Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Who’s That Girl?

I’m that girl from your computer screen,

on the live stream, or the self destructive Instagram stories.

I am a collective hallucination that heats up around Halloween and Christmas time.

That girl in a minidress at a Catholic Church,

that bitch who sits on the bridge by her lakeside lair, writing rhymes and reasons to stay alive,

unconvinced by the inconvenience of her insistent lungs and heart, who are suddenly so interested in increasing their lifespan.

I am the God that I worship on the way to wayward infamy,

creeping through the caverns of my own concoctions over and over,

because new ground isn’t nice to think about.

I am the worst and best thing to happen to many unfortunate people.

I am virtuous hypocrisy,

hanging out on hills and high horses,

ghost of girls past,

getting away from it all in my notebooks,

writing my memoirs and all my love songs about my candy lips and the candid stories that live all across my wide hips.

I’m not quite British,

so at times of trouble,

my mug makes no time for tea,

making eyes at the vodka that invites me from the top of the kitchen cupboard,

and when I drink,

I do so with the knowledge that nothing about my life will change,

and I will never really escape,

but I drink, nonetheless,

write a poem as I sober up,

and I sleep on a bed of bad choices.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Made

I’d like to say I was made somewhere,

but I don’t know that I’m complete.

A naive version of myself thought this would be a settled point in my life,

but she was deluded in the most darling way,

footsteps receding as she raises her eyes to the stars,

hopeful and hungry.

I have washed up on many beaches,

daughter of many shores,

never sure of which way to wander when the whistling wind calls,

just going wherever the breeze and the waves take me.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Jennifer’s Only Happy When She’s Up on the Stage

The poetry I write says nothing to me about my life,
because my life is preciously provincial,
still doing the same routines, no matter how I age,
writing the same stanzas again and again,
chilling but charming,
page after page,
because it doesn’t matter what I say,
my velvet voice makes it much more pleasant.

She told me that I was her favourite thing that I had ever written,
so I wrote an affectionate album across each inch of her hands with lonely lips,
kiss after kiss,
restrained and trained to taper off when it all got too much,
and it always gets too much,
because heaven is hazy and heated in a way that one can never take for too long.

She talks as if I created myself,
but truthfully, I am a creature created by life’s cruelty and God’s gawky sense of humour,
getting through it and assessing the damage when everyone else is resting,
resisting the urge to ask for a refund on the human experience,
because nobody likes a whiner.

So cynical, with so little to say,
it’s all so hideous,
so hard to hear,
the cross of the lord around the neck of a girl with feminine fingerprints across her throat,
in a chokehold of my own torment.
So little to say that isn’t sullied in sorrow,
but, oh, such a sweet little voice,
so enunciated,
so overrated.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Sick Of It All

I get so sick of it, you know. All the flowery ways in which I could say “I fucked up, and I don’t know if there will ever be time to fix it.” and there are kind smiles from all the obliged ones, who can’t escape my incessant mess, because we are bound by blood or subservient to sycophantic sentimentality.

Writing another verse about how I am the fucking worst. Lamenting that nobody likes me, but much like Morrissey, I don’t care. Shouting to an empty room about how it’s so unfair, to be so brilliant, but never beloved.

I will be applauded, again, for being vulnerable and honest, for tearing the skin from my broken bones and putting on a show of the deepest emotion. God, won’t you help me? I’ve been dying for decades, and I don’t know how to live with that. And… and it’s all so raw, so the people will applaud, because I got out my notebook, instead of going to therapy (again), and I’m on my knees, wailing and whinging about how nobody’s love will ever be enough for me, because I have spent my life chasing a high that could never exist.

One day, I will live in an ancient palace, just to be dramatic and decadent. The walls will echo with torment, and the girl I love will be galled by the restraining order I gifted her for Valentine’s Day. I will be barren and broken hearted. A recluse. Writing another verse, about how I am the fucking worst, and how it was all so inevitable, and I promise you, I will be so sick of it all.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

I Love You, But I Have To Go

It’s all falling down.
London Bridge,
and all the things you dreamed of,
as you stared across the river at it.
I love you, but I have to go,
because there’s nothing else I can do,
except mourn you in solitude when I eventually arrive on safer shores, of course,
but for now,
all I can do is pull away my fingertips from your grasping, desperate hand,
tear my eyes from the face I’ve stared at for a lifetime and walk away.

I love you, but I have to go,
because you have to die so that I can live,
and I know you’ll never understand why,
but I love you,
more than my departure suggests, and I know this is best,
but something about the way you wail makes it so hard to hang it all up and go.
The sky is aflame,
we swipe the clouds left and right with warm hands,
but you know that I have to go,
don’t you?

I love you, but I have to go.
I love you, but you have to let me go,
and I’d tell you
“No, I won’t forget you”
but the way you cling to what’s left of me shows that you know I will.
I take one last look at your familiar eyes,
your gaze so defeated under the glassy guard of the Thames,
and my hand hurts without you to hold it,
but the world is aflame,
the sun is sleeping on the ground,
and I love you, but I have to go.

I’ll never know if you were crying,
as you slip further under the surface,
but you had to die,
so I could live,
reborn and free of who I was, with you.
I love you, but I have to go.

Maybe one day,
when it all cools down,
you can come back around,
but for now,
I have to rebuild a new girl for us to be.
I love you, and I’ll come back for you, one day.