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.

Posted in Blog

Solitude Is A Solid Ally

I want to be free,

but I chain myself to pain,

in case it leaves me.

She has always stayed,

lonely on my window sill,

chains around her neck.

She is not ideal,

but she is complex, constant.

Maybe, that’s real love.

Posted in Blog

A Quiet Life

They’re complaining again, and I’m trapped, somewhere in the ceiling, because that’s where I was left, when everyone ran away and it suddenly became my job to avoid their ever changing moods, and daily drinking binges.

I type out a text, with my own complaints, about how I’m so tired from all the tornados, how I’m sick of standing alone, in the ceiling, with no solidarity, while hell unleashes below me, because everyone I know (but me, apparently) is afraid of talking like adults about their grown up gaffes, none of which are mine, so why am I here? And why did you bring this to my door? And don’t you know I’m too old and too jaded for this drama?

They’re complaining again. I think they’ve had cider, and I’m an enabler, because I got it for them, to save an argument, because even in my ceiling, I’m afraid, just like them, even though I stayed, I’m afraid, I’m just looking for a quiet life. A quiet life is a luxury I will never afford, in this economy.