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

Flashback – Writing To Carol

From girl to wolf woman,
it was your turn to lead.
In the woods,
short skirts and stanzas.
Though you were miles away.

Saw you in London, once.
Hiked up Covent Garden.
They did ask,
and yes, poetry.
From your throat, to my core.

If I’m to ever know,
or if I never do,
I have grown.
Under watchful words,
not intended for me.

I planned for Manchester,
never quite could, never quite will.
Heart broke down,
I camped by the stars,
wrote to you, wrote to me,
and then, the world.

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

No Means No

I tell you “No means no”,

but you know that I’m lying,

you know that I’m trying to be wooed and pursued,

that “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” kind of vibe,

and it’s cold, girl,

outside your flat,

and inside it too,

so come check my body for tattoos (I don’t have any, but I won’t tell you that for at least an hour of looking),

let’s play doctors and dumb patients that just want to be felt up,

mess me up,

then bring me sugar puffs, and stroke my hair.

Make me say my Hail Marys,

breathless with you all across my body,

drunk on how sober I am,

devoted and not giving a damn,

sighing and screaming for the whole street to hear.

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

Flashback – Dining At The End Of The World

We were so sweet,
hands clasped,
as we strolled
to the end of the world.

To run felt futile,
when I was happy,
to fade from life’s sky,
for the girl,
with a smile that all the stars envied.

You didn’t need to say a word,
I saw, before, when we ran,
the way the madness clamped it’s jaw,
around your dainty ankle,
and roared “No more.”

We strolled,
you hobbled,
to the end of the world,
where the madness took you,
and then, me,
ever so willingly.

We were so sweet,
when we ate each other whole,
dining at the end of the world,
with candles by our side,
and each other’s calves,
between our teeth.

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

Westbound

You ask me which way is westbound,

as we wait around in London Bridge tube station,

for some kind of miracle to occur,

some kind of magic where I am miraculously made aware of where I’m going,

and my confident stride is finally earned.

It doesn’t come.

I put my palms across the wall,

splayed as I display a lack of direction,

asking my hands which is right,

which is left,

and then, I am left with embarrassment as I remember that this wasn’t even the question that you asked.

My cheeks are cherries,

soothed a little by the sweetness of your kiss,

as we step away from my shyness and ask for directions.

You are direct,

kissing me again,

my lips this time,

clearly sensing they were envious of my embarrassed but abundant cheeks.

You spoil the rest of me,

so fevered, against the silver of the platform walls,

we shine,

showing off,

hands braided,

kissing like we are fated to teach the world about love,

smiling into each other’s mouths,

like we are the first girls to discover this passionate pastime.

We miss several trains,

but we don’t miss each other,

and that’s all that feels important.