Tag: Creative Writing

When I am happy,

I think about loss.

It never leaves me,

even when I ask politely,

because I don’t know how to function,

without fucking things up for myself.

I’m the kind of girl who wants things too much,

and I told him that,

right from the start (well, the second time we met),

because I wanted him to know,

that while it would get intense,

he would never be left wondering,

if I wanted him (it’s always very obvious),

because I want things too much,

and I want him too much,

worrying,

like he says I do,

because I’ve been taught not to trust anybody,

but I can’t help giving myself to somebody,

when the right somebody comes along,

and unfortunately for him,

that’s him.

When I dream about him,

he says my name,

with this hushed tone,

like it is a secret,

that belongs to him,

and I think I’m projecting,

because that’s how I want him to feel,

seeing secrets that I’m not sure exist,

his glamorous seductress of exotic descent,

pouring over her neural pathways,

trying to make connections and concoctions,

his Mary Margaret Ray,

waiting by the phone,

for signs and symbols of his true devotion.

Is it real?

I want to know,

but the person I trust the least is myself,

so how would I ever know?

It feels real,

when I wake up beside him,

watching his face,

happy to see mine,

too tired to play a role,

and when his lips draw lines along my body.

Still,

I am schizophrenic in my seduction,

shape shifting into the things I think he desires,

because I was never able to accept that I was enough,

because I want him too much,

and I want him to want me.

Weak under warm blankets,

enjoying the magic of my fingers,

softly stroking your hair,

lips pressed against your volcanic temple,

as I worship my wounded warrior.

I hold you close,

hearts in chaotic sync,

I breathe in time with your sleeping symphony,

Mary Seacole of the twenty first century,

silently speaking your name,

as if it were a healing spell.

I kiss your cheek,

and you pull me closer,

and closer.

At birth,

I was cursed,

laying,

lonely in a crib,

as darkness descended,

on the brightest of days.

I could never be alone,

but I could never find someone solid,

doomed to waste a life,

waiting for my welcome to be rescinded (it always is).

Flowing dresses,

tights that tempt,

reminding them of nights when they still felt young,

because when they feel me,

half asleep,

half way between candy dreams,

and throwing up in the street,

by their side,

a status symbol,

they are the man that they wish their reflection would be.

Always a few drinks too late,

to be sensible,

but always too Catholic to give them what they really want,

I just fall asleep in their lap,

praying for the both of us,

to a God who tires of my traumas.

I wake up,

but I keep my eyes shut,

because he holds me,

like I’ve fallen so many times,

and he wants to make it all better,

and I want to let him,

so I keep my eyes shut,

letting hands wander,

letting myself wonder,

if his desire is deeper,

than his erection suggests (it never is).

My long legs are draped in lace,

finding the harsh darkness of suit trousers,

feeling so familiar,

finding their way home,

but never truly able to stay.

There was never another choice.

That’s all I say,

to myself,

and my reflection,

as I find my way to another home,

another who can’t believe his luck,

thinking that a down on her luck seductress,

is the answer to his mid life crisis.