Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

To Men Who Catcall

A man with no manners called me rude,

after shouting something about my boobs,

and being wounded by the sharp edges of my sweary response.

I assume he’ll heal,

from being told to fuck off,

but my body is full of scars,

spoken onto my skin,

by men,

who don’t know how to keep their hands,

or their thoughts to themselves.

I haven’t been human,

for a very long time.





for the very first time,

after decades of delicately dashing away,

in the hopes I wouldn’t be followed,

fucked against my will,

by a man who makes clear he has no concern for consent,

I told him to fuck off.

Ever since I was ten,

and probably before,

in the bank of bad experiences my mind tries to protect me from,

I always tried to escape,

thinking my life was enough.

but this time,

I decided that life without dignity was not a life at all,

so I told him to fuck off,

and I watched him crumble under the weight of his ego,

knowing that I was a warrior,

and he was the first victim of my spoken sword.


if he didn’t want to be sworn at,

he shouldn’t have been speaking so provocatively,

or wearing a smug smile,

that made me think he was up for being sworn at.


if he didn’t want to be sworn at,

he shouldn’t have been out,

all by himself,

with nobody to protect him,


he should learn self defence,

to keep himself safe,

from girls who take no shit.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing


Yellow stars fading into the darkness,

replaced by blue,

and then red.

I am homesick for you,

holding the necklace you got me for my birthday,

to my beating heart,

like it was my connection to God,

watching New Year’s fireworks,

halfway through the calendar,

because you fracture my thoughts,

and the way time interacts with me.

There are fireworks inside of me.

I am ready to be a bright star,

running over with fanatical fever.

You said I looked beautiful when I smiled,

so I tried to do it more,

because I value validation.

I vent to you,

on the phone,

when I’m tired,

and then I sit still,

soaking up the small moment of silence,

before you tell me again,

that I’m the most beautiful girl you’ve ever fucked.

That’s enough.

It feels like love,

you whisper true love,

when you think I’m sleeping,

so I can accept your emotional unavailability,

when you think I’m not dreaming.

My eyes are always searching for your own,

so warm,

in an icy existence,

lonely for the way you are just tall enough to make me feel small,

in a sweeter, sensual way,

that I never felt with anybody else.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Cover Me In White Roses

Cover me in white roses,

when it’s all over,

when the sun stops spinning around me,

and the stars dress in dark lace.

Make me a garden,

where things go to say goodbye,

in the chapel,

where we first kissed,

racked with guilt,

because our love always felt secret,

even when everybody knew,

and you know I want the drama,

even when I’m not around to enjoy it.

Tell them that you loved me,

your tears trying to save those that can never grow again,

tell them that you loved me,

if it’s really true,

or even if it isn’t,

because if this is the last time,

that anyone is obligated to think of me,

can’t I be loved,


for the first time?

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

The Passion Of The Poet

The night is never ending,

but it goes so quickly.

There are fragments that are frozen,

the warmth of your desire,


just above my skin,

wild and wicked,

I am enchanted.

You are enchanting,

I am echoing the incantation,

that trips from your lips to my own,

charmed by the safety and sensuality of your arms,

their strength,

their urgency,

their hurried hunger for me.

I am cursed,

by how the night is endless rapture,

that never seems to last long enough.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

God Thinks You’re a C**t, But He’s Humouring Me, Because I’m His Favourite Daughter

I knelt beside fresh bed sheets,

smoothing them across the mattress,

until no crease could be found,

trying to find something to fill up my mind,

so it wasn’t occupied with the things I’ll never have again.

I said a prayer for a man last night,

who made so many mistakes.

I know he needs it,

because I was a mistake he made,

and now I think of him every now and again.

I think I loved him most,

when he seemed lost,

and lonely,

when he saw me as his future,

not predicting,

in that moment,

that it could be with someone else,

because when he thought that,

he was mine alone,

and sometimes,

I pray that I can love unselfishly,

without the need to be the whole world to one person,

but it’s harder and harder,

when you go from a world,

to a country,

a city,

and then nothing,

again and again.

I don’t think I love him anymore,

but I pray for him,

all the same,

because if he’s happy,

maybe he’ll return the heart he stole from me,

and I can mail him back the mega drive I felt guilty about accepting for my birthday.

I was making my bed,

somewhere far away,

where I could be alone,

trying not to check the weather where he lives,

trying not to wait for a reply that will never come,

because he’s not my problem anymore,

and I am becoming a problem to myself,

with the way I wade in old habits,

that are sure to drown me,

in the end.


I catch myself cursing him,

wishing him an unhappy existence,

as some form of revenge,

because hell hath no fury,

like those who didn’t see betrayal coming,

wrapped in a weird mix of manic hurt and minor humiliation.

I’m not a stupid girl,

not really,

just the kind of girl who wants to believe in the world around her,

because being bitter and jaded takes a little piece of you,

every time your cynical side descends and kisses you,

just on the back of your neck,

as it drops a little poison in your ear.

I don’t want to be poisoned.

I want to be positive.

I pray for him,

every night,

not for him,

but for me,

because I wanted him so much,

that I don’t know how to stop.

I want to say that I’m healing,

but I’m trying to give up lying,

it’s not even Lent,

and yet,

I want to get right with God,

myself and all the problems that follow me.


I pray for him,

in a way that I can say is for myself,

because I hate him,

but I want him to be happy,

so that I know he’ll never come back,

because I’m so weak,

that I’ll take him back,

no matter what he did to me,

because my self respect is dead,

and there’s something wrong in my head that says I need him,

and I know him,

he needs help to keep his shit together,

or he finds someone else,

and I could be on his radar,

and I can’t say no,

not to him,

I won’t let go,

if he lets me back in,

I will hold on,

with that other girl’s name playing loudly in my head,

writing whole operas to drown her out,

so I can pretend that I can go back.

I can’t go back.

I can’t go back,

and so I pray for him,

that he’ll be happy,

somewhere far away from my reach,

so I can find a way to be happy too.