Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

A Little Something For The Straight Man Who Haunts The Only Gay Bar In Town, Looking For Me

I am behind bars at the bar,
parading myself like a prize at the fair,
but my intended audience is never there,
just this one guy, with grey hair and grey skin who always wants to buy me drinks,
fumbles his fingers across my pendant and mumbles pedantic, pretentious nonsense about how his soul is pink,
printed with my name,
and my eyes go on a journey from his smug face to the back of my head.

He tells me that my beautiful eyes are wasted on the beautiful girl across the room (he uses a slur to describe her, but I will call her beautiful),
and half of me thinks he’s right,
because me having a flacid fan club around me all night seems to have given her the wrong impression about who I am intending to attract,
and then I am right back where I started from,
night after night,
bored to baby blue tears as he babbles on, despite my blatant disinterest.

I have been polite,
and I have been puerile.
I have said it in so many languages to try and show the girl across the room that my tongue is cultured and intelligent,
but she can’t hear me over the blithering idiot that haunts a home he will never belong in.
It doesn’t matter what I say,
because he sees a pretty dress as a pretty clear sign that I’m just “going through a phase” and he sees himself as some kind of King of conversion therapy,
(It is just a piece of fabric, and he is just an unnecessary man…)
so he persists, undeterred by my constant resistance,
because the world has always belonged to boring men, so he doesn’t know any better, and women never know their own minds anyway, according to his phallic philosophy.

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

How Insensitive

Each setting of the sun,
minute and moment brings me closer to you.
I can feel the fire of your arrival,
itching underneath my skin,
and though I’m still lost in my lonely lullabies,
fast asleep by the time the day begins,
I wake up when I feel your hand in mine,
every time,
without fail.

You’re on the way,
and I don’t know if I will ever be ready, to just be happy,
because how can I learn to live anew, when all my ghosts gather by my bedside?
They stop the clocks, shaking me from my sleep at 3am every morning,
to remind me how many seconds have slipped through my shaking hands,
and how unprepared I am to be truly loved.

Last night,
I rose from my nightmares and noticed that I only ever cried when I gave myself a moment to meet my memories.
I cried for the girl who cried in dark, windowless bathrooms,
her panic, trapped in her throat, as she scrubbed her skin until it bled, to get foreign fingertips from her body.
I cried for how cruel I was.
How insensitive I must have seemed, when I stared back from the mirror,
unmoved by her tears. How cruel I was, when I made her go back to the bed that she shared with her greatest fear.

I will never talk to you about it,
and you’ll feel excluded,
my cruelty continuing,
tearing apart a new, untouched soul.
I’ll never apologise in person,
but your face will join my ghosts,
and I will never sleep again.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

I Was A Bad Mother To My Inner Child

She used to watch the moon from her dimly lit bedroom window,
pretending to sleep,
trying to keep her stories in order,
so that she wouldn’t slip on the shame of her real reflection.

The moon knew the truth,
sending her to sleep with her soothing stare,
the way her own mother would,
if she had been given the chance.
The girl would wake in the morning,
her pillow painted with the pain of her betrayal,
back to the real world,
so unsettled in her own skin, and her own truth.

Sometimes we meet in the moonlight,
as I stare from my window at the bright sky,
never sleeping,
always shaming myself,
even when I say that I’m fine with how I turned out.
I want to tell her to be kinder to herself,
because she’s just a child,
not a monster,
not a deviant,
but we are years apart,
and my pleas are just echos that fade away before they reach her.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Spooky Season, Writing

The Mad Mermaids

I went to catch a wave with my local librarian.
The sun was smiling, like I’d told a joke,
and I was glad to be lost in the crowd.
Tsunami of girls, all locked inside of our assigned roles,
the fathers of fascism storm the streets,
but they fear femininity,
how it weakens men,
makes them indecent and unkind.

I am a woman,
and I am poisonous.
I enjoy it.
I will destroy them all,
and I know they’ll let me,
that must be why they fear me,
so I stay out of sight,
until I’m ready to attack,
the sand and the foam of the sea are safe from wandering, weak eyes.

Boys must not look at girls on the beach.
They only see us on their beds, after rushed, unwelcome weddings,
on our knees in dark alley ways, when we could not run fast enough.
Nobody says no to boys, these days,
except the girls on the beach,
and even then,
we only say “más tarde”,
because we know that relenting is inevitable, and our only means of survival.

It is time for revenge.
The moon calls to me,
and I stalk the streets she shines upon.
Me and my girls gather on sandy shores,
bodies glistening in the glow of the girlish, gleeful moon,
sweet and tempting like candy,
but full of razor blades, to render trick or treaters helpless.

I’m a deviant,
defying every man that crosses my cursed path,
enticing them with delights that they’ll never have,
inviting them to take a bite and taste death.
I am the daughter of María Helena.
I scare them, until their bones are bare,
just by being unavailable and uninterested,
so they circle the beach, like vultures,
waiting for a moment when I am vulnerable,
but it never comes,
because I am a woman,
and I am poisonous,
and I show weakness for no-one.

I’ve told them and told them,
I’m saving myself for marriage,
but right now, my ring finger belongs to God.
You can catch me when the waves are high,
when the water is warm,
when all the girls on the segregated sand are wearing the same knowing smile as the sun,
and the moon, when she comes,
but don’t look too long,
because boys are known for having their eyes burn down to nothing,
when they look at girls on the beach.

I think boys would look so much nicer,
with no eyes,
don’t you think?
Boys that never go home.
Boys that pay for their sins.
Lonesome boys, lost at sea,
bloated and bright blue.
Unrecognisable. Unremarkable, as ever.

The mad mermaids would like to play.