Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

All I Want For Christmas Is You… To Stop Being On My Mind

Last Christmas, I thought about you, briefly, as I put away the shopping and spotted your favourite after dinner treat in the cupboard, at the insistence of the company I was expecting.

Nothing to do with you, no reason to think of you, but down the rabbit hole I wandered. Down the depths I slipped and fell, and you were on my mind as I met the stars on the way to sleep, making the last of my wishes before I escaped into dreams, where I did my best to avoid you.

I dreamt of a glittering staircase, gifts surrounding the sparkling tree as the firewood found the fire and melted into ash in her arms. Just as I was settling into the scene, I saw my ghostly girl, gasping at the window.

There you were, crying and clawing at the glass, my very own Catherine, come to haunt your Heathcliff, like a Dickens’ apparition, and I sunk into my chair with a glass of neat, iceless whisky, wondering why you only want to visit when I’m unconscious.

I don’t remember how I woke, but as I burned the dinner and begged with eyes of haunted brown for my relatives to like, or even just be polite about my holiday presentation, you stayed at the window of my soul, sobbing and slipping in and out of focus as the hours crept by.

Catherine, you’re crazy. This is just a winter’s tale (that has gone on for several years, regardless of the season), but it cannot continue, and you cannot keep capturing me the way that you do. (Please do. Please do. Please do.)

Don’t you know that this devotion is indecent? I stared through stained glass, red wine dripping down my best curtains as Jon Bon Jovi did his best to soothe the sore wounds with song, and you stared back, your roughly cut fingernails clinging to the frosted windows, and a hopeful look clinging to your soft eyes.

You still wore that leather jacket that blew my mind when we were sixteen, and I was certain that you were the coolest girl I’d ever seen, and now, months after the memory of you made it’s way into my long life of coping, I can see you at the window again.

It is July. Christmas is still keeping her intentions to herself, but you’ve decided to be a little less elusive. Being bound to you is giving me a soul ache, but when I see you in my dreams, I suddenly feel like giving up smoking and spending New Year’s Day in the gym.

Tell me that you love me, and I swear, I can change, but being bound to you makes me so blue, and… there’s a can of your favourite dessert in my kitchen cupboard, out of date, out of sight at the back of a shelf, but I can’t let it go.

How crazy is that? How ridiculous is that? I have cleaned out my cupboards fourteen times since last Christmas and it has gawped at me every time. I take it out, wrapping it lovingly in soft tissue paper, and I scrub where it has rested for weeks, months, almost half a year, before freeing it from its swaddles, replacing it in the exact same spot, like a mad woman, making a shadow into something special.

You’re back at the window, watching my ritual, unable to see all the things I’ve sacrificed to keep us apart, for your own good, for my own sanity, but despite it all, you desperately paw my once clean windows, demanding to be let in from the cold.

If I am a mad woman, then you must be too.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

I Am What I Am

I realised this morning that she has let herself into every aspect in my life.
Late at night,
she stands next to my bed,
keeping me from sleep with that stupid, simpering smile she used to do,
just for me,
and it never stops.

It doesn’t end there either.
I had the great displeasure of discovering that the entirety of Mark Owen’s discography is about her.
He never met her,
but when he was warbling “What We Already Know”,
I realised that she was everything,
and everything fell into place.

My summers in solitude,
back and forth on the swings,
so desperate to text her again, but trying to show some restraint,
half way through the Green Man album,
it was all about her.
It was like this tiny man from a town far away had seen our stupid little love story,
two stupid little girls, never knowing what to say,
and he wrote song after song until he had a record to sell,
and even now,
the opening notes of Makin’ Out make me desperate to text her, again, and I have to hide my phone,
because restraint is something I lost with age.

Over Christmas,
I filled my kitchen with all the foods my family prefer,
some kind of ritualistic offering,
because now that they know what I am,
I will live the rest of my life convinced that they won’t stay,
so I decided to feed them until they were too tired to leave,
and it was all fine,
I was coping just fine with my bad coping mechanisms until I saw something in the cupboard.
I hadn’t even thought as I bought it,
packed it into a bustling bag for life,
carried it home on the bus,
but face to face with a tin of custard, in the cupboard,
I had no choice but to think of her.

It’s just the food she likes,
songs that could be about anybody,
smiles on a face I can barely recall, when I really try,
and my God, I try,
holding the pain to my heart and sobbing my way through my Hail Marys.

It happens,
almost by design,
it’s just part of life,
just something that happens when you first meet love.
She is so sweet and so exciting,
and you can’t help but let her live in every part of your life,
until she exists everywhere and you are breathless,
bounding through life like a puppy who is finally allowed outside,
or a butterfly that has seen the sun for the first time,
but it never lasts.

She stays everywhere, long after she is gone,
inescapable and still so beautiful,
but you can never get lost like you did that first time,
and you’ll be breathless,
battling against breaking point after breaking point.
Every reminder of her is a reminder that it’s just her favourite food in the cupboard,
just a song that reminds you of her,
just the memory of the first smile that showed you what love could be.

I am just up the road from her house,
it’s just a few stops on the bus,
and her number never changed.
I know her,
she’s a hopeless romantic,
and if I turned up at her door,
dripping with roses and all my confessions,
maybe it would be more than her favourite food in my cupboard,
more than a song that reminds me of her,
more than a memory that drives me insane,
of course,
I never get on that bus.

I have been in a long term relationship with self loathing for so long,
and I’m not the unfaithful type.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

I Love You, But I Have To Go

It’s all falling down.
London Bridge,
and all the things you dreamed of,
as you stared across the river at it.
I love you, but I have to go,
because there’s nothing else I can do,
except mourn you in solitude when I eventually arrive on safer shores, of course,
but for now,
all I can do is pull away my fingertips from your grasping, desperate hand,
tear my eyes from the face I’ve stared at for a lifetime and walk away.

I love you, but I have to go,
because you have to die so that I can live,
and I know you’ll never understand why,
but I love you,
more than my departure suggests, and I know this is best,
but something about the way you wail makes it so hard to hang it all up and go.
The sky is aflame,
we swipe the clouds left and right with warm hands,
but you know that I have to go,
don’t you?

I love you, but I have to go.
I love you, but you have to let me go,
and I’d tell you
“No, I won’t forget you”
but the way you cling to what’s left of me shows that you know I will.
I take one last look at your familiar eyes,
your gaze so defeated under the glassy guard of the Thames,
and my hand hurts without you to hold it,
but the world is aflame,
the sun is sleeping on the ground,
and I love you, but I have to go.

I’ll never know if you were crying,
as you slip further under the surface,
but you had to die,
so I could live,
reborn and free of who I was, with you.
I love you, but I have to go.

Maybe one day,
when it all cools down,
you can come back around,
but for now,
I have to rebuild a new girl for us to be.
I love you, and I’ll come back for you, one day.

Posted in Creative Writing, Writing


Don’t be stubborn.

Don’t be distrusting.

Don’t be so distressed.

Don’t carry the crimes of lost souls, into your new life.

These are the mantras,

I repeat in my mirror,

every morning,

trying hard to adore the idea,

of existing in such an unsure,

unappealing universe.

I don’t mean to be unkind,

but as a great crab once said,

the human world,

it’s a mess,



I am messy,

but was I born this way,

or am I just the result of my environment?

It doesn’t really matter,


we are where we are,

and I am miming my mantras,

to the mirror,

for far longer than I intended.

He holds onto me,

stubborn and seductive,

as I venture between the valleys,

without leaving his arms.

Maybe one day,

I will free him,

from the sentence my past suitors have inflicted,

on him,

and anyone else I encounter,

so that they do not fall prey,

to a prison,

that they refuse to escape from.

I want him to escape,

so that we can be free,



but my mantras meld,

into one,

unintelligible mess,

and I forget,

all I remembered,

about how to be in love.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing


For so long,

I was the love of my life.


I wasn’t THAT crazy about myself,

but I knew I was all I had,

so I found a way to adore her,

never letting my eyes stray from her dreams,

holding her at night,

as she cried,

keeping her on track.

I knew where I was going.

I knew who I was.


My heart was empty,

but it was mine,

until you stole it,

and filled it with new dreams,


I started questioning where I was going.

I started questioning who I was.

My heart was full,

we were fighting over it,

and I let you win.

I let you take the love of my life,

and fill her heart,

and her head with ideas,


now she is yours,

until you leave,

taking your ideas,

your new dreams,

and half of her with you.


If I sound resentful,

or regretful,

it’s because I am,

because I’m not pretty,

but I’m not dumb either,

(I think that’s how that phrase goes…)

and I’ve been down this road before.

I’ve wanted to believe these things before.

I’ve picked her up, after they leave like this before.


I let you take her,

because she desperately wanted to go,

but when you break her heart,


don’t give her hope that you’ll fix it again,

it just makes it harder for me to do it.