Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Just Like Magic

She says that I’m her sapphic sorceress,
possessing power in my soft lips and softer thighs.
I don’t sleep in a serax haze anymore,
because I’m healed, feeling life in real time.
I could change,
but she takes me as I arrived at her door,
never asking any more,
as we sleep under peaceful peach lights from heaven.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

That’s What It’s All About, Isn’t It?

There are tears on the tube,
fuelled by the fear of losing love.
That’s what it’s all about,
isn’t it?
That rush we rip ourselves apart for,
that never seems stable enough to stay too long,
that’s what it’s all about.
She looks in my eyes,
my brooding, broken by booze eyes,
and she looks, no, she stares, like she has come across something special,
and the fear fades,
trickling down the floor of the carriage,
into the gutter of the tightly closed train door,
running away from me,
as time does,
but never her.
She never runs,
no matter how much I push.
That’s what it’s all about,
isn’t it?

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Poppies For My Girl

Bury me with a glass coffin.
No grass and dirt,
so my girl can see my bee stung lips (all mine, swear to God) and eternal eyelashes for the rest of time.
Let my truth be forever etched in stone.
A wayward wife,
an unfit mother,
too Catholic to swallow,
too gay to be a “real” Catholic,
a bit too mixed race to be a “real” Brit,
just as bad in Spanish as she was in English,
but a laugh when drunk.
(Always drunk).

Don’t leave me chrysanthemums,
don’t let them wither and die in the waning moonlight.
Leave poppies in their place,
so my girl can fall asleep,
looking at my face,
still hers,
after all that time.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Movie Star

You said that loving me was hard to do,

because you never had a clue what was real and what was just another reel of my endless Hollywood saga.

If I was to tell you the truth,

I’d say that I wasn’t sure either.

The lights are flickering as you find me,

somewhere in the valleys of my violence,

silently sewing myself back together for another take.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Doing DIY

I am busy, building,
burrowing down and finding my bearings,
bricks on bricks,
one breath after the other,
one step, and then another,
because I have so much to do,
and I don’t have the luxury of letting myself fail.

I am constructing,
while distracting myself from the volcano that erupts around my shoulders.
Reconstructing my confidence,
grasping at the presence of hope,
keeping it in a jar on my kitchen shelf,
until it glitters and shines like a firefly.
I am building a home for two,
occupying as one,
until I am done with who I used to be,
and ready to stand alone, by someone’s side.