Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

I love you, Mother

I cried once,

on Christmas Day,

alone in the kitchen,

because you said that you were proud of me,

and I was overwhelmed,

uncertain if I deserved adoration.

Being proud of me must have been a long road.

I know that I trouble you,

without ever meaning to.

I used to see myself as an iceberg,

bound to break you,

dragging you down to my glacial despair,

but something you were bound to,

nonetheless.

I think I’ve melted,

and I’m not sure what I am now.

Christmas is coming,

I think I’m due another cry,

it’s been a rough year,

I haven’t seen you since February.

I met a nice man, mother.

I think you’ll like him,

so you have to promise that we’ll meet again,

at some point,

far away,

preferably near,

but fate doesn’t factor in my wants and needs,

when it throws me into situations.

Don’t you think I’ve lived through enough?

The planes that fell,

the markets that followed,

the fear that sank into the streets,

making them mean and intimidating.

I feel like I was young so long ago,

with each new event making it easier to forget,

when I was with you,

happy and whole,

before the twenty four hour news cycle,

and the cycling memories of my own personal hell.

You were right about the very first one, mother.

It’s so long ago,

that sometimes I forget,

except on the thirty first of December,

when I cry all night,

trying to stop myself from going back in time.

My skin was a canvas,

and his art was not made to be understood.

He was so full of rage,

his brushes were vile and violent,

but I stayed because I was desperate to be loved.

Something inside of me is broken, mother,

but it cannot be fixed,

so I just hope for kindness from a cruel world,

and try to survive.

This one is nice, mother.

He kisses me,

as if I am a beautiful girl,

and not as if I am a hole for him to enjoy.

I haven’t touched a drink in months,

and I haven’t lied about it in minutes,

but you don’t need to worry,

because I only drink with my nice man,

and he’s nice,

so I won’t get up to any mischief,

or end up in places I shouldn’t.

He makes me go to bed at a sensible time,

and I wake up waiting for him to kiss me,

as if I am a beautiful girl.

He always does.

You told me that I deserved to be happy,

and I think that I am,

at last.

I am locked in the house,

again,

not by love,

but by law.

I’m fine on Saturdays,

fucked up on Sundays,

sinking into the bleak routine of getting by on Monday Morning,

and I wonder,

if you find yourself frustrated,

that I was born,

so clean,

but ended up such a mess?

I love you, mother.

I want to cry again.

Please make me cry.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Recovery

Some days,

I think I’ve recovered,

and then I remember,

the first time I thought I had,

and I miss my naivety,

so much,

that I drown myself,

in the knowledge that I will always be struggling for air.

I have a little girl,

but not in the way you think.

She’s so optimistic,

sticking around,

hoping for recovery that can never reach her.

People don’t get it.

I don’t want to spend my life,

with the word “oh” before my name,

as people who can’t understand,

rub my shoulders,

and tell me that it’s okay.

I don’t know how I want to spend my life.

I don’t know what “better” or “recovery” look like.

I don’t want their hands on my shoulders.

I don’t want pity in their voices.

I don’t want ghosts to still hold onto my little girl,

but,

nobody really gets what they want,

in the end.

Do they?

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Charlie

Charlie.
I need you.

You’re so into me,
under my skin,
so deep,
that I forget how to love you.

I just want you.
I tear myself apart,
when we’re apart.
Cut to ribbons,
wrecked,
when you arrive.
I am thrown to the thrill,
of craving,
chasing,
choosing you,
every single time.

Please choose me too.

Fuck everyone else.
I need you.
I’ve said it’s over,
every day,
since we met,
but you’ve never left my head,
even when I can’t feel you in my arms.
I’ve been tracing where you’ve been on my body,
wishing I could will you in.

I am crying.
I am sick.
I am yours.
I am yours.
There’s no room left in me,
for anything but you,
and I feel so claustrophobic.

I itch.
I scream.
I sob for you.
It’s too late,
for me to leave,
or love,
the way I remember that I did,
before you.

I adore you,
but I don’t love you.
I don’t even like you,
when I hide from daylight,
dressed in the pain of knowing you are gone.
Dressed in the shame of knowing you were here in the first place.

Again.
Again.
I am choosing you.
Please choose me too.
Let me go.
Let me go.

Charlie.
I need you.


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Blanket Boy

You look at me,
like you know where I’ve been,
but you don’t mind,
as long as I’m home and dry,
by the time you wake up.

It’s not like I wanted to be out so late,
but I find myself,
frequently,
fucking up,
facing up to not being who I thought I was,
who I could have been,
but,
you don’t mind,
as long as it’s your shoulders,
where I do my crying.

hug jennifer juan.jpeg

I write myself out of trouble,
while you sleep off my headaches,
under the glamour of the stars,
who know every single secret,
but swear they’ll be silent,
as they watch over us.

You look at me,
like you know what I am,
but you don’t mind,
because you’ve seen me cry,
you know I never planned to trick a man,
into taking my mistakes,
turning me from cautionary tale,
to a queen.

I just wanted to be loved,
and you just want to love me,
until I don’t cry no more.
Let’s forget who I was,
who I am.
Love me,
until I’m who I could be.


Enter The Poetry Competition here

Order “Kissing Boys, Just For The Thrill” here

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Listen to”Past Preston” here

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Notes To My Muse
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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Murdered

I went back to the scene,

of the many times she was murdered,

canvassing Camden Town,

to find her at 18,

at 21,

at 26.

I was too late.

road-man-lights-legs.jpg

Murdered,

by the man who told her he knew best,

choked to death,

by the flimsy fabric,

of the dress he insisted she wear,

and the false hopes,

shoved down her throat,

until she stopped breathing.

pexels-photo.jpg

Murdered,

by the billion year old boy,

her corpse,

creeping into his room,

at his mother’s house,

hiding away with the beard dye,

and the other girls he broke on his travels.

police-fog-seaside-38442.jpeg

Murdered,

on her search for who she was,

on a night of nostalgia,

where nothing was the same,

but she closed her eyes,

and pretended anyway.

pexels-photo-793436.jpeg

That’s when I snuck up,

more gentle than the last,

and kissed,

with chloroform and kindness,

the girl they murdered,

finally at rest,

with the woman she became.


Enter The Monthly Poetry Competition here

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Listen to”Past Preston” here

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RECENT FREE CREATIVE WRITING COLLECTIONS
Notes To My Muse
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Ladylike

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