Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Can You Keep A Secret?

My heart grieves for a time when my love was seen as uneventful,
unremarkable to everyone but me.
When I would stare out into the setting sun,
atop warring waves,
and my love was safe in a way I can no longer feel.

I miss when I could kiss and nobody thought it was their business,
or something fitting of a protest.
and now that I am no longer hiding away in the nonsense of “normality”,
I have to accept that everyone has an opinion on what my love actually is,
and what it means and represents.

My love lives somewhere different to where I had asked her to reside,
so I worship in different circles.
I accept her exception, now,
through gritted teeth and frequent frowns,
and I let her live out from under the clouds,
on the condition that she does not reposition herself to be what everyone else demands of her.

I doubt that she will listen, but we’ll have to wait and see.

I do not want my love to be “a radical queer act” because a terminally online stranger with a posh accent and a past as a horse girl says that it is.

I do not want my love to be “hot to watch” because a pathetic, porn addled man who spends to much of his wages on OnlyFans says that it is.

I do not want my love to be “a sign of social degradation” because an insecure guy with misplaced guilt takes out their lack of God’s grace on me.

I want my love to be the soaring majesty of the opening strings of a symphony.

I want my love to be warring waves, who learned to play peacefully on Blackpool beach.

I want my love to be safe from prying eyes, and just between us two.

Can you keep a secret?

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Woody Woodpecker

I decided to travel through time today.
Taking myself to that tree in my old back garden, four houses ago,
back when I would perch on the branches like a lovesick, precocious owl.
I used to write you stories,
sweet scenes that I could never really enjoy,
but pushed myself to provide anyway,
because I loved you,
(you don’t need me to tell you that).

Love is sacrifice,
and love is sacrilegious,
and I know you already know this,
so there’s no need for me to lecture from my makeshift treehouse,
but I do,
because I’m only thinking about the tree in the first place,
because it was where I used to write for you,
and I’m only thinking of when I’d write for you,
because I was looking for an old picture of myself today,
and I found an album of our holiday snaps,
and it all suddenly clicked.
I was thinking about you.
My camera really only clicked for you.
I’d pretend to be fascinated by the scenery,
or that you were stood next to something noteworthy,
but I just wanted to keep you somewhere in my gaze,
because you were fucking beautiful.

I remember when I used to tell you how beautiful you were,
and you’d get this lovely little glow on your cheeks,
like the angel that slept within your soul had just awoken.
I could never tell if you blushed because you weren’t used to being told,
or if it was some kind of reaction to the person who told you,
because you used to glow for that man I can’t mention,
and pop stars who played you to sleep with piano ballads,
so maybe there was something in it?
Or maybe it was just teenage, hormonal madness.
Or maybe I’ve gone from a mad, teenage girl,
to a mad, teenage woman,
and nothing had ever been real,
and I’m not in a tree,
I’m on a flight to my hometown,
knowing there is nothing there for me anymore,
since I shared it all with you.

I’m going to get out of this tree,
and I’m going to call up my ex boyfriend,
then I’ll probably let him have sex with me,
and I’ll hate it
and I’ll cry in his en-suite bathroom,
and then I’ll throw up,
and write a poem about that too.
I will use up all his hot water,
trying to banish every trace of him from my body and soul,
because I loved you,
(you don’t need me to tell you that),
and I don’t know what to do with that.

You have been nothing but old photos for such a long time.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Pride Month 2021, Writing

Pillow Princess

Sliver of sepia,

a single strand of your once immaculate hair trails across your face,

hanging over your navy gaze like a noose,

and my neck breaks, in the most beautiful way,

because I can’t and won’t stop staring.

One hand in the pocket of your jeans,

as you chew on lips that have long been covered, claimed and conquered by my clear, confident gloss.

Your other pushes me back to the pillows,

the kingdom I call home,

crown of honey clover,

blossoms bless my breast,

and I am your princess,

bound to the pink and white sheets,

bound to be worshipped and adored.