Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing


Soaring, roaring waves wrack the weakened wood,

the moon sheds her tears as the night trickles by slowly,

the morning sun will mourn when she arrives at the ocean’s graveyard,

crossing paths with the moon, like sad ships in the night,

chasing phantoms to uncharted waters.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The Last Thing He Said, In Silence

The last thing he said, in silence,
was that my love was not enough for him to depend on.
In the echoes of an empty hallway,
his shadow, dancing in the distance,
he was so clear, that he couldn’t give it all up for me.

He used to carry me with him,
like a lucky penny,
or the hip flask full of liquid coping mechanisms that kept him going,
but I became harder to hold on to,
his waking nightmare, as nine turned to ten, ten to twenty,
good girl to gargoyle.

It’s always a story.
Some stories are sweet, and some are sorrowful,
so why should I cry, when either way, it’s content,
and I am content to say that I’m fine,
writing my lines and my lyrics?

He couldn’t give it all up, and I could pretend that I was fine with that, for a very long time,
but now I can’t.
I don’t know when I became a waterfall,
but I did, and I am,
and he doesn’t have to face up to this,
because his veins will forever be full of venom and vile things he found on a street corner,
and mine will forever be full of questions that can never be answered.
He is a pile of bones in a cemetery,
but I am still breathing.
We are not the same.

I threw myself off a building,
into the arms of a man covered in track marks and stickers celebrating his sobriety.
There was nothing special about him,
nothing so essential to my soul,
in fact, he was the wrong kind of sweetheart for me,
but I wanted him,
because he gave it all up for somebody he loved,
and I loved that about him the most.

I needed someone who could be brave enough to cut themselves off,
the way that the swinging, singing ghost of all my scars never could.
All my problems go back to a sunset,
just outside the gothic quarter,
where I smoked my first cigarette,
and realised that sometimes, a man can just stop loving his child, for no reason.

It didn’t help,
because I couldn’t give it all up for myself.
The trouble is, when you love someone who doesn’t belong to themselves anymore,
you get addicted to the idea that you can save them,
and here I still stand,
no marks, no celebratory stickers,
but still stuck on this madness,
this childish idea that I could have made him love me again,
that I could have saved his life and left him the air he needed, wrapped in a beautiful bow,
that I could have made a difference to somebody who was beyond saving, long before I was born,
that I can still get back on good terms with a ghost who won’t speak during seances.

The last thing he said, in silence,
was that I was wasting my time.
The last thing he said, in silence,
was that I wasn’t to waste anymore,
but I couldn’t hear him.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Things I Tried To Stop Saying To Myself In The Mirror Every Morning

Look at me.

Let yourself be honest about what you are presented with.

I have never been a Princess,

never tainted and torn apart by a destiny,

never really on the road to anywhere special,

just dropped into a dull commuter town, sprinkled with a little exotic culture and left to get on with it.

Nobody who isn’t obliged with blood ties will ever love you.

I’m sure my mother was pleased that the inconvenience of pregnancy was over,

but no matter how many times she tells me,

I have a hard time believing that she was pleased with the result of several months of hell.

Still, if she wasn’t, she has been nice enough to pretend otherwise for thirty years.

We all know how my father felt,

the poor man,

tormented and torn to pieces by the demons that delved deep within him long before I was born,

never really having a chance,

but being trailed along anyway, for the amusement of the universe.

He used to look at me like it hadn’t all been worth it, despite him doing none of the work,

and I’d just nod back, resigned and relishing the freedom of giving up entirely.

Not even those with blood ties will fulfil their obligations and love you.

Look at me.

I have been falling apart since the day I fell to the Earth,

cursed, in such a cruelly casual way,

nothing special,

nothing so terrible,

just… there,

and I desperately want somebody to blame for the way it all suddenly hurts,

but nothing is possible,

nobody is culpable,

I just swallow a thesaurus and swallow the lump in my throat,

and I go back to brushing my hair in stunned silence.

Nobody did this to you. There is nobody to blame.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Final Moments

It was the day after the dazed daydream before,
and I had dreamed of a hurried escape from certain death,
clasped in the grasp of my own lapsed judgement,
I had been in all kinds of trouble, as usual.
Up to my knees in never ending nonsense,
wading through water that was born of my own eyes,
a ship that went down with empty, echoing lifeboats,
and a man of purity who prayed over my body, before she was even gone.
It was over in an instant,
no more death,
neither was there sorrow or crying,
no more pain,
for the former world had passed away the second I opened my eyes and returned to your reality.

I choke on open air because it is so full of obligation and expectation,
and I can’t feel my body if I think about it all too much.
Won’t you do me this honour and let me feel a little freedom?
Let my breathing be a slow, sensual rhythm,
and my eyes closed and uncorrupted.
Let me live uninterrupted,
distorted voices in the distance,
but never close enough to touch me.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

You’d Be Surprised What You Can Forgive

He threw the phone like thunder throws itself across the sky,
never concerned with what is displaced or dismayed,
just wanting to display some rage,
a little trailer of the lightning that is on the way.
He threw the phone like she’d made a mistake,
the kind of misstep that could only be trained out of her with fear,
and he threw her a glare,
she stood her ground, as if she was not afraid,
but her shaking hands tucked her curls behind her ear,
betraying her bravado as he poured himself a drink.

This is what happens in this dirty country.

He promised her that he’d never down another drop,
but life is full of promises and disappointments,
and there stood his biggest promise, his biggest disappointment,
a daughter that couldn’t resist dishonouring him.

You’re confused. You’re corrupted.

He’d rather see her dead, he says,
than to be with those deviants and queers,
and while she’s quite interested in the brochure that Death passes quietly under her bedroom door,
she thought she’d give life one more shot,
and unfortunately gives a shit about what he thinks.
One happy parent out of two isn’t bad,
and she’s always known that she will always have a home in the warmth of the one with the womb,
but like all day dreamers,
she wants the one thing she can’t have.

It is a sickness.

I want to tell her that it doesn’t matter.
One day, he will be gone, his name just scratches on stone, his rage, just a memory,
but in that moment, she is beyond my reach,
trapped somewhere that I can’t tread,
and it doesn’t matter that he ends up dead, and she lives without his approval,
on that day, she desperately needed it,
and it never came.
She says she can cope without it,
but she never can,
and she’ll spiral if we don’t resolve this,
but he’s dead, and that girl is unreachable,
so there will never be anything I can do.

No tengo hija.

Some days she remembers the man who threw the phone, and threw her out,
some days, he is too distant, and she just gets the guy in the gallows,
looking down, with no expression, no disappointment, no expectation,
just a still, sombre acceptance,
or at least that’s how she likes to remember him.