Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The Lightning Will Come

I could feel the thunder in my hair extensions.
Nothing makes sense for me,
you know,
I was just always that kind of girl,
the impossible kind who finds unthinkable and inconceivable experiences,
and then,
just lives them,
so it was not a surprise when a sound shook my body,
but began at inanimate strands of hair.

I wasn’t supposed to be there,
that night,
or any night, for that matter.
The night’s sky is not for the eyes of women,
though the moon has always been our mother.
She is stalked by demonic danger,
that demands we are locked behind doors, that are smeared with sacrificial blood,
so we never get to go home,
and meet under the watchful eye of mother dearest.

I was raised to be a reader.
Stories, plays, street signs, situations.
My eyes are the quickest draw in the west,
racing to keep up with my eager mind,
and, God, I’m so sharp,
truly, I’ve never met a match for me, intellectually,
but my arms and legs let me down,
so my eyes search for safe spots, that are well lit,
crowds of women that could shield me,
a policeman that won’t stumble into the stereotypes and be a worse fate than what’s outside.

I took a walk, that night, you see.
I thought “I am free.” and off I went,
ignoring the threatening glare of the dark and the winding, never ending path it created,
the way that the night bullied the street lights out of its turf and left me all alone,
all asunder,
and then he appears,
the one I was warned about,
the one who is allegedly an exception to his kind (though it is always a different one every time).

I can hear his every move,
because I’m not listening to loud music.
I can see him completely,
because we are both bathed in yellow light, that isn’t brave enough to save me.
He calls out, and it is thunder, running down my hair extensions.
He grabs me, and it is thunder, running down my hair extensions.
He touches me, and it is thunder, running down my hair extensions, because if I hear thunder, then the lightning can’t be far,
and if the lightning comes, then maybe it will strike him,
and maybe if it strikes him,
I can make it out intact,
because I did everything I’m supposed to do,
I just tried to walk two minutes to the shop and now he won’t stop,
but I took every step that everyone told me to take,
and it’s still a mistake,
because he did it anyway,
and it doesn’t matter who I tell,
because it will still be my fault.

I can hear thunder,
inside of my head,
because hearing his heavy breathing hurts too much,
and I try to pretend that I am dead,
because maybe he won’t be into that,
maybe necrophilia is a bridge too far,
maybe a murder charge will awaken some kind of fear in him.
It doesn’t.
It never would have.
I hear thunder,
because the lightning will come,
if I ask it politely,
the lightning will come,
if I wish hard enough,
and hope deeply enough.
The lightning will come,
and the street will be blinding and blessed.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

The Roses Will Rise Again

I thought I was the only one.

A lone, white rose,

covered in blood,

broken and indecent,

your hurried breath and lustful language circling me,

like vultures,

smaller circles every time,

while I shrink down into the grass,

covering my eyes,

covering my ears,

covering my whole body,

because it must have been HER fault.

There are generations of women who feel nervous about their bodies,

afraid of their bodies,

angry with their bodies,

because a man made their body uncomfortable,

pointing with presumptive, entitled fingers,

a schoolboy chant,

that changes how she sees her body.

The skin she walks in is crawling,

because that skin has been sexualised,

devastated,

demoralised,

and she has a fear,

deep within her skin, and the way it shakes when she replays your relentless harassment,

deep within the way she pulls her skirt down as she walks, in case someone gets the wrong idea,

deep within the way she records her phone calls now, in case people don’t believe a sex pest might be on the line,

deep within the way she presents herself to the police, trying to be the perfect victim, so they won’t think it was her fault.

I haven’t been a white rose for a long time.

Yours is just the latest blood that I wear,

the latest scar,

but I am tired of writing wounded words about how many people felt they were entitled to damage me,

so I will bring you to your knees,

I will drain the colour from your face,

when I show the world your true face,

far away from the safety of your stick on smile,

your carefully concocted sob story,

that helped you curate a garden of roses to ruin.

The roses will rise again,

I promise you that.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Hunters In The Dark

The sun has barely made it out of bed,

but the streetlights are sleepy and fading away.

I am finding my way in the darkness,

flashlight on my phone,

Mariah on my headphones,

when video game villain strings kick in,

and you appear.

Unmasked,

unrelenting.

It’s never JUST directions,

or the time that you seek,

soon the sickening truth is seen,

glowing,

neon green in the dismal morning.

“I just wanna get to know you.”

You already know that I’ve said “no”,

but you take no notice,

because like Typhoid Mary,

you take no guilt in spreading your droplets,

or disrupting my day,

when I’ve told you,

twice already,

wrapped my coat around my body,

pretended to have a phone call,

pretended my boyfriend is on the way to rescue me.

Still you follow me,

telling me that true love could be waiting in the streets,

when we both know I have it waiting at home,

if I can just escape with my life and patience intact.

Even if I didn’t,

I decide where I find it,

not some man who can’t understand simple things such as

“No”

“I’m not interested”

“Leave me alone”

Your lust is a sickness,

and when I escape,

I scrub my hands until they howl,

even though I’m immune.