Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Caramel Digestives

It began with caramel digestives.

He had them in his kitchen,

and confessed that one of my stories had inspired the purchase.

My heart melted,

just at the thought of finding someone who listens,

who remembers the little things,

and I watched him pour me another drink,

as I tried to look interesting and sophisticated.

I thought I might tell him,

that I ate one (just one) every day,

during lockdown,

while my heart was being broken,

by the bastard before him,

but I didn’t want to think about it,

and I wanted those biscuits to be our thing,

a sweet thing he did,

in the middle of the week,

because he was in the shops,

and thinking of me.

I thought I might play him the song I wrote for him,

but it still felt too final,

like I was staking a claim I had no right to,

but that couldn’t be right,

because he bought biscuits that reminded him of me,

and last time we were alone,

the time before this,

I asked him if I was his,

he breathlessly said yes,

and then held me close,

fast asleep,

as if he was afraid to lose me,

so,

surely it would do no harm,

to let him hear three and a half minutes of melodic “I feel the same”?

I broke a picture that he hangs on his bedroom wall,

the commotion woke him up,

I played dumb,

although,

I still don’t know what happened,

so maybe I’m not to blame,

but all the same,

I pointed and said

“I didn’t do it,

I was writing you a poem!”

and he didn’t seem mad,

so I’m starting to think he really does want me to stay.

Quite the pair.

Orphan Annie, all grown up,

and making mischievous mistakes,

a rich Daddy who says he’s not rich,

(but he can buy biscuits whenever he wants and that’s a foreign concept to me)

I don’t care what he has,

I just want to be his prized possession.

He just stared into my eyes,

and asked a serious question about dunking biscuits into tea (this is not a sexual metaphor),

so I think we’re on our way.

Last night,

before the picture fell,

and the night fell instead,

the early morning crawled closer,

I lay in his arms,

exhausted,

finally finding the courage to tell him that I missed him.

Instantly rewarded,

he said he missed me too,

I feel it,

in the warmth of his skin,

and how he reaches for my hand in his sleep.

When I awoke this morning,

he slept,

and slept,

I lay awake,

lace up and down my legs,

pleasant but possessive bonds on my wrists,

that I slept in,

because it lets me feel divine and devoted,

when I awake,

covered in reminders of him.

I was hungry,

for his embrace,

and for caramel digestives.

I remembered a dream,

which began in his bed,

last night,

he asked if I still looked at the app where we met,

and I said that I had deleted it.

Even in a dream,

I wasn’t brave enough to say that I’d done it weeks ago,

because I had a good feeling,

when it came to him,

and now that I was his,

everyone else’s attention felt like an invasion.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Cake and a Gift Bag

I have a notebook,

where I wrote my will,

last summer,

so that people would know,

where what little I possessed was meant to go,

and so that my mother would know,

that under no circumstances,

was she permitted to use a photo outside of my own careful selections,

on the news,

or the funeral programmes.

I made a list of the things I wanted.

White roses,

soft grass,

a rainy day,

just in case everyone forgot,

with all the grief and shock,

how to cry.

Have you ever been loved?

Loved,

by someone’s whole heart?

I was laying in my sheets,

scribbling and hoping that the rain wouldn’t be necessary,

but planning for it all the same.

There are so many ways to be loved,

but which have I ticked off the list?

I asked myself that,

for an entire hour,

before deciding it didn’t matter,

because social obligation would force everyone to pretend,

if they wanted cake and a gift bag at the end.

(Yes, I am having cake, and gift bags when I leave)

Muse to many,

nuptial to nobody,

there are some that love to be loved by me,

some that love to fuck me,

some that love to like me a little,

maybe an afterthought,

maybe someone’s only thought,

but that last one,

seems a bit delusional,

if I’m honest.

I know that (approximately) four people have loved me,

but,

I mean,

that was by blood obligation,

and not the kind that people search their whole lives for.

(Not that I am ungrateful)

I think I stopped searching a long time ago,

though I lie on dating profiles and say that it’s all that I want,

but if I were to tell the truth,

I’d say that I just wanted someone to show up,

and cry,

when I leave.

Cry like they really meant it.

Cry like they could never go back to the place where they took me, on our first date, because my shadow says that it will just make them cry.

Cry like they had just spent an hour reading over old texts, trying their hardest to hear my voice inside their head.

Cry like a part of them was locked in a box, being lost under mounds of dirt, and freshly cut white roses.

Cry like they had just lost the love of their life,

even if they were just pretending,

for cake and a gift bag.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Sapphic Summer

Peeking through the window,

like a nervous, naughty infant,

with a disappointing school report,

I saw you.

I watched you.

I waited,

not by choice,

but by command of my confidence

(or lack thereof)

that insisted on spending several minutes,

wondering why someone so delightful,

decided to take me out for dinner.

I watched you,

waiting for me,

checking your phone,

the menu,

your drink,

before you were back to your phone,

texting me,

three fevered kisses,

that spurred me into action.

I want to tell them the rest.

I can’t rest until I tell them the rest,

all the ways that you were the best thing for me,

all the cruelty of how life took you from me,

but it hurts too much.

You hurt too much,

so,

I’ll do what everybody does,

to avoid hard facts

(and to sell books)

and stick to the sex.

After several dinners,

(at which I got much better at just arriving,

instead of dawdling),

I found myself,

lost in your apartment,

losing my mind,

by command of your…

(Yep, I’m still too Catholic for major details)

I don’t even know if I can write it,

because I never really felt like I lived it.

To wrapped up in getting it right,

I got it all wrong,

and I was never present for your presence.

It haunts me.

You haunt me.

I visit your grave,

on Tuesdays at eight,

because your daughter only goes on weekends,

and she didn’t know about me.

There are some things that are too complex,

to discover about a mother,

so,

I let her rest,

never telling her the rest,

never saying how you spent your final summer,

never saying the things I wish I didn’t remember.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

I’ve Been Made Up For Several Hours, With Nowhere To Go

Saffron on my skin,

soft and sentimental,

sensitive to the time,

sending signals with my actions,

seeking answers on your intentions.

Seven PM seems about right,

so why am I nervous?

Surely soon meant soon?

Seven wasn’t a sure thing,

sure. Neither was today,

so, maybe I’m building myself up,

so high, just to fall,

sobbing over “soon” meaning different things,

(saying softly to myself that I have yet to actually cry, and that the night is as young as I feel when you kiss me)

spilled milk,

something or nothing.

Sure, you’re busy,

so, I should be too,

sadly, I’m just lost in my selfishness,

surrendering to my childish grasps for your attention.

So, I worry that I expect too much,

so, I shut down, write a poem,

so, I miss you,

(so, I don’t know where THAT came from)

so, I’m afraid to tell you, in case I come across as too much,

so, I sleep for an hour, and hope, you’ll want to see me.

See me,

see my soft skin,

sitting on my bed,

seeking you.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Nature Is A Language. Can’t You Read?

Thatcher’s dead,

but I’m still not satisfied.

I join her in the dirt,

with broken promises and stars in my eyes,

my dreams don’t cast shadows,

and I live in a neighbourhood where good people don’t go.

He joins me,

and I smoke all his cigarettes,

while we listen to The Smiths.

He asks me why I don’t smile for him,

I lie and say that I don’t know,

but he knows,

from the strip of pills,

smiling at him,

from the back pocket of my bag,

and the way I cry for him sometimes,

so he can feel like a big man.

I let him,

because I like him.

I don’t love him,

but I fuck him,

because I don’t love myself either,

and he makes me feel better,

until I go home.

I go home.

A storm is waiting.

A lake of leeches falls from my ceiling,

and they want so much,

the things I haven’t possessed for years.

Safety and stability.

A straight answer and a good night’s sleep.

He tears them from my arms,

and then those arms are his,

around him like a lost child,

and his eyes are wild.

It’s written all over my face,

his name lives on my lips,

and his sweet blue eyes burn into my mind,

on the rare occasions these days,

when I can sleep,

and dream.

Dream of him I do,

he’s all over my dreams,

and it’s all over my face,

but I shake my head,

just let him hold me close,

kiss my neck,

like I’m something precious,

and desirable.

We kiss like it’s the 80’s,

he fucks neon into my veins,

we have nothing but each other,

and the pittance the government thinks we are worth.

I tell him that I love him,

because it feels nostalgic,

and I’m tragic,

when he’s not around.

So maybe I do.

I kiss him,

on the bonnet of his expensive car,

and for a moment,

I feel worth something.