Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing


Blood drips from glossy lips,

thunder strikes across dark skies,

power swells in a form that can’t contain it,

and I am free in my dreams.

Ave libertas.

I sleep in the minds of maniacs,

born under a waning crescent,

but waxing wildly as the moon is reborn.

I became a monster,

with beautiful eyes,

because the world showed me it’s claws,

and I had to be stronger.

Ave vindictae.

Consecrated Queen,

kept alone in a castle,

built from shards of a broken heart.

Low mass with my lover at midnight,

wanton, wayward worship,

calling prayers into each other’s mouths,

sweet, seductive Santeria,

I drink his wine,

clear and cleansing,

glowing under his warm fingertips.

Ave delicium.

I am awake for the first time,

God’s touch,

icy around my bruised neck,

Satan’s fingerprints,

boiling on my blushing cheeks.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

My Father Loved His Horses

My father was always tall,

just centimeters from the sky,

I would pull on his legs,

laughing as he collapsed,

on his hands and knees,

suddenly a horse,

smiling and shuffling across the carpet,

as if he were in a stable.

I would pull myself onto his back,

a princess,

in the sky,

with the highest,

happiest horse in all of Wales.

I would imagine him,

as a horse,

while I waited for him to return.

I would sit by the wireless,

though mother wouldn’t let it play,

and I would imagine,

that when I would least expect it,

I would hear him neighing over the airwaves,

and over the oceans,

so I would often awake,

at dawn,

with a stiff neck,

and the radio in my arms.

My dreams,

filled with static,

from the stables.

When he walked back through our door,

the sky sunk around his shoulders,

he was still tall,

but the sky that surrounded him was scary,

and dark.

I clung to his legs,

as thunder rang out,

smoke in the stables,

he collapsed,


on his hands and knees,

struggling and shuffling across the carpet,

as if he left his mind,

in the trenches,

with his friends.

I didn’t pull myself onto his back,

I knew I shouldn’t touch,

as he shook,

collapsing into the carpet,


until his throat was sore.

I just lay,

inside of his arms,

as he shook and sobbed,

and I was a princess,

on the floor,

with the most shell shocked horse in all of Wales.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Love Language

Affirmation arias,

melody of stars,

I am home,

when I hear your voice.

I wrote your name in honey,

on my heart,

asleep under the moon,

waiting for words to wash over me,

sweet and satisfying.

I graffiti the dictionary,

appropriating the English language,

giving new meaning to the sounds that leave my mouth.

I call you my favourite thing,

inside of my head,

dreaming of the warm embrace of your voice,

and the sky I see inside your eyes.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, politics, Writing

Black Girls In The White House

Back seat of the car,

I had almost forgotten that history was underway,

parked up by Asda,

thinking about strawberry laces,

while a race came to an end,

a race that was tied up in race,.

Breaking news on every station.

Hope had won!

That’s what they said anyway.

My grandad had it on the radio,

a calm voice,

that sounded like it wanted to shout,

but was restrained,

just as it had been trained.

Hope had won,

and I didn’t realise that I cared before,

but my grandad turned to the back seat,

where I was waiting for my compass to guide me.

My compass smiled,

said that a man just like me had won,

that hope had won,

that warring sides had found some peace,

found themselves in a man who had the best of both of them.

I smiled too,

on a path to understanding,

on a clear path,

where roses grew of all colours,

free and friendly,

stems embracing as I walked by.

The world was a rainbow,

the war was over,

a black and white man had won the White House,

and a black and white girl had heard about it,

from thousands of miles away,

and she felt so accomplished,

so ready to accomplish.

Of course,

that wasn’t the end of the story.

It never is,

never could be.

The roses died,

the path twisted and turned,

lights went out,

wars found a second wind,

and the rainbows faded.

My compass tried to guide me,

but I stopped believing,

wandering aimlessly,

trying to find that moment again,

when I felt like people would understand me,

even accept me,

and the world would be less hectic,

but it never came.

The story continues.


there are more girls like me,

seeing confetti fall down on a black Vice President,

a female black Vice President,

fought for by black women,

the leaders,

who are never listened to,

and we have another chance,

to let roses grow,

along clear paths,

for black girls to walk towards beautiful,

powerful images of themselves.

Let those girls see the confetti,

hide their excited eyes from the death threats that fall among it,

let them see the confetti,

and know that a path exists for them too.

Let them see the confetti,

don’t let them see the way the world tries to devour and destroy them,

just for tonight,

let them see the confetti,

let them see themselves at that desk.

Black girls in the White House.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

I Dreamed About You, Just Like I Always Do

The moon was high,

wide eyed in the sky,

smiling all the way around,

sipping drinks with the stars,

because we’re addictive,

sky watching us,

like she can’t get enough,

keeping up with the secret kisses,

in the middle of the night,

in secret realms,

where only we can go.

There are places where I find you,

places where I am at peace,

where all I see is your soft stare,

right where it belongs,

sometimes I smile,

without thinking about it too much,

sometimes I just return your stare,

tethered by the chains I let you leave around my heart.

I truly believe that God is a woman,

but I worship away from my mother,

feeling the presence of something that holds more power over me,

the way that I pray,

as I become your rosary,

spelling out your beliefs across my body,

hiding in heaven,

from the real world,

and it’s boredom.