Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Newlyweds

Night falls,

and the hands of time,

are tornadoes,

ticking and trawling on.

Round and round,

reliving our frequent fights,

silently saying ‘Sorry’,

counting the things we have in common,

creeping around each other,

silent, sombre snakes,

nightmares in the daylight,

only dreaming when it gets dark.

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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Pretty

She told me I was pretty.

I wasn’t sure if I should accept,

or apologise again,

for a mistake I didn’t know I’d made,

until she made it clear,

creeping into the tiny temple I’d built,

inside of my head,

where I learned to believe.

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She didn’t mean to invade,

it’s just one of those things,

because life is as fair as my raven hair,

and you were good for me,

until I saw that you weren’t.

She told me I was pretty,

that I’d find somebody new,

but after investing so much,

yet still ending up destitute,

I wasn’t sure I wanted her to be right.

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I wanted you,

still,

sorrowful and set ablaze,

placing the books I wrote for you,

back on the shelf,

and then in a new home,

the fireplace,

cursing the gift you said belonged to me,

for being regifted,

rescinded,

and,

FUCK

I still want you,

and maybe you want me too,

maybe I am so destitute,

that I am at peace with my destiny,

being locked away,

in a hidden folder on your phone,

so that she doesn’t know that you’re divorced,

totally over for her,

feeling things you never felt before.

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You keep me to yourself,

so that she won’t know that you never loved her,

or that I was your first and truest love,

so she won’t know that I’m so fucking different,

and that you said you loved me,

after you stared at death,

and realised I was the only one you lived for…

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I still want you,

still,

wondering if your words were ever true.

She told me I was pretty.

She didn’t even sound angry.

She sounded like there were lots like me.

She told me I was pretty.

Your wife called,

and she told me I was pretty.


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

In Which Jennifer Asserts Herself, For The Very First Time

If you ever get the urge to look me up,

to hook up,

to check up,

on what I’m up to,

don’t.

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I’ve spent so long,

trying to stand up,

to grow up to be the person I knew I had the power to be,

before I met you.

You’re not the worst person I’ve ever met,

sometimes,

I don’t even regret not telling you to fuck off,

when you asked me for my number.

Sometimes,

I look fondly,

on my time as your sexy midnight stranger,

but those times are small and insignificant,

and I avoid them,

so I don’t emulate them,

in my usual impressionable way.

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I’m trying,

through tired eyes,

to see myself as someone who was never cursed,

or corrupted by you,

because I’m tired of feeling like a fool,

for falling into the exact traps,

I was so sure I was too smart for,

and it’s easier to wear the image of a survivor,

if you aren’t lurking in the lobby of my heartbreak hotel,

waiting to check me out,

and fuck me up all over again.

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So,

don’t.

We know,

both you and I,

that you won’t listen,

but,

if you ever loved me,

or even liked me just a little,

don’t.

Don’t.

Don’t.


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Yes. No. Yes. No.

Yes,

I was so dramatic,

but that’s what you loved about me,

I was a tempest,

a teen temptress,

slamming doors,

stirring you up,

tearing the whole room apart,

until you could take no more,

kissing away my kicking and screaming.

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No,

I didn’t have a clue,

and there are things that nobody can teach you,

until you are ready to be taught.

I dreamed at dusk,

turning to Taylor and Adele,

to try and figure out why you were so cruel,

to someone who lived so passionately for you.

img_1027

Yes,

your efforts to protect me,

from the violence of your disturbing desire,

felt cruel,

because all I knew,

was how to want you.

I toiled in time,

that wasn’t spent in a smitten storm,

that raged all around you,

possessively pouring,

never quite catching you,

because you had selfishly decided,

that you were staying inside,

to wait out the vengeful weather,

that you had spent many nights praying for.

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No,

I suppose you didn’t think it through,

when you were gazing out,

at the fruitless fields,

that you thought had flowered for the last time.

I suppose you didn’t think it through,

as you sat at your desk,

leaving lupins for Dodola,

and asking her,

for fresh,

young spring rain.


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