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.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The Mad Queen’s Tears

You grew jealous of my tears,
how they gently stroked my face as I slowly lost my mind, in your absence.
You called me your mad Queen,
your doolally doll,
dying once an hour until you picked up the phone,
then collapsing into infatuated incoherence at the sound of your voice.

I never cry when you’re close,
ironing your shirts in the warm glow of your eyes,
layering your skin in my lip gloss as I claim your body and soul for myself,
laying under the stars as blood spills down into the bay.

Your sword hand is shaky,
secure in my grasp,
I share my tears with you,
trying so hard to make you clean,
telling you how you gleam and glitter before me,
in the hopes that you’ll believe it,
and that one day,
you’ll stop seeing the crowd of corpses that surround us.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

It Only Took One Ghost

I thought I might quit cigarettes and alcohol,
just to see if I’d feel at all different,
but the monkeys on my back are the only friends I have at 2am,
when I’m thinking of the way the years just run away if you let them.

The air was icy as I leant from my window,
swaying with the wind,
gone with the nostalgia as the stars fell with the snow,
and I slowly fell asleep.

Somehow, I found my way back to bed,
dreaming of sour sugarplums and fairies, who, frankly, were tired of my melancholy mood,
and as I awoke,
there she was,
peering over the end of my bed.

A tiny tower of disapproval,
small hands on little hips,
frowny face and pursed lips.
She beckoned me closer and I threw the covers over my head,
but as Dickens had made clear,
one cannot simply ask ghosts to get back to you at a later date.

Her brown eyes were full of disappointment,
my reluctant hand full of resistance,
but she was stronger than I’d allowed myself to imagine she could be,
and she pulled me towards the open, ominous window.

Off to the sky we went,
snow circling around us as the landscape below got younger and younger.
She took me back to the barrio,
and seemed miffed that I was so unmoved by my infant self, cradled by my hapless hombre,
so off we went,
to the smoky streets of London,
and she was unimpressed by me smoking a cigarette as she dangled yet another Christmas gone by in front of my tired eyes.

We got to 2020,
the Yuletide of yearning,
masks and macabre moments of self awareness,
those moments where I’d sit on the stairs with a drink in one hand and my head in the other,
face to face with how empty my world really was when my blood was stripped away.

I didn’t cry, but I walked past myself,
out into the snow,
once again, alone,
lighting up a cigarette,
as I called my long suffering Mother.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Oh My God. What Have You Done?

I’m waiting in my garden for my girl,
all my dreams bend and break around the stems of my roses,
and it’s almost like the more I wish,
the more I lose,
but I still wish,
because I’m a creature of cruel habits.

Maybe she will see me in the spring time,
when the sunshine is a sweet friend to the leftover cold air,
and I can swim away from the constant noise in my head,
that scratchy voice that simply says
“Oh my God. What have you done?”
That one who says that nobody comes and all that I’ve done is walk into an empty room that gets smaller, and darker with every second.