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.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Her Father Is Dead and Today Is His Birthday

I send best wishes to your ashes,
flowers with bowed heads are no comfort,
because I feel nothing on this day, every year.
There is happiness in the days before,
then hangovers,
then nothing.
An emptiness that is taller than you and I,
an endless echo of silence that stalks me from midnight, until the twenty ninth stutters into life,
and it’s not like I haven’t tried to find something else to think about,
to see if the shadows would leave me in peace.
I just never could.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

I Will Not Grow Old, I Will Become A Ghost

Soft, swirling curls in a knot,
jotting down the world around me from my back garden,
as autumn’s chill beckons to winter,
and the sunset spills across my freckled face, at four PM.
This is what I will do, when I am old (if I get there).

I look at my grandmother,
and I know that nobody could love me as long as she has been loved.
I simply know that I’ll be alone,
but I will have my words to keep me warm,
and the promise of pushing myself off the cliffs of Dover when I tire of trying to make it through the day.

I will have Grandchildren who don’t want to visit,
because I am a mean drunk since my woman walked away (either by choice or by death, she never stays when I imagine my future),
and I lock them in the living room,
reliving my glory days,
done up like Baby Jane Hudson,
struggling through a verse of Swipe Forever before collapsing into the chasm of my misery.

My Son stops by, without the babies,
begging for me back,
a ghost he remembers from his bedroom, back in the old house,
a spirit who told him stories and sung him lullabies,
but I simply tell him that the Ouija board is broken,
and so am I.