Posted in Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Something About Him

He found himself,

panicking,

packing his soul into so many boxes,

that he left by my door,

every time he came to call,

hoping that one day,

Id invite him,

and his baggage in.

He found himself,

wishing I’d write his name,

a million ways,

for the rest of my days,

crestfallen,

when I told him,

I was the kind of girl,

that wasn’t going to be around for long.

My house was rented,

my home was wherever I ended up,

my heart knows it wants to belong to someone,

but can never decide who is worthy.

I never planned to be alive,

beyond twenty five,

but something about him,

soothes my lust for living in heaven.

Something about him,

makes me want to stay.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Snappy

Surrender,

you say,

sending me a dream,

to tell me,

danger is over,

if that is the path I choose.

You wear nine hearts on your sleeve,

all around your wrists,

my initials,

inside each one.

I watch you,

watching me,

from the window,

sitting,

sweet on the sill,

trying to tempt me outside,

where blue skies lie.

I wonder,

out of nowhere,

if you are a crocodile,

snapping,

simpering jaws,

brown eyes,

barely above water.

I wonder if you’ll tear me apart,

or if you will be tender,

but,

life is nothing,

if not an adventure.

We are close to a kiss,

on opposing sides of glass.

I count the hearts on your sleeve,

and the beats of my own.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

I Have Been Many Queens

I remember his fear,

as he found my fingertips in the night,

holding them,

as if they were his only anchor to the real world.

How he wept into my hair,

confessing to the night,

that he was afraid to fall in love with me,

in case he lost himself.

I thought I might tell him,

that losing yourself to love,

is surprisingly liberating,

but I knew,

his mind was made up,

and that I would lose him,

when the sun rose.

He sent me roses,

a few weeks later,

telling me I was still on his mind,

but that if I didn’t mind,

he’d like me to leave.

The choice was not mine to make,

but I smiled,

and thought very loudly about leaving,

anyway,

just to be polite,

or to reassure him,

that sometimes your heart can be controlled.

I used to visit him,

in the prison he promised he’d never build for himself,

sending him nail files and escape plans,

that he never opened,

receiving nudes and the occasional teary rant in return.

He seems angry,

sometimes,

because I found a way to live,

he’s sensitive,

that I’m not spending my days,

drawn to him,

knocking on windows,

like I’m lost and in love on the moors.

I can’t say I never cried,

but I can’t say I stayed either,

but is it a crime,

to decide,

that you are too sweet to stay on the shelf,

until the children grow up?

I’ve never fallen in love,

on purpose,

it always takes me by surprise,

but it’s so strong when it happens,

that sometimes,

I think I might sympathise with those it frightens,

but as they beckon me backward,

track marks,

from our entanglement,

on their arms,

and the eyes of a mad man,

that say “I haven’t slept in days”,

I start to wonder,

if I ever really loved them at all,

or if I just obsess over converting “considering” into “I would die for you”.

I don’t know if I’ve ever been in love,

or if I just liked feeling like someone could love me,

one day,

if I am a good enough girl,

and became so consumed by the thought,

that I thought “This is it!”

so I wait,

and I hope,

that I’ll figure it out,

or that something will find me,

and I can be lost again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Bread

Breadcrumbs were seated behind us,

in the car,

as my eyes followed you,

following the sat nav,

and avoiding my eyelashes,

that were loudly shouting

“Look at me,

so that I know

that you love me.”

We scaled the sky,

breadcrumbs,

closing their eyes,

afraid of heights,

and I thought of how I’d miss the sight

of you cleaning your car,

when I was gone,

far from you,

the mountains,

the bread I bought but never intended to eat,

the way you asked if I was frightened,

by the reckless way you drove,

the way I found myself,

sitting on the lap of fear,

but denying its presence,

because you were present.

I miss you,

like your car probably misses the nice man at the car wash,

who takes good care of her,

and smiles as he holds her in his arms,

wiping away the stresses of the world.

I don’t know why I’m fixating on the bread.

I watched you take a bite,
the next morning,

as I wrote poetry,

about the way you’d held me the night before.

You astounded me,

and even though you were by my side,

my body burned for you,

not just with desire,

but a desperate,

pleading,

needy kind of ache.

“Look at me,

so that I know

that you love me.”

You kissed me,

instead,

and my lips told my mind,

that sometimes,

a man can look,

with more than one of his senses.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Concerned Whispers and Online Rumours

I think you knew it couldn’t last.

Eventually,

I’d self immolate.

Immortal,

in your favourite dress,

your favourite girl,

self destructing,

for everyone to see,

gently taking the whole world with me,

dancing myself to death,

to a song I wrote,

from concerned whispers,

and online rumours.

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I was born dead,

appearing,

and then disappearing at will,

my brown eyes,

always overflowing with fucking feeling,

and I tried to tell you,

again and again,

as loud as a person can,

until my throat was sore,

and my pen was out of ink,

that I was nothing but trouble,

dancing in the street,

with strangers,

to a song I wrote,

from concerned whispers,

and online rumours.

img_7877

They say I was born mad.

Can you hear it my love?

It’s so beautiful.

They say my lips aren’t real.

Sing along,

if you can bring yourself to pretend,

for my sake,

that you’re into the lo-fi bedroom pop,

(he’s not…

I’m not mad about it.

I’m not)

I pour onto my label’s table,

to tell them,

that I’m not over being into you.

They say I love you just a little too much.

How much is too much?

img_7878

I am on fire.

I am immortal.

My accountant is crying,

but my audience is growing,

and the sun stays up too late,

to see how it ends.

There is a mad girl,

who was born dead,

dancing in the street,

because it was only a matter of time,

before she came to life

and let her heart get out of control.