Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

The Girl In The Mirror

Everyone says you have beautiful eyes.

I think they may be right.

They follow me,

as I apply layer after layer of lip gloss in the mirror,

warmth waiting with every stare,

soft against my soul,

making my heart race,

because I appreciate the finer things in life,

and also because I’m a narcissist.

I hear you humming a song you wrote,

way back when you used to believe in love.

Like always, you’ll believe again eventually,

because it’s deep in your core,

like a kid who believes in Santa Claus.

I believe in you,

even when you don’t think I do,

and one day,

I’ll love you again,

entirely.

It’s coming,

in time.

You just have to give me time,

to remember your eyes,

your muddled but meaningful turn of phrase,

the way you get frustrated when you think you aren’t being understood.

I understand you.

I still love you.

I just need time,

to find a way to fix things between you and me,

because we haven’t been kind to each other.

When the world wasn’t kind to us,

I blamed you.

I always do,

but I never stopped loving you.

I would lie in bed,

letting you go to waste,

cursing the eyes everyone allegedly adores,

wishing I could wish the words you write from existence,

waiting for you to become somebody else,

somebody that someone else could accept,

but you are my beautiful girl,

with bad luck,

a bad sense of direction,

and a bit of a reputation,

but my sweet,

I still love you,

even if they don’t,

even if you don’t feel it from me,

I do love you.

Sweetheart,

you just have to give me time.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

All Hotel Rooms Look The Same These Days

When the curtains are closed,

there was no light,

and he liked it like that,

because he never liked himself,

so he loved me in the dark.

I fumbled in the dark,

trying to find the jug of juice we left on the desk,

beside my tarot cards,

and hundreds of pages of

“Please let this work out. Please let this work out. Please let this work out.”

It didn’t.

I dare not drink the same juice,

switching to other brands,

watching my shaking hands suddenly subside as I arrive in the next aisle,

where the juice is different,

and I am not haunted by the thing I stupidly associated with him.

I stayed at another hotel recently,

because as is often the case,

things didn’t work out,

and I wailed by myself,

on the bathroom floor,

because the room layout was the same,

the curtains carried the same darkness,

but the man I gave my heart (and orange juice, and cherry bakewells) to, couldn’t be found.

I was in the dark,

desperately wanting a love that would have killed me,

a love that would have left me looking over my shoulder,

dreading the night,

when the darkness deemed it the right time for a reel of endless nightmares,

reminders that a second chance won’t magically materialise a new life,

where all the paranoid problems of the past have vanished.

I slept,

eventually,

but the room was haunted,

by our three day palace,

and the way it collapsed the second I turned my back.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Our Overture

Ours is an overture of sweet sighs,

longing looks,

and anxious attempts to communicate.

This is something more substantial,

I sensed it,

as I slept,

so still,

after so much restless writhing.

I don’t think it’s such a bad thing,

to see if I could forget the past,

passing it in the street,

barely bothering to look alarmed,

as I run into your arms,

outside the tube station,

knowing the past trails behind me,

breathing down a neck,

that carries your name,

and the faint frame of your kiss.

I’m not the girl of years gone by,

any longer,

or even the girl of months ago.

I’m a brass band,

I’m a harpsichord,

I’m a clarinet,

I’m the lyrics I always wanted to write,

I’m the overture for the soulmate I finally met.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Belonging

Night is gentle with us,

the sky stays a little longer,

blushing orange as it kisses the sea,

you kiss me,

suddenly,

and I am a calamity,

warm wherever your hands explore,

precious pads on my fine floral prints.

Menthol meets the wine you had an hour ago,

your tongue,

talking softly to my painted lips,

parting them,

slowly but with great authority,

and I know that I belong to you,

completely.