Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

I Am Sane

Crazy is what they call the girls who figure out how the world works.
I have been lost to lunacy for the longest time,
but it’s time to strip away stereotypes and the chains that they use to claim my soul,
because I am not what they want me to be,
but I am still a wonder of this world.
Dripping in diamonds,
dropped on my head,
I am the divine feminine,
guardian of God’s plan,
following the frequently corrected course.
I am dizzy at the deviation,
dancing across the smashed shards of my ideals, dreaming of what I will become.
I take back the letters of my name,
rearranging them as the moon returns,
so bright,
so breathtaking.
Crazy is what they called me,
when I called myself sane.
I know who I am.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

A Final Love Letter To The Lesbian I Will Always Love

Passionate about your perfume,
the soft scent as I wake up,
enamoured by your essence,
and the brightness of your blurred eyes,
that fog and grow further away every time I close my own.
The fantasy of our love affair was my reality for so long,
prolonging the pain by pretending you might come home,
lone cyclone of loneliness by the door,
waiting to hear the whisper of your key,
but never being pleased.
I went shopping for boats,
because a man I loved once had a boat,
and it always impressed me,
so I thought I’d look less depressing and more breath taking if I, too, had a boat,
but alas,
it broke my bank before I’d even opened my purse,
so I purchased a bunch of books from exotic, exciting shelves,
to see if you’d prefer me when I pretended to be a clever girl.
I love you,
but I never deserved you,
and it’s not your fault,
but I’ve been hurting everyone who crosses my path since I lost my way and couldn’t find a road back to you.
I guess I wanted you to know,
that I’m a mess,
that I still love you,
just in case you decided that death was not all that there was left to see.
Would you like to come back?

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Two Girls Go To Paris

Two beautiful babes on board the Eurostar,

pink sunglasses and perfectly applied lipstick.

The clouds have crept from the sky,

all that remains is dazzling, brilliant sunshine,

and the girls look pretty on their passports,

passing landmarks as they lean into each other’s shoulders,

champagne, gentle and delicious on perfectly painted lips.

Two angels,

aching for adventure,

one mastering the tongue as the train runs faster and faster,

while the other writes a little verse,

about how wonderful it is to have a friend.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The English Daughter Of An Immigrant

There is a river of ruby running up my arms and down my legs,

and in my chest,

a vault of vermillion,

a million shades soar all through my body,

and while my loyalties are split,

I still gave my heart to this island,

in part,

an honest, open heart,

split across the shining waves of the majestic Mediterranean.

Drowning with my hands untied.

I am at my most beautiful,

at the bottom of the ocean,

no longer conflicted,

no longer gifting my soul to one side or another,

just sleeping among the fishes,

as they leak into my dreams with sweet lullabies.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Growing Up

I think wistfully about what I will be like when I grow up.

Clean credit cards,

a clean sink that gleams, as if it has never glimpsed a dirty dish,

a son, settled into sleep (I am so convinced it is a boy),

while I write,

perched on the windowsill,

singing softly to my assorted indoor plants,

and the patient glow of the moon.

There is no landlord,

and I am the lady of a tidy home,

wearing neat, sensible clothes as I turn walks to nursery school into a wild adventure,

quite out of character for my new persona,

but the last little part that I will keep of who I was.

There is a shadow of a soulmate,

when I dream about it,

always in the corner of my eye,

or just out of reach,

and sometimes,

I ask them who they are,

but there is always refusal,

so I reluctantly accept that sometimes,

you have to wait for the answers.

I spend my time,

in the current time, being stiff, distant and weird to suitors,

so I can be sure that they’ll stay,

if I get back to my old ways (which are technically my current ways),

but just like the lonely sea,

I am always left bereft,

so,

sometimes,

I think I ought to try being more palatable,

but who really wants to just be tolerated?

My son has dark brown eyes, like mine,

and I have yet to tell him that the dinosaurs are extinct,

because I cannot bear to break his heart.

He has the smallest hands I have ever held,

but they are always cold,

like a ghost,

and I haunt the hospital,

pleading for peace of mind,

while a doctor (always a male) tuts, and says that ALL new mothers are hysterical.

I have never seen my boy as baby,

so it feels unfair to be labelled as new,

but I suppose it’s one of those things where you never stop learning,

so I lean into the label,

grateful that my child gazes up at me as if I am a God.