Posted in Blog


You always took too long to say goodbye.

You were famous for it,

for the frustration of people who found themselves in your web,

watching you spin another conversation,

from the thin promise of “I’m gonna let you go.”

Crossed legs,

crossed eyes,

as you crept into monologues,

about that woman down the shop,

that nobody knows,

but you,

but we are expected to,

because you want to tell us an anecdote,

that could probably wait.

Nowadays, I wait,

for a call that never comes,

thinking fondly of the long goodbyes,

trying to force them over the final moments,

when I lay alone in bed,


and someone called quickly,

to say that it was all over.

For the first time,

the final time,

you said goodbye too quickly,

the one time I wanted you to take too long,

you couldn’t stay,

fading from the scene,

from a hospital bed to heaven,

as I listened to your favourite song,

again and again,

unable to say goodbye as quickly as you finally could.

Posted in Blog

A Quiet Life

They’re complaining again, and I’m trapped, somewhere in the ceiling, because that’s where I was left, when everyone ran away and it suddenly became my job to avoid their ever changing moods, and daily drinking binges.

I type out a text, with my own complaints, about how I’m so tired from all the tornados, how I’m sick of standing alone, in the ceiling, with no solidarity, while hell unleashes below me, because everyone I know (but me, apparently) is afraid of talking like adults about their grown up gaffes, none of which are mine, so why am I here? And why did you bring this to my door? And don’t you know I’m too old and too jaded for this drama?

They’re complaining again. I think they’ve had cider, and I’m an enabler, because I got it for them, to save an argument, because even in my ceiling, I’m afraid, just like them, even though I stayed, I’m afraid, I’m just looking for a quiet life. A quiet life is a luxury I will never afford, in this economy.

Posted in Blog

The Noise

I don’t want to die, by any means, but I have not really enjoyed being alive, for quite some time.

I feel like I’m on a constant track, that deviates, in a sense, every now and then, but never to a place that makes sense, just to a noise.

I know that makes no sense, but this place, is a noise. A long, constant, deafening but quiet noise.

It’s a noise that wraps itself around me, demanding my attention, demanding resources I never had, demanding energy I don’t know how to give, and I try.

I try to give the noise what it wants, but it deviates, in a sense, always asking for something different, before I’ve even began handing over my offering.

I don’t want to die, by any means, but I think that’s what the noise wants me to do. I don’t want to die, by any means, but I think the noises that pull me in so many directions, until I’m hysterical and frayed, would like me to.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Querida:Origins – Episode One

I first met Querida when she was seven years old. She was a bright girl, with deep brown eyes and a passion for writing.

I was used to meeting the deeply disturbed. Emasculated men who had murdered mothers and wives over impotence, scorned women who had declared war on all men in their path, children who had faced war and abuse for years and finally succumbed to the pressure, but there was something quite different about Querida, upon first glance.

Her parents had shown her nothing but unwavering affection, even now. She had never really hurt anyone, according to her doting (but delusional) parents and could be considered the stereotypical spoiled child, so at first glance, it could be confusing as to why she needed psychological assistance when the word “No” from her parents would have sufficed.

I had looked at her almost clean file with bewilderment, in the lead up to our first session, and my confusion continued when we met. She had been sent to me, as a precaution, by her parents, who had concerns, and money to burn.

I asked her if she would like a drink, and she politely declined, asking me if I would like to see a tap dance. I politely declined and reminded her that we were here to discuss her sister. She smiled sweetly, swinging her legs against the couch, in a way that wouldn’t have concerned many, but did me.

“I don’t have one any more.” She said, her smile broadening. “But I have a wonderful article about the one I used to have.”

The rich have a funny way of buying themselves out of trouble, and in that moment, I realised that was exactly what her rich parents had done. Querida’s article was surprisingly well written, but couldn’t hide the fact that she had stabbed her sister to death, and her parents, and their money had made it go away. This therapy session wasn’t preemptive, to stop Querida from hurting someone for the first time, it was an attempt to keep the monster she had already became at bay.