Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

I Finally Climbed The Mountain and Then You Pulled Me Back Down

I am lost under a lie,
piled upon by people with no stakes and too much time,
and I am the most desirable demon,
sought after but shouted at,
punished for stepping outside of a box I didn’t even notice I was in.

Cast in a dream that could never come true,
playing opposite a dreamer who depends on me to read a script,
but the script seems so strange,
it sits unnaturally on my tongue,
and what is this language?

They speak of me like I am a wild wind,
a bubbling brook who can break out and embark on new adventures and new directions,
but they begin to cry upon discovering that I am a mountain.

I am still, steady and staying put,
scaled by my self doubt and at last, standing tall,
but just as I pushed my luscious lips against the peak,
I was pulled into a scene that was not mine,
a lie that felt divinely out to get me,
and a dream that could never come true.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

English Rose

She kissed me and called me her English rose,

like that luscious lullaby,

that we heard on the shop radio, as we held hands in the freezer section.

I was frozen by my indecision.

Did I tell her about how complex my identity was, or let her rest, with her cute nickname for the girl she loved?

Did I have to overcomplicate it?

All around me,

ice was thawing,

and it was dawning on me, that sometimes, someone loves you beyond reason,

and it’s unreasonable to pick their affection apart,

so I left my lips busy with an ice lolly,

poised and perfect like an English rose.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Shadow Banned

I left lavender letters on the pillowcase,
my eyes glittering in the sunrise’s gaze.
There were shadows spying in the door way,
but I had resigned myself to life as a laboured spirit,
so I had accepted it long ago.
The shadows toddled down the hallway behind me,
endlessly emulating the soft sway of my hips,
but never quite getting it,
reaching into the cupboard under my sink,
to search for a pot of paint, about my shade, to go for a swim in.

It made no difference.
I wrote myself in synths and sighs,
immortalising the girl I was last night on a cassette tape,
and the shadows sat at the kitchen table,
playing it,
rewinding it,
playing it,
rewinding it,
until I got sick of it and snapped the tape in two,
ribbons of rarity cascaded to the carpet,
and the shadows wanted it so badly that they launched to the floor,
holding what remained of the cracked shell and torn up insides.

I had become so used to telling people that I was a poisoned apple,
that I forgot to tell them I was cured,
fit for consumption,
keeping up the hostility,
the shadows once again copying me,
until they became so unbearable,
so unbelievably hard to love that even I became appealing by comparison.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Getting All Mixed Up While Filling In The Census Form

It’s that time again.

Time to break my arms and legs,

let myself fit neatly and uncomfortably into the ethnicity box on a form.

For many years,

I’ve ummed and ahhed about how all the stars in the sky that fell down and created my human form can be categorised.

Brown eyes that have been to many continents,

rambunctious round strands of her that won’t sit down, because these curls have tales,

things to tell you, that you wouldn’t believe.

A skilled tongue, that pleases everyone she meets, in many languages (okay, three and a half), so what do I call her?

Which box do I tick?

My nose is thick and prominent,

once marked for surgery but now begrudgingly accepted,

but I don’t know how to tell the census that I’m not sure if she came from my Mum or my Dad.

My pen is staring up at me,

not knowing what to make of me,

and I am staring back,

with a varied background,

not knowing what to make of me either.

Once again, I am not English, apparently,

because the form says that is only for whites,

and I’m only half right for the red and white flag,

so down the form I go,

to the land of minority ethnics and mullatos.

What the fuck will my kids tick?

I suppose it depends on who I fuck,

and how many drops of their grandfather find their way into their blood from mine.

Shall I curse them to endless umming and ahhing at presumptuous and preclusive boxes,

or will their road be easier, brighter and white passing?

It’s just a form, I suppose.

Just a box ticking exercise,

so I shouldn’t think about it too much,

because I don’t have time for an identity crisis today,

but I am a map, with many pins,

and this is a small box, with a small mind,

that isn’t ready for someone like me.

I don’t think it will ever be ready for someone like me.