Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

I’m not in any danger

If I was any other thing,
I would be the planks of a pier by the ocean I dreamed of for the last decade,
so I could hear her sing to me as the stars stare down.

It never seems to end.
I fix my eyes on a final point
that seems to get further away every time I blink.
Don’t cry.
It’s almost over,
and we had so much fun,
didn’t we?

I’m happy,
if you want me to be.
I’ll wear a nice dress and pack away my paranoia for the weekend.
I am so random and ridiculous.
Worn out witch drowning in her dizzying disaster,
dwindling as the dawn breaks,
mullato mistress of the multiverse of misery.

My loneliness could kill me, and I’d laugh,
grateful as the lights above shimmer and shake with grief.
I’m not in any danger.
This happens all the time.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The Last Thing He Said, In Silence

The last thing he said, in silence,
was that my love was not enough for him to depend on.
In the echoes of an empty hallway,
his shadow, dancing in the distance,
he was so clear, that he couldn’t give it all up for me.

He used to carry me with him,
like a lucky penny,
or the hip flask full of liquid coping mechanisms that kept him going,
but I became harder to hold on to,
his waking nightmare, as nine turned to ten, ten to twenty,
good girl to gargoyle.

It’s always a story.
Some stories are sweet, and some are sorrowful,
so why should I cry, when either way, it’s content,
and I am content to say that I’m fine,
writing my lines and my lyrics?

He couldn’t give it all up, and I could pretend that I was fine with that, for a very long time,
but now I can’t.
I don’t know when I became a waterfall,
but I did, and I am,
and he doesn’t have to face up to this,
because his veins will forever be full of venom and vile things he found on a street corner,
and mine will forever be full of questions that can never be answered.
He is a pile of bones in a cemetery,
but I am still breathing.
We are not the same.

I threw myself off a building,
into the arms of a man covered in track marks and stickers celebrating his sobriety.
There was nothing special about him,
nothing so essential to my soul,
in fact, he was the wrong kind of sweetheart for me,
but I wanted him,
because he gave it all up for somebody he loved,
and I loved that about him the most.

I needed someone who could be brave enough to cut themselves off,
the way that the swinging, singing ghost of all my scars never could.
All my problems go back to a sunset,
just outside the gothic quarter,
where I smoked my first cigarette,
and realised that sometimes, a man can just stop loving his child, for no reason.

It didn’t help,
because I couldn’t give it all up for myself.
The trouble is, when you love someone who doesn’t belong to themselves anymore,
you get addicted to the idea that you can save them,
and here I still stand,
no marks, no celebratory stickers,
but still stuck on this madness,
this childish idea that I could have made him love me again,
that I could have saved his life and left him the air he needed, wrapped in a beautiful bow,
that I could have made a difference to somebody who was beyond saving, long before I was born,
that I can still get back on good terms with a ghost who won’t speak during seances.

The last thing he said, in silence,
was that I was wasting my time.
The last thing he said, in silence,
was that I wasn’t to waste anymore,
but I couldn’t hear him.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing


They are tempted by my temper,
because my exotic flair makes it feel like passion,
something fashionable,
like in a French magazine,
since sweet sixteen,
and further back,
in the fables of my life that I have forgotten,
I was rotten to the core,
storming through each day with a smile and my rage.

I dream of diamonds,
around my neck and down the throats of all those that I dislike,
spoiled brat,
Queen of the pampered Princesses,
running through benefactors for nefarious purposes,
never satisfied by their platinum cards and best wishes.

Last night as I strolled through the shopping centre,
I saw a little pair of shoes, painted blue for my little one,
feeling so blue because they had tightly tied laces and left a taste in my mouth, without my lips even opening.
Ghosts were following me again,
the things that money cannot buy will always allude me, they never let me live,
living in my bones and setting fire to my soul.

There are geese gliding across the rising sun as I recall last night’s dream,
boil a kettle that will never be poured,
pouring over my seamless, endless era of madness,
because I truly want it all.
The streetlights switch off,
and I switch on the siren waterworks.

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

The World’s Greatest Amateur Actress

I tried to tell her that I was sorry,
but she was distracted,
her eyes glittering as she gazed in silent awe at my jewellery.
My mouth was dry,
no matter how many overpriced cocktails I put on my credit card.
I saw her eye the packet of cigarettes that was peeking from my open handbag,
and I instinctively tutted,
like a heartsick mother with only her wayward child left to lose.

She seemed to adore all the superficial things about me,
all the things I most despised, but clung to,
in some misguided attempt to keep myself interesting.
She was interested,
I could tell.
She spoke to me that same way I used to speak to my “elders and betters”,
that wilted affectation that gets a little stunted after a few drinks,
when hiding your past is no longer a priority.

I hated that about her.
I hated that she couldn’t hold herself in higher esteem,
how she couldn’t see that she was the child of a good woman,
a woman who did her best,
and that this wretched child was the best of her,
so she had nothing to be intimidated by,
but she always shrank when she started to share her ideas,
making herself so small,
so she could fit into a small world.
I snapped my fingers in her face,
and I shouted
“You will be the universe. Fuck the world.”

She was shocked.
I tried to make amends, but both of us knew that she was broken before she walked into the bar,
so it didn’t matter if I shouted,
not really,
because the damage had been done long before,
and I couldn’t face the first girl.

The first girl,
the fawn,
with her hopeful eyes and her hoity-toity ideals.
She never comes by anymore.
She used to.
She’d just stand in the doorway,
not quite beaten by imposter syndrome.
Standing with a withering stare, far beyond her years,
asking what I had done with her life.
I won’t see her.
I told her not to come.

I just want to see the one who still believes a little,
but has lowered her expectations.
Sweet sixteen,
vibing to the Beach Boys on her broken iPod,
eating it up every time when I exaggerate about how things turned out.

I tell her that I’m a singer now,
but I don’t tell her that my songs only earn a cent a stream,
and that I still dream of Vegas in the bedroom of a house share.

I tell her that I have heard audiences cry my name,
but I don’t tell her that I don’t love it in the way she expected,
and that I dread the din of applause because it means I have to tear myself apart,
six nights a week to get it.

I tell her that I lost my virginity,
but I don’t tell her that it was to the wrong kind of person,
and that I’m haunted by his paw prints over a decade later.

She asks me if I’m happy.
I tell her that I am,
because I know that she needs it,
and I needed it too.
I needed to know that no matter the stage,
I am still the world’s greatest amateur actress.