Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

The Roses Will Rise Again

I thought I was the only one.

A lone, white rose,

covered in blood,

broken and indecent,

your hurried breath and lustful language circling me,

like vultures,

smaller circles every time,

while I shrink down into the grass,

covering my eyes,

covering my ears,

covering my whole body,

because it must have been HER fault.

There are generations of women who feel nervous about their bodies,

afraid of their bodies,

angry with their bodies,

because a man made their body uncomfortable,

pointing with presumptive, entitled fingers,

a schoolboy chant,

that changes how she sees her body.

The skin she walks in is crawling,

because that skin has been sexualised,

devastated,

demoralised,

and she has a fear,

deep within her skin, and the way it shakes when she replays your relentless harassment,

deep within the way she pulls her skirt down as she walks, in case someone gets the wrong idea,

deep within the way she records her phone calls now, in case people don’t believe a sex pest might be on the line,

deep within the way she presents herself to the police, trying to be the perfect victim, so they won’t think it was her fault.

I haven’t been a white rose for a long time.

Yours is just the latest blood that I wear,

the latest scar,

but I am tired of writing wounded words about how many people felt they were entitled to damage me,

so I will bring you to your knees,

I will drain the colour from your face,

when I show the world your true face,

far away from the safety of your stick on smile,

your carefully concocted sob story,

that helped you curate a garden of roses to ruin.

The roses will rise again,

I promise you that.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

I Woke Up Early, and I Missed You

There is darkness and stillness outside.

I didn’t kiss you Goodnight because I was overwhelmed with exhaustion,

falling quite suddenly,

into a deep and lonely sleep,

at about half nine,

and now it’s almost five AM,

and I am in my garden,

listening to the whispers of the wind,

early birdsong and the talking of the trees behind my house.

I want to hear your voice.

Just for a second,

I want to hear it,

I want it to surround me,

the way it does when I am next to you,

engulfed in emotion, passion,

passing from the real world to my dream world.

I go so many places when I’m in your arms,

but when I am alone,

I am stagnant,

stuck in solitude.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Internalised Misogyny Is A Sickness/I Am, In Fact, Like The Other Girls

I am,

in fact,

like the other girls.

Sick of being sent into battle against the other girls,

sick of being taught to hate the other girls,

sick of the deep sickness of internalised misogyny,

that makes its way deep under your skin,

painting hatred through the veins,

until you are poisoned.

Grasping at your throat,

breathless,

friendless,

alone in the dark,

surrounded by the realisation that this war had no meaning,

because your enemy was a mirror,

or a magazine,

that picked out your flaws,

to sell you a dream that could never come true.

Your enemy was a world that tells girls what to do,

how to speak,

how to dress.

“Be meek, little girls” the world says,

while stabbing us in the back because we’re too plain,

because we’re too ashamed to speak up for ourselves.

They want us meek,

but loud.

Respectable,

but they never really clarify what that means,

because it changes from girl to girl,

and order to order,

and I’m starting to think it means nothing it all.

I am,

in fact,

just like the other girls.

I am sick of being told that there is something wrong with the other girls.

I don’t even think that there are “other girls”.

I think we are all just girls,

powerful and so full of potential,

that it sends lightning to the spineless,

so they desperately fight to control us,

keeping us locked in the dark,

fighting amongst ourselves.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Good Things Are Coming Soon

Escaping out the window,

I rest on the roof,

chirping like a little bird,

soaking up the sweetness of the sun.

I write a love song with the harmonising wind,

keeping a fragment of your voice inside my inner monologue,

for those moments when my body feels like it can’t survive another day without being held.

I can survive,

but I won’t be happy about it.

I still find things to smile about,

the thought of the first smiles we’ll exchange,

soon,

a long kiss,

after interrupted months,

where I held you,

only in my dreams.

Soon.

Good things are coming soon.

I tell myself that every time the time of day dictates I should wake,

and the world starts running, without me.

I catch up,

eventually,

knowing that good things are coming soon,

but until then,

my only peace is when I write under the moon,

on the tiny bit of roof that I can escape to,

through the window of my bedroom.

I tell the moon that good things are coming,

and she tells me that she can’t wait.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Iris Bentley – Another Victim Of British Justice

There is a lonely room at the back of the house,

an empty chair at breakfast,

a path that lays dormant, never walked because he never got the chance.

Time stopped when he left,

I know you didn’t feel it, but I did.

There was a part of me,

torn from my soul,

separated,

tormented by rope,

taken,

because somebody made a “mistake”,

put in place by a longing for revenge,

a lack of empathy…

“Oh sweetheart,

don’t you see that SOMEONE had to swing,

to keep the world turning?”

I hear that,

from lips that don’t even think I deserve an explanation,

so they don’t speak,

but I see it,

I hear it,

I feel it,

in everything you do.

I see it in the way you look away when my mother cries.

I hear it in the way you are silent when the time for a reprieve comes.

I feel it, when nine o’clock comes, and I am at sea, sinking in the tears of the many nine o’clocks, and all their misery.