Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Pride Month 2022, Writing

I Am A Daughter To Many Mothers

I am a daughter to many mothers.

At the highest point of my heart is the one who placed a name, so gently, on my tiny, tender chest, that rose and fell with the tiny, timeless breaths, as she stood by a cot, staring at the thing she had created, with the might of her feminine form.

As I grew, I grasped that there were many women who could adore me in an eternal, unconditional way that surpassed the power of romance or friendship, and as I searched the world for a desire I could not yet understand, I was guided by the kind, consequential hands of many mothers.

My own, the first, humble in my home town, never able to recognise her power, and the power that she had planted underneath my skin when we shared nine glorious months in each other’s company. I learned to be a woman from her, and from her mother. Icons of ambition that cast a cool shadow across me, giving relief from the constant callous lights of life.

I found another, when I tripped and fell into time and space. Our skins had a similar shimmer, and I knew she was something to do with me. That ol’ black girl magic, bewitching and bold. Bricks at the pigs as the sun hid in shame on the corner of Christopher Street. I looked at her, for years and for centuries, seeing the same image that had manifested in my mirror during those troubling first months of puberty.

One more, making her way to me from the movies. Over the rainbow and over the edge, where my fingers clung to the crumbling remains of my restful unawareness. As I spent so long asking what was wrong with me, she just sang softly to my soul as I slept among poppies and popular characters, dreaming of a time when the demon that lived inside of me would feel more like a friend.

Loved and lauded, I still return to the first, sobbing on a voice note about my secret, from miles away, because as I tell her the truth, I cannot face her. Her face is pure, unparalleled love, and though her arms are miles away, I feel the embrace of my mother and the power that she has always had.

I am a daughter to many mothers. A child of war and a child of peace. I am a recipe that has been crafted and perfected by generations of Liverpool’s ladies, the songbird from New Orleans and the little girl that got lost in Oz.

I am ready, now.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Pride Month 2022, Writing

Everybody Knows

Everybody knows.
They’ve seen the stars gathering in the sky,
the waves of the ocean changing direction,
following the wayward moon that moves past the need to understand.
It all adds up,
complex, soft hearted mathematics,
shifting skies and warring waters.
Something is changing.
Something is coming,
and everybody knows.

Everybody watches with baited breath,
but I am wandering the world without a clue.
I don’t look at the stars and the moon anymore,
I keep my eyes focused on the road ahead,
hoping not to topple from the tracks I have been trained to try to follow,
and I’m just looking down.
I just look down as my shoes shuffle on,
amid the screaming of everybody about the stars,
the sun,
the moon and the sea,
they’re all broken,
they’re all breaking formation,
but I’m not paying attention,
because I’m walking,
and walking,
and walking,

Everybody knows.
Everybody sees the full picture that I am a part of.
Everybody sees the fickle fingers of fate finally beckoning to me,
pushing me, blinking and stumbling from a wooden prison that I had learned to call home,
and off it sent me,
into the woods,
and of course,
everybody knew,
watching with wide eyes as I tripped and fell,
swallowed by the forest.

The crowd clapped and whistled,
waiting for me to regain consciousness,
as a Goddess gave chase to the monsters that surrounded me,
nursing my naive, maimed mind,
patching me up with her passion,
until I was strong enough to be the lover that everybody knew I would be.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Pride Month 2022, Writing

Violently, Vividly

My paradise was lost in the post,
held at customs, as I’d been accustomed to,
and as I ate breakfast at the bastion of hell,
I asked out loud, “What did I do to deserve this?”
Really, there was no simple answer,
it’s just a question I ask to the echos now and then.

Like a moth to the flame and a chanteuse to the blues,
off I went to drown my sorrows,
vulnerable vamp under soft, serene lighting,
ever doomed to do the same dance with the devil as night comes around.

As it all turns out,
so often, and yet always in a way that surprises me,
hell was never my home.
Like a flame to a frightened, frankly exhausted moth,
in walked my home.

For as long as I can remember, and even further back,
oceans were the only thing I dared to love,
respectful, silent, unsinful affection,
ending in tears that felt like a gift, as the waves rocked me to sleep.
Violently, as she crossed my path, I was vividly awakened,
endlessly shy, but egged on by smiling Satan,
rushing from my last dance with him, to the first dance of the rest of my life, with her.