Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing


There was this record,
that you hated and wouldn’t hear,
no matter how hard I haggled and all the battles I fought to make you see that it was our lives in a neat, sixteen track package.
I spent the last few weeks of the summer shaking and salivating,
possessed with the feeling of finally being understood,
by some distant pop “demon” (as my father found it fit to call her),
and I just wanted to show you,
that we weren’t alone.

You wouldn’t be told,
and we sat in the hallway in silence,
watching illegally downloaded American TV shows,
so that we would be too distracted to actually talk to each other.
I was beginning to think it was about more than the record,
but you wouldn’t be told,
putting your hands, your glares and other things across my lips to keep me quiet.

You know,
Dogs can play poker,
and sure, it’s intense,
but it makes a little more sense when you confess that sometimes,
two teenage girls play poker,
alone and without an audience,
maybe not even a full game
without any real idea of what they’re doing.
It’s never actually been a crime (for girls),
and maybe it’s good,
like that record was good,
and like we could be good, if we could just…

Late summer love always feels a little misguided when term begins again.
Sweet sixteen,
out of school uniform and out of my mind as the last of the September sun glistens and kisses my freckles,
the way you like to do,
until someone finds our secret hideaway,
and we make up a lie that nobody believes,
and I listen to that record again,
wishing that my life was an electro pop banger.

I was your chronic Candy Warhol,
curious about the butterflies that lined my stomach when we shared alcopops in an Irish bar we snuck in to.
I was stuck on you,
no matter how many times my playboy mouth said different.
You said so too, sometimes,
when you’d had too many Smirnoff Ices and had decided to be beautifully blunt.
Your fleeting kiss was ice cream, topped with honey.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Her Father Is Dead and Today Is His Birthday

I send best wishes to your ashes,
flowers with bowed heads are no comfort,
because I feel nothing on this day, every year.
There is happiness in the days before,
then hangovers,
then nothing.
An emptiness that is taller than you and I,
an endless echo of silence that stalks me from midnight, until the twenty ninth stutters into life,
and it’s not like I haven’t tried to find something else to think about,
to see if the shadows would leave me in peace.
I just never could.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing


Why can’t you see what you’ve already seen in yourself?
Why are the same patterns painted differently in your eyes,
when they look just the same to mine?
I can see how we both took the same path,
and I want answers and something to soothe me,
but it never comes.

You were at the end of a road,
watching me wander down it with wide eyes and a teddy bear clasped in my hands but you wouldn’t walk back down it,
you wouldn’t move from your spot to try and stop me going somewhere where nobody returns, and nobody is the same afterwards.
You let me change,
you saw it happen and you let things go the same,
you let me blame myself,
you let me surrender to shame and follow the same road you went down.

You saw my little legs making big steps,
and you closed your eyes.
You recognised how your own pain presented and you closed your eyes when mine started to mimic it,

I just want to know why we met eye to eye and walked the same path,
decades apart but you didn’t notice.
I want to know how the same monsters made their way towards me,
and you didn’t notice,
until they’d torn me apart.

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.