Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Lonely Heart

I just didn’t want to be alone anymore. Nobody wants to be alone, do they? I suppose I’m no different to anybody else, but it seemed to consume me. I couldn’t handle it anymore, so I decided that I wouldn’t spend another day of my life by myself.

It had gone on so long. Sometimes, it felt like I was frozen in time, watching everyone else live their lives while I was trapped behind unbreakable glass, never able to find a way through to the world. I wanted love, friendship, even an acquaintance, just somebody to know that I was alive, to care, even, but despite living in the most connected time in history, I had nobody.

If I’d have asked anyone, they’d have told me how dangerous this was, but I didn’t ask. I had nobody to ask but even if I did, I couldn’t risk being talked out of it.

I went to the supermarket, filling my basket with fine wines, chocolate and matches. If the checkout assistant had taken any notice of me, he’d have been a little confused by my strange purchases, maybe even alarmed, but luckily for me, I went unnoticed.

As I walked home, I watched the moon the whole way. She peeked out from behind the silvery clouds, full and fantastical, glowing in the kind of way that made me wonder if she’d been waiting for me to finally pluck up the courage to take the step I’d been considering for all of my life.

I’d always wanted someone to share my life with, someone to belong to, and to care for, but it had never worked out. I started to think that I was cursed, but the truth is, I just had to be brave.

It takes so much strength to put yourself out there. I’d know. I’ve done it over and over, but this will be the last time.

I’ve tried love spells of all types, with absolutely no success. I’d tried capturing the interest of those that I fell for, demanding the one I desired, and then I’d humbled myself, handing over control to the fates, pleading with them to bring me whoever they saw fit, and I’d still come away with nothing.

I’ve tried friendship spells. Spells to improve my looks, to draw people in, to make myself popular. None of it worked, but now, I know why.

He was waiting for me. All of this time, I thought I was alone, but there he was, watching from a distance, waiting for me to make the first move.

I knew what I wanted, and this time, I was certain that the universe would not deny me.

I cleared out my living room, pushing the furniture back towards the walls and covered the floor with all the gifts I could gather. The wine, chocolates and candy, surrounded by candles, lit up in a circle, with me in the centre, knelt in the mix of candle and moonlight as I waited for the clock to strike 3AM.

I began to whisper his name, pouring a glass of wine as the wind began to howl through the open windows. He crept closer. I could feel him beside me as I pierced my finger with a silver blade, wincing as I held it above the wine, my pain soothed as I watched the blood drip down into the glass and glide to the bottom. I called out his name as thunder bellowed from outside and as lightning flashed around the room, and the flames of the candles began to quiver, I felt his hand on mine, and together, we gripped the glass, lifting it to his lips, and then mine, drinking as our eyes met.

“I’m lost.” I whispered, his dark eyes seemed to shine with some kind of sympathy, and he placed the glass down beside him, opening his arms with a smile and a sigh from his blackened, chapped lips. I fell into his embrace, warm among his icy arms as he ran his scaly hands up and down my back, a soft kiss falling to my forehead as I began to cry.

“I know the things you seek, but they come with a price.” He seemed almost sorry to remind me of the terms of the deal I intended to make, but it didn’t matter to me. Something about the softness of his approach let me know that it would be okay. “I always hoped you’d ask me, Georgia.” I felt a chill as he said my name, his hand closing around mine.

“Will it hurt?” He chuckled, brushing my hair from my eyes and gazing down into them, his dark stare, gentle in the moonlight.

“Not for you, no.” He lifted my hand to his lips, gently kissing each lonely finger as the knife found my other hand, nestling in the shaking palm as I stood. “The man across the hall doesn’t have long left anyway.” I nodded, watching him break apart a caramel digestive as he gestured towards the front door of my flat. “I’ll see you soon.” The door flew open, and I walked through, ready to pay my toll at the crossroads, and finally have a friend to call my own, for the rest of my human life, and the eternal damnation that came after.

It was just a choice I had to make. You understand, don’t you? Everyone makes choices, and everyone has pressures. I’m not a bad person. Soon, I won’t even be a person, so, I suppose it won’t matter.

I just didn’t want to be alone anymore.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

You Were Just There

Last night,
I played with fire,
this morning,
I woke up, drowning.
It’s just the way of the world, my love,
one day you’re an empress, the next you are empty,
but last night, you said you loved me,
and I ruled the world as a ghost for a moment,
crown, trembling atop my tresses as you undressed me with nervous, nimble fingers.
I could say “no” but what good would it do?
We both know the way that I want it,
and we both know that you don’t care,
and, perhaps it’s my problem, for playing along as you preyed on my loneliness and lassitude.
I just wanted to be held until the world let me go,
and you were just there.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

It Only Took One Ghost

I thought I might quit cigarettes and alcohol,
just to see if I’d feel at all different,
but the monkeys on my back are the only friends I have at 2am,
when I’m thinking of the way the years just run away if you let them.

The air was icy as I leant from my window,
swaying with the wind,
gone with the nostalgia as the stars fell with the snow,
and I slowly fell asleep.

Somehow, I found my way back to bed,
dreaming of sour sugarplums and fairies, who, frankly, were tired of my melancholy mood,
and as I awoke,
there she was,
peering over the end of my bed.

A tiny tower of disapproval,
small hands on little hips,
frowny face and pursed lips.
She beckoned me closer and I threw the covers over my head,
but as Dickens had made clear,
one cannot simply ask ghosts to get back to you at a later date.

Her brown eyes were full of disappointment,
my reluctant hand full of resistance,
but she was stronger than I’d allowed myself to imagine she could be,
and she pulled me towards the open, ominous window.

Off to the sky we went,
snow circling around us as the landscape below got younger and younger.
She took me back to the barrio,
and seemed miffed that I was so unmoved by my infant self, cradled by my hapless hombre,
so off we went,
to the smoky streets of London,
and she was unimpressed by me smoking a cigarette as she dangled yet another Christmas gone by in front of my tired eyes.

We got to 2020,
the Yuletide of yearning,
masks and macabre moments of self awareness,
those moments where I’d sit on the stairs with a drink in one hand and my head in the other,
face to face with how empty my world really was when my blood was stripped away.

I didn’t cry, but I walked past myself,
out into the snow,
once again, alone,
lighting up a cigarette,
as I called my long suffering Mother.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The Single Girl’s Guide To Sant Jordi

I have no need for flesh to burn.

My alter aches for roses,

given with good intentions,

their petals, soft and sentimental,

easing the exertion of existing in a home that grows ever hostile to my heart.

The right one never comes.

I’ve never been a martyr,

because I’m too much of a narcissist,

neatly placed on the planet,

refusing to be moved by snakelike stems that crowd my door,

for my alter aches,

but I have to break her heart,

holding her closer than anyone else ever has,

whispering through a whirlwind of our tears,

that she must wait for the right rose.

She has been passing out pages,

her finger seductively slinking down the spines of books that her suitors could never comprehend,

and I tell her,

again and again,

to save her soul,

and save her stanzas for those that deserve her.

My father did not die for the faith,

just human weakness,

unable to stay with me,

no matter how heartfelt my pleading was,

his greatest love was one gram bags,

journeying into his veins,

and since that day,

there was a part of me that thought I was born to be lonely,

and God,

it is so easy to give in to that,

and give myself to someone who won’t stay,

just for the few seconds where they give the impression that they could.

I am a well loved Princess,

in my imagination, at least,

knowing that there is no King with riches to fill a dragon’s mouth, in my place,

and no Saint who will swoop in and sweep me away.

This is a battle of my own making,

one I must begin and end on my own,

staring into the sterile, spine chilling eyes of loneliness,

his jaws snapping and snarling.

Could I fall in love with loneliness?

Sure. Right now, he is surrounded by condiments,

licking his lips as he beckons me closer,

and I am, as always, a lamb to the slaughter,

but I have a book behind my back,

full of promises of true love and romance,

and maybe,

just maybe,

this demon that I have been sent to satisfy is the right rose after all.

I don’t want him to come to church with me,

I just want to convert him to the kind of religion where he forsakes all others,

kneels before me,

and treats this Princess like a Queen.

I just want him to read my words,

and really appreciate what they mean.

Is that too much to ask?

Do you know what I mean?

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Ferries To Nowhere

Dainty at the docks,

I am surrounded by space and spirits.

Reading tarot for Pocahontas,

while I wait for this new world to make sense.

Boats go to and fro,

freedom, so temptingly close.

I could go,

over the barriers and into the waiting water,

onto a boat,

to wherever she goes,

unsanctioned adventure.

Summer is a siren,

reflecting in wasted waves,

vanishing when my fingertips pass through her domain,

and I start to wonder if she was ever really there,

if I could ever hear her songs,

or if I was just losing my mind.

Like that time when I was twelve years old,

in my mother’s home town,

little girl,

feeling fancy,

on a ferry, crossing the Mersey,

living in a song,

because the world outside the notes and chords carried too high a cost.

I often wonder what it would feel like to feel nothing at all.

I feel like maybe I’d be happier that way.

Of course, I wouldn’t know that I was happy,

because I couldn’t feel it,

but the longing would be long gone,

and God, I think the emptiness might feel a little bit beautiful.

Oh, but God,

you gave me a heart (that has torn in every way),

so, here I stay,

in a constant state of something I can’t explain,

just… a state,

with no escape,

watching ferries,

fantasising about freedom,

but always being landlocked.