Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

A Portrait Of My Motherhood, From The Perspective Of My Long Suffering First Born


she was my alarm,

loud lullabies at the wrong time of day,

her voice following the melody of the clattering kitchen as I followed the smell of toast to the table.

She had my school tie in her hands,

throwing it to hands that were too tired to catch as her wife watched the whole scene unfold from behind the pages of a broadsheet.

Dark tresses descended down the back of her garishly bright dressing gown,

and she sipped, through painted lips, at strawberry milkshake as she prepared more breakfast than her family could ever consume.

An gargling infant on her hip, harmonising with her nonsense morning medley,

she was a strange sight,

to anyone but us.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing


I was an early birthday present,
presented after the fog of the anaesthetic had fallen away,
tiny hands reaching for the only friend I had known, in the nine months I had been baking,
longing for the fond familiarity of a mother’s mighty embrace.

The blessed daughter of the vernal equinox,
to be born of your light was a blessing.
Today, no gift would ever be enough,
for all that you have given,
but I will try.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

I Am A Disappointment To My Father, and He Is A Disappointment To Me

My father was a man of few words and a man of many drinks,
losing the will to love somewhere around my mother’s second trimester,
and maybe it’s my fault,
for forsaking my sense for sentiment,
writing off his rage as just a temporary temperament,
saving the day with some new excuse,
letting my soul be used,
until there was nothing left.

I had a wild heart, once upon a time,
bound never to be broken,
but he drank it dry,
like every bar he entered,
every second he chose to be the centre of,
afraid that if he wasn’t loud and alive in my lucid moments,
that he would simply stop existing.

He wrote me a letter once,
weak willed and wading in weasel words,
a “can I speak to the manager” kind of meandering thing,
as if a daughter is a darling that can be managed,
as if I could adjust myself to his liking, on top of all the other things I was handling,
and I wrote back,
just as weak,
meek and hopeful.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

My Son Was Afraid Of The Storm

There was a monster in the sky,
according to the shivering boy underneath my bed.
He had scrambled under,
his little legs kicking against the carpet as if it had sent the shocking scenes to the stars above him,
his whole body shaking as tears trickled down his pale, perfect face.
I followed him down to the darkness,
taking his hand tightly,
and I just waited,
holding the wailing boy close to my chest until he could hear my heartbeat,
so that he knew I would protect him until it stopped pulsing.

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.