Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

The Joys Of Motherhood

I hold my daughters in my hands,

cold and full of trauma,

like their mother,

a messy scrawl that tries to be a signature on their faces,

in case one day I am worth something,

and they are too.

I just hold them,

eyes closed,

trying not to feel the blood dripping from the worn pages,

the long lists of the dead,

just my name,

repeated again and again,

because I never let my daughters take anybody else.

My daughters are vampires.

Hungry but well meaning,

sinking fangs into my soul,

as I lay still,

solemn and accepting.

This is the price for peace,

I guess?

I let my demons drink,

until I am pale and faded,

crying on a counsellor’s couch,

as the sun rises.

My daughters are my counsellors,

unqualified but well meaning,

just listening and drinking,

until I die,

and then we start again.

I am alive again,

because I have to be,

because people need me to be.

I think,

sometimes,

I want to be.

I tell my daughters bedtime stories,

about the little things that make my life worthwhile.

That little spot in my day when he thinks of me and does something about it has been my favourite for a while,

and they LOVE that story,

crowding around me,

with excited eyes,

hungry stares.

I kiss my madness goodnight every morning,

knowing that she will not sleep,

but that we must both pretend,

for as long as we can.

She is hungry but well meaning too.

Everyone is hungry but well meaning.

I am covered in bite marks.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

My Father Loved His Horses

My father was always tall,

just centimeters from the sky,

I would pull on his legs,

laughing as he collapsed,

on his hands and knees,

suddenly a horse,

smiling and shuffling across the carpet,

as if he were in a stable.

I would pull myself onto his back,

a princess,

in the sky,

with the highest,

happiest horse in all of Wales.

I would imagine him,

as a horse,

while I waited for him to return.

I would sit by the wireless,

though mother wouldn’t let it play,

and I would imagine,

that when I would least expect it,

I would hear him neighing over the airwaves,

and over the oceans,

so I would often awake,

at dawn,

with a stiff neck,

and the radio in my arms.

My dreams,

filled with static,

from the stables.

When he walked back through our door,

the sky sunk around his shoulders,

he was still tall,

but the sky that surrounded him was scary,

and dark.

I clung to his legs,

as thunder rang out,

smoke in the stables,

he collapsed,

crying,

on his hands and knees,

struggling and shuffling across the carpet,

as if he left his mind,

in the trenches,

with his friends.

I didn’t pull myself onto his back,

I knew I shouldn’t touch,

as he shook,

collapsing into the carpet,

screaming,

until his throat was sore.

I just lay,

inside of his arms,

as he shook and sobbed,

and I was a princess,

on the floor,

with the most shell shocked horse in all of Wales.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Affirmed

I wrote to a therapist this morning.

Detailing my drama,

that I playfully play off as diva behaviour.

I think,

what I really want,

is to be affirmed,

for all the maddening sadness to be heard,

confirmed and then confined,

to weeping pages,

airtight cages,

where it can’t follow me.

I used to want to be rich.

I’d dream of golden rivers,

private jets and rivieras,

but I don’t think any of it would make me happy.

I used to want to be happy,

but I don’t know that I know how to do that,

and I told them that (the therapist),

but I don’t know that they know either.

I wrote to them,

to say that I don’t know how they’re supposed to fix me,

but I’d like them to (I think),

but maybe it will be just like my golden dreams,

where I wake up,

one day,

in a cold,

confined room,

to a cold,

confined life,

and realise that there’s no such thing as fulfilment,

or happiness,

just a slow,

delusional road,

that always has the same destination.

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.