Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Everybody Out!

Sell me a space in the shadows,
let me live behind a locked door,
surrounded by the sweetness of unspeculative silence.

I care for the kind of quiet that doesn’t guess,
a lush loneliness,
moonlight serenade of stillness.

I am sleeping in the dreams of somebody else tonight,
littered with letters,
sewn onto my skin,
because I stopped being convincing, somewhere in my second act,
according to some of my harshest critics.

Now, the stage is bare.
I sleepwalk as the audience screams,
so many crossed voices and contradictory phrases.
All of the things I was supposed to be to all people,
spill around my shaking legs,
and I am submerged.

Who am I?
What am I?
What I am, is “not ready”.
Is that an option?
Can I find that on a form that I can fill in and pass to the furious crowd?

Is that such a crime?
It there a set time in which I must be presented,
centre stage, ready to be torn to pieces with a smile?

I am not ready,
but they are waiting.
Sell me a space in the shadows,
let me live behind a locked door,
surrounded by the sweetness of unspeculative silence.

They storm the stage,
accusations and assumptions circling angry expressions,
and all I can do is stumble towards the back of the bare stage,
begging for mercy,
because I am not ready,
and I don’t know what they want from me,
but they are so… hungry.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Coping Mechanisms For When I Remember That You Are No Longer Mine

It’s only over,
that’s all.
Memories exist,
but taste oh so bland.

It’s only over,
you know.
I’ll remember you,
like I remember Hastings beach on a sunny day,
when I dug myself into the sand with a sullen, tear soaked face and begged to stay.

It’s only over,
I guess.
I have nothing to cry about but everything.
I write your name in the margins of my notebooks when my mind is absent,
ruining my best pen with furious, frustrated scribbles to cover it when my mind returns,
but I’m not thinking about it too deeply.

It’s only over,
I say.
It’s not the end of the world.
I’ll never see the end of the world.
The Earth does not shatter or explode when I remember,
but a small knot is tied inside my stomach,
and I recall that day on the beach,
just a child who didn’t understand that happy days only contain the same twenty four hours as sad ones.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Little Girls Must Fight Their Urges

Someone mentioned your name yesterday,
and my nails dug into my palm,
the marks still present as I struggled out of a dream of you this morning,
asking myself why my impulse is still to punish myself for your presence in my subconscious when I am supposedly free?

The trains are fucked this morning and all I can do is recall how you insisted on driving,
donning a cool, calm persona as you pressed your fingertips to the wheel,
your nails digging into the leather as you find yourself aflame,
your eyes had stared a little too long at my legs,
and your lip was carved by your teeth.

We’re not so different, you and me.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Hanging Up

I’ve got my ex husband on line one,
asking if things can be fixed,
and I tap my pen against the oak of my desk,
making a wish as I watch my phone shuffle through songs by starry eyed girls who saw things that my eyes aren’t capable of conceiving.

I wish that I was a mother.

He asks for me back but he couldn’t give me that,
and after I gave him everything and gave nothing to my own desires, I am…
…damn irritated, honestly.
He doesn’t want me.
He wants a good wife who cooks him hearty meals and cries just as he’s about to come, because he’s into that, because he’s watched too much porn,
and I’ve been too far gone for far too long to pretend properly anymore.

It doesn’t have to be me, specifically,
but I’m around, so he’s around too,
asking what I’ll do without him,
a bicycle salesman at the bottom of the ocean.

My mindless obedience is romanticised in his memories,
and he calls,
not for me,
but for the dream that I was when he was losing his mind beneath the covers,
committing crimes to a girl who would never tell,
unless she had a record to sell,
in which case,
it encased her sweet throat,
a rosy, righteous melody that made you shudder if you listened loud enough to truly understand,
but nobody ever does these days.

On line two is the last shred of my sanity,
and I’m sorry,
but I think I’m hanging up on everyone.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Icy Waters

Waist deep in my woes,
sharing them with you,
my sweet one,
seated in my shadow with a sly smile,
so deep in the drama that you drown in me.

Staring up from my icy waters,
your eyes are glazed and tormented,
dark and gloomy as the day begins again.
My demons aren’t here to help me,
and all you do is stare up from underneath your icy prison,
and all I do is watch you, watching me, waist deep in my woes.