Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

This Is Something Real. We Are Something Real.

I think but don’t speak.

I think “Don’t give up on us.”

I think I’ll say it.

I think I’ll be late.

It’s a habit I’ve hated,

especially now.

Especially now,

when I need to find my voice.

It can’t be too late.

I know some will say,

the timing is wrong, bad luck.

Just bad luck. Oh well?

Oh well, it’s okay.

I just found brightness, for once.

I yell at darkness.

I miss your kisses.

I dream of you, when distant,

so that you are close.

Closeness in cosmos,

my tornado soul finds you,

your fire is sweet.

I burn, brave at last,

melting like candy. Kiss me,

when we meet tonight.

Dreams are all I have,

until I return to you,

so let me come back.

Time doesn’t matter.

I’ll be yours until it ends,

or if it doesn’t.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Waiting Games

You are bright as sunlight,

perfect in my eyeline,

reflected halo around your soft hair,

in a maze of mirrors,

truth told on hopeful glass.

You kiss me softly,

as I watch so many memories of us,

that have yet to happen,

far in front of my eyes,

I stare,

intently,

as if it will bring them closer,

intently,

impatient,

because though I know that waiting is half the game,

I don’t have the patience to play.

I don’t want to play you,

but I have to,

because the truth is too real,

and I don’t want you to feel captured,

so I follow directions that come from my dearest heart,

finding the patience to play,

finding a new version of the truth,

that makes you feel safe enough,

not to run,

but not to wander either.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Dream a Little Dream Of Me

I’m close to sleep,

desperate to wake up in your dreams,

intoxicated by your energy,

wrapped around your fingers like a silk ribbon.

Purged of my purity,

I am a portrait of passion,

smitten kitten,

helpless, held in your gaze,

in your grasp,

gasping for air,

gripped in a kiss that consumes me completely.

Haunted by desire that never leaves,

lovesick,

because my skin seeks out your hands,

but only finds them when we dream.

The world is yours

and so am I.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Signing My Life Away

Leaning from my Grandma’s car,

biro to a headshot that I had grown to hate,

I let my fingers follow the same path they have learned so well,

preparing for twenty three years,

but never quite being sure I had nailed it.

The way you stared was like a sweet kiss to my soul,

innocent and adoring,

with no motive or malice,

just a little bridge,

built from a dream you helped me live,

and turning pages,

that we wrote together.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

The Joys Of Motherhood

I hold my daughters in my hands,

cold and full of trauma,

like their mother,

a messy scrawl that tries to be a signature on their faces,

in case one day I am worth something,

and they are too.

I just hold them,

eyes closed,

trying not to feel the blood dripping from the worn pages,

the long lists of the dead,

just my name,

repeated again and again,

because I never let my daughters take anybody else.

My daughters are vampires.

Hungry but well meaning,

sinking fangs into my soul,

as I lay still,

solemn and accepting.

This is the price for peace,

I guess?

I let my demons drink,

until I am pale and faded,

crying on a counsellor’s couch,

as the sun rises.

My daughters are my counsellors,

unqualified but well meaning,

just listening and drinking,

until I die,

and then we start again.

I am alive again,

because I have to be,

because people need me to be.

I think,

sometimes,

I want to be.

I tell my daughters bedtime stories,

about the little things that make my life worthwhile.

That little spot in my day when he thinks of me and does something about it has been my favourite for a while,

and they LOVE that story,

crowding around me,

with excited eyes,

hungry stares.

I kiss my madness goodnight every morning,

knowing that she will not sleep,

but that we must both pretend,

for as long as we can.

She is hungry but well meaning too.

Everyone is hungry but well meaning.

I am covered in bite marks.