Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Spooky Season, Writing

The Mad Mermaids

I went to catch a wave with my local librarian.
The sun was smiling, like I’d told a joke,
and I was glad to be lost in the crowd.
Tsunami of girls, all locked inside of our assigned roles,
the fathers of fascism storm the streets,
but they fear femininity,
how it weakens men,
makes them indecent and unkind.

I am a woman,
and I am poisonous.
I enjoy it.
I will destroy them all,
and I know they’ll let me,
that must be why they fear me,
so I stay out of sight,
until I’m ready to attack,
the sand and the foam of the sea are safe from wandering, weak eyes.

Boys must not look at girls on the beach.
They only see us on their beds, after rushed, unwelcome weddings,
on our knees in dark alley ways, when we could not run fast enough.
Nobody says no to boys, these days,
except the girls on the beach,
and even then,
we only say “más tarde”,
because we know that relenting is inevitable, and our only means of survival.

It is time for revenge.
The moon calls to me,
and I stalk the streets she shines upon.
Me and my girls gather on sandy shores,
bodies glistening in the glow of the girlish, gleeful moon,
sweet and tempting like candy,
but full of razor blades, to render trick or treaters helpless.

I’m a deviant,
defying every man that crosses my cursed path,
enticing them with delights that they’ll never have,
inviting them to take a bite and taste death.
I am the daughter of María Helena.
I scare them, until their bones are bare,
just by being unavailable and uninterested,
so they circle the beach, like vultures,
waiting for a moment when I am vulnerable,
but it never comes,
because I am a woman,
and I am poisonous,
and I show weakness for no-one.

I’ve told them and told them,
I’m saving myself for marriage,
but right now, my ring finger belongs to God.
You can catch me when the waves are high,
when the water is warm,
when all the girls on the segregated sand are wearing the same knowing smile as the sun,
and the moon, when she comes,
but don’t look too long,
because boys are known for having their eyes burn down to nothing,
when they look at girls on the beach.

I think boys would look so much nicer,
with no eyes,
don’t you think?
Boys that never go home.
Boys that pay for their sins.
Lonesome boys, lost at sea,
bloated and bright blue.
Unrecognisable. Unremarkable, as ever.

The mad mermaids would like to play.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Love Is An Exorcism

Last night,
unclaimed flames,
floated across the islands,
and followed us to the shore,
to watch,
from the heavens,
as you left mountain avens,
on my lips.
I slept,
silent and still,
by the mermaid’s grave.

I dreamt you were waist deep,
in the water,
the jealous moon,
showing off,
shining on your bare chest,
and auburn eyes,
trying to tempt you from me,
as I crawled from the shore,
to show the moon who you belonged to.


Fairy hounds surrounded me,
in the hours of darkness,
as I ripped my darling demons from my head,
and buried them beneath the sand.
I was dragged by my heart,
into icy blue,
swallowing salt,
worshipping your waist,
as it clung to a soaked shirt,
under the night’s sky.


I waded through whiskey,
both conquered and dead,
my fingers wrapped around your legs,
like the sultry seaweed,
beneath the waves,
that ran around us,
until we were bound,
like a couple of crazy kids at Gretna Green.

I was so sure I drowned,
that I was shocked to see the sun.
I still tasted you,
though you were gone,
so I rose,
following the trail,
until I found you again,
in the misty morning,
waiting to conquer me again.

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