Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

ACAB

I was told that I was unaffected,
and I found myself unable to agree with that assessment,
but it didn’t matter,
to the world at large,
or the small selection of very small minds who make decisions on whether I deserved some kind of clarity.
My sleep has been interrupted for a decade of Decembers,
and I spy over my shoulder, every second for the spectre and his sister.

I am unaffected,
but nobody has told my nightmares that,
so they still arrive every evening,
to remind me of the unclean feeling that was forced on me.
I am unaffected,
but danger dances on my grave every time I try to live,
and there will be no relief for the unaffected girls,
of which I am one of many.

There’s an old friend on the line,
he wants to call,
like he used to,
but I’m kept from the idea,
creeped out,
crying as he sends another message with what he thinks is a simple request,
but it isn’t anymore,
and never will be again,
because I remember the acid rain of unwelcome invasions,
traipsing down the telephone line, tactical and torrid…
but I am unaffected,
or so they tell me.

The radio talks about staying connected,
but I just want to be orbiting a distant planet,
the kind of place where humans can’t survive,
so I can get some sleep,
conversate with the cool winds and waves,
alone and unaffected.

Posted in Blog

#IBelieveHer

A few years ago, I recorded and released a podcast, discussing the behaviour of a man and his abuse of me and other women. I did this to try and raise awareness, because I knew he was attempting to use social media to find and abuse new victims, and I felt it was important to use my platform to try and make sure other women and girls didn’t go through what I and other women had.

I spoke with other women who felt brave enough to open up about their own abuse by him, after hearing the episode, and I also spoke with women and girls who recognised that they could have been victims, if they hadn’t fallen off of his radar as he quickly moved between targets for his abuse. 

In 2021, I unpublished the episode, as I was advised by the police that they were hoping CPS would charge him for his crimes. They’ve now decided they can’t be bothered to do that, so I am once again sharing the episode in the hope that women who may have been silenced feel less alone, and that women who are lucky enough to have not yet met him can protect themselves from him.

Spotify

Anchor

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Forgiveness Is A Fallacy

Pick up your past and build yourself a wall to hide behind,
the kind of sanctuary that only comes from being chased until any kind of peace will do,
a lonely, stoney silence that allows you to slip under the surface of every bath that you take,
begging the water to take you to a place where nothing ever happened, and everything was good.

You take a million steps past the traditional twelve,
knocking every door on the street but never finding what you need,
and the water is such a waste of time,
because you beg for it to take your breath,
but it’s never as forgiving as you ask it to be,
never as kind as you plead for.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Stolen, Not Sick

I was stolen, in an instant, cool metal colliding with my crowded thoughts and then they just… stopped.

It was so loud, and I had learned to love the sound. It was like a street party. I was the Queen of my own chaotic playground. Walking down somewhere safe, somewhere that makes sense and letting my senses get lost in all the noises and the colours, because there’s nothing to be afraid of. It makes no sense to anybody else, but it is mine, my own little mind, and they… took it. They just strapped me down, reached in and took it.

One swing, and something snapped. One shunt against my spirit and suddenly, I was living the life of someone else. I was no longer found on that familiar street, I was walking through my body, my echoing bones and brain, desperately asking why it was all so quiet.

I could reach out and almost touch my thoughts, but then they’d scuttle away, and I’d open my eyes to see everyone staring so expectantly, like I had said something brilliant, but maybe I had just imagined that, because I’d always be banished back to the chair in my bedroom, with a simple cross stitch and a mug of lukewarm milk.

I’d wander every second I got. When I woke up. When I couldn’t sleep. When the nurse gingerly scrubbed my shoulders as if my condition was contagious. “I’m not sick Miss.” I would tell her. “I’m just a little bit lost Miss.”

I would wander through the mist. I’d just wander in the dark, looking for myself. I knew that I was in there, the way that I was before they wedged metal into my skull and stole my essence like the pirates from the storybooks my guilt ridden Grandmother would read to me.

I used to read her the words of Wilde, but those days were gone. That girl was gone. I just knew that I had to be in there, and I’d call to myself, sobbing as I stared down at my arms and how weak they had become now that I had been kidnapped from my own body.

It was always back to bed after that, with a lecture about “getting too excited”. I fell in love with sleeping, because it was the only time I could see her again. The real me. A confident swagger, volcanic temper and a mouth that could barely make it through one idea before tucking into the next. I miss the taste. It was so sweet, even if it made no sense to anyone but me.

Let me be a Queen again.