Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Pride Month 2021, Writing

Flashback – …And That’s Why I Drink

Your hand is closed over mine,
as we ascend the escalator,
avoiding the band aid on the banister,
and my sudden affection for americanisms.
It’s not a criticism,
but I’m in an awful position,
lobotomised by the way that your eyes,
are endlessly enchanting.

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We are escaping.
Ebbsfleet to Stratford,
say the tickets on my person,
but my heart is international,
angsting and agonising over my mistress,
Miss Australia,
I’ll miss you when you’re sick of me.

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My heart is intentionally international,
soaring to the sights of holiday shop windows,
when I am with you,
transferring from highspeed to tube,
singing Send Her To Me,
to soothe your underground anxiety blues.

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Drinking,
like Miss Diane,
on the overground,
to deal with the depths of my obsessional
possessiveness,
because the truth is,
this never normally happens to me.

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I’m sincerely sorry for being in love on TFL.

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As it happens,
it’s never this strong,
never so deep,
but I keep throwing myself down to the ground,
on the off chance that I can descend further into full on “Fuck.
I love her so much.”

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Hello,
it’s me again.
Selfishly,
I stand in the way of the world,
staring,
eating up every atom of my universe,
holding my mouth with my shaking hands,
so it won’t stay open,
in awe of affection in its true human form.
Stay true to me,
on the train,
our escalator escapades.

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Feels like I’m living,
in a love song,
orchestra on the overground,
night after night,
as long as you’re around.



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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Pride Month 2021, Writing

Flashback – Send Her To Me

Maybe death is in the air.

I wouldn’t know,

it’s not like it rides in on a horse,

these days.

I watched the news last night,

waiting in silence,

as walls close in,

on every dream destination,

that I thought I’d escape to.

I called my grandparents last night,

letting them know I cared,

like it was the last time,

like life’s really ending,

fires finding their way to every corner of my mind,

as I scan empty shelves,

wondering if the apocalypse could spare me a second,

to decide if I’m really done.

I watch the flag,

from a bench by the ashtrays,

outside your office,

red,

white,

blue,

dancing with the wind.

I think I might call you,

like it’s the end of the world,

see if you’ve stopped pretending like we can be friends,

but then I remember,

that you’ve been gone,

since last summer,

and the sobbing wound in my soul,

that I had convinced to stop crying,

is screaming again,

because I have never felt more alone,

and everyone around me feels infectious,

because I watch the news when I’m depressed,

just to feel anxious,

because,

fuck it,

that feels more productive than straight sadness.

I wrote a sapphic song about you,

and it felt like I was giving the last of you away,

so soon after I lost you,

but it was so beautiful,

that I couldn’t hide it anymore,

and I had this regret stuck in my throat,

as I sang,

wishing I’d dragged you to London,

that July.

Why am I thinking about you?

You didn’t have to tell them you loved me.

You could have just pretended we were friends.

Straight girls go to pride all the time,

right?

Angel,

I know you’re gone,

but this could be the last time,

because there’s this thing,

in the air,

death,

like when you left me,

and I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe.

I feel like I can’t talk about you,

because it hurts me,

and it hurts him,

and you’re probably hurting somewhere in heaven,

with your hazel gaze,

glistening with tears,

but you’re stuck in my throat,

and I can’t breathe.

I cross the road,

like I don’t have a care in the world,

ignoring that I might like to see under some cars,

holding every urgent text,

from my heart,

close to my chest,

when I’m just thinking about death,

even though it isn’t destined for me,

because despite fifteen menthols a day,

and self destructive tendencies,

I am in tip top condition,

but hey,

the world is ending,

and I missed you,

for a moment.

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,

so,

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.