Posted in Blog

She Call Me “Heartbreaker”

It started with Jay Z’s verse,

in Mariah Carey’s Heartbreaker.

I had heard it thousands of times,

but that time,

in the midst of my own misery,

and eventual heartbreak,

I heard it,

as if it was speaking to me directly.

Shopping in solitude,

because it had been an hour since I’d been adored,

and it made my head hurt,

I was soothed by seeing myself,

in what I’m sure was supposed to be an insult,

because I have been sent back to my Mum,

many a time,

when I give too much,

and need too much,

pretty but paranoid,

chaining myself to the tree of my affections,

never flinching at the saws and laws that say I must desist,

because all I see,

are rainbows,

and where we go,

in my head,

because you are all I need,

but you need someone normal,

and there is a voice in my head,

that tells me this is fate,

every single time,

with every single one,

she just keeps on coming back,

incessantly.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The Queen of Cluster C

I have…

I have a thing that I’m not ready to discuss out loud,

because it means I have to leave her behind,

the girl I always thought I was.

I am…

I am not okay,

and apparently,

that’s okay,

but it seems very not okay,

when everyone socially distances from my crisis,

like I’m infectious.

I have…

I have always wanted to have a child,

but I’m afraid,

that there is something deep inside of me,

that will find its way to them,

and then,

they will wish I hadn’t bothered,

because it will bother them every day,

following like a hunter,

waiting to strike,

and switch them for someone else,

like it did to me.

I know I would love them,

like nobody else ever would,

the way I love everyone that has the misfortune to meet my heart,

but it wouldn’t be enough,

to earn their forgiveness,

for inflicting it on them.

I am…

I am letters on a letter,

from somebody smarter than me,

that says,

to put it simply,

that I am the Queen of Cluster C,

destined never to be cured,

but keeping it cute,

until I don’t,

and then,

I am not okay,

and it’s not okay,

despite all the tweets and Facebook posts that say something different.

Posted in Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

I’ve Been To The Doctor, and Ignored Everything He Said

So, 

It was you. 

You,

who never left,

leaking emotions by my side,

burrowing inside me,

breaking me until I have no choice but submission.

You,

who never left,

latching on,

lashing out,

leaking emotion,

in a confusing cycle,

until everyone else leaves,

and it’s just you and me.

You.

Me.

You ask me,

with those damn eyes,

in an aching whisper,

why we always end up together,

just you and me.

It was you,

my only companion,

my only constant,

one of my many curses,

born perhaps,

maybe invented,

but boring me to tears,

with the same old song,

you always insist I sing,

the same old life,

you always let me lead.

Familiar mistakes,

that seem different for a second,

until I realise we have been repeating,

and repeating,

and repeating,

long enough to be labelled mad.

I don’t want you,

but you’re always here,

loving too much,

leaking emotion,

planning grand things,

before we even start the small stuff,

collecting husbands and wives,

but never quite securing the ring,

throwing yourself at the mercy of anyone with a kind smile,

because you won’t see that you’re capable

(or could be, if you gave in, and went to therapy).

You love too much,

because that’s the only currency you can manage efficiently,

spending for protection,

your eyelashes fluttering so much,

that all the things you fear about the world,

become a blur,

and you fall into someone else,

a princess,

a pet,

but never powerful,

because you can’t conceive it,

you won’t believe that you can survive,

all by yourself,

so off we go,

to be some narcissist’s project,

until they realise how much hard work you are,

but it’s too late, my love,

because you’ve already given too much,

and now,

you belong to them forever.

You love too much,

and they can’t get enough. 

Addicted to your intensity,

(some would call it insanity).

Being adored,

depended on,

is sweet for a while,

but then it’s demanding,

demoralising,

and then,

it disappears,

and you are crying in a cavern of spilled milk,

crying because you think it might make them stay,

crying because your own company is the only kind you can’t stand,

crying because you’d give anything to be less helpless.

You’d give anything to be less helpless,

less dependent,

less bother.

Less.