught a lesson.

Sick of suffering because fate forgets how to use her words and just tell me what the fuck she wants to say.

Don’t teach me how to survive,

because you know I’m not going to do it.

Don’t lock me in this eternal classroom,

with a blackboard full of things I won’t read.

Don’t make me go through this again,

because it won’t stay in my head,

once I’m gone,

and I just want some peace.

I just want some existence,

where the cosmos isn’t playing a sick joke,

and I can just feel relieved that everything is simple,

everything is normal.

I’ve already taken shaky, stupid steps.

I’ve already signed over my soul.

You know it’s too late,

and you could give me a break,

but you won’t.

We’ve been here before.

You’ve said this before.

I have slept, with my eyes wide open, in this realm of silence before.

Don’t make me do it again.

Don’t make him do this again.

Don’t be so cruel again.

Let this life be something like what I’ve imagined, again.

You say you want me to get through this,

but you know I never will, again.

I was right to worry but you made me feel like I was crazy, again,

but maybe I am, because I am, of course, the duchess of duplication,

and they say that repeating the same steps,

and ignoring the results makes you mad,


despite all I know,

there is no other way to go,

than back down mud trodden paths,

back to messes of the past,

because I’m going to do it all over again,

and so are you.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

When I See You Again

The world wanders around us,

cider bottle, forgotten in the grass,

as I drink in your kiss,

convinced we are the only two left on the Earth.

Summer has come.

I am in your arms and the world feels right again,

blossoms bound along the ground,

swans singing as the sun goes down,

and I am complete, once again.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

I Am A Woman and I Have Shit To Do

I think I remember the first time I noticed I was a woman.

I was seven,

and a man’s eyes lingered too long…

On what? I’m not so sure,

because I was so small, so bereft of something to stare at,


unchanged from the flesh flower my mother had given to the world,

not yet a woman, but stared at like one,

leered at like one,

not knowing why my skin was flushed and I felt a sudden urge to run but accepting it anyway.

Mother knows best.

My body knows best.

My never ending sense of dread when a man can’t keep his eyes to himself knows best.

Accepting that women have red cheeks and nervous legs that want to run.

Accepting that men stare, and strike fear into tiny women that are, in fact children.

I paint my cheeks a toasty brown,

to hide the red that lays beneath,

always on alert,

I got NDAs for my legs, letting them know that we don’t have time to be afraid.

I don’t have time to be afraid,

so I’ll silence my body when she’s seven years old again,

shaking and ashamed.

I’ll silence my body,

because I have things to do,

and, yes, I’m sick of stares,

I’m sick of animals shouting in the street for attention,

monsters, stalking through the streets at night.

I am sick but I am strong,

because I’m not seven years old anymore,

and even if I was,

my mother would applaud if I told him to fuck off,

so I shake it off,

I pretend I’m not afraid,

and I remind myself that I am a woman,

and I have shit to do,

and these streets are mine,

not his,

and my body is mine,

not his,

and my fear is mine,

not his.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Getting All Mixed Up While Filling In The Census Form

It’s that time again.

Time to break my arms and legs,

let myself fit neatly and uncomfortably into the ethnicity box on a form.

For many years,

I’ve ummed and ahhed about how all the stars in the sky that fell down and created my human form can be categorised.

Brown eyes that have been to many continents,

rambunctious round strands of her that won’t sit down, because these curls have tales,

things to tell you, that you wouldn’t believe.

A skilled tongue, that pleases everyone she meets, in many languages (okay, three and a half), so what do I call her?

Which box do I tick?

My nose is thick and prominent,

once marked for surgery but now begrudgingly accepted,

but I don’t know how to tell the census that I’m not sure if she came from my Mum or my Dad.

My pen is staring up at me,

not knowing what to make of me,

and I am staring back,

with a varied background,

not knowing what to make of me either.

Once again, I am not English, apparently,

because the form says that is only for whites,

and I’m only half right for the red and white flag,

so down the form I go,

to the land of minority ethnics and mullatos.

What the fuck will my kids tick?

I suppose it depends on who I fuck,

and how many drops of their grandfather find their way into their blood from mine.

Shall I curse them to endless umming and ahhing at presumptuous and preclusive boxes,

or will their road be easier, brighter and white passing?

It’s just a form, I suppose.

Just a box ticking exercise,

so I shouldn’t think about it too much,

because I don’t have time for an identity crisis today,

but I am a map, with many pins,

and this is a small box, with a small mind,

that isn’t ready for someone like me.

I don’t think it will ever be ready for someone like me.