Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Oh My God. What Have You Done?

I’m waiting in my garden for my girl,
all my dreams bend and break around the stems of my roses,
and it’s almost like the more I wish,
the more I lose,
but I still wish,
because I’m a creature of cruel habits.

Maybe she will see me in the spring time,
when the sunshine is a sweet friend to the leftover cold air,
and I can swim away from the constant noise in my head,
that scratchy voice that simply says
“Oh my God. What have you done?”
That one who says that nobody comes and all that I’ve done is walk into an empty room that gets smaller, and darker with every second.

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,
untrusted,
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

Mayflowers

I am made of mayflowers,
sweet symbol of the spring.
I wait all winter, to watch myself grow,
singing my overture in the shade,
as the sunlight fades away.

My mother walked with great pain,
a crown on thorns in her womb and a pebble in her shoe,
but she carried her flowering child,
until she found the forest and spilled me onto the soil.

Blackbirds call from far away,
as I sleep beneath the thorns,
whispering woods are bewitched and besotted.
I am the Princess of a protected land.