Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The Well Meaning Angel

I am a weary traveller,
washing my hands of myself as I fall down at his door,
carrying every wound that I once hoped someone else would hold,
begging for the breakthrough of flaming valleys.

I am too weak to tell him that I do not want to be fixed when he finds me,
he doesn’t try to tell me that I am safe from my own soul and all the terrible, dreadful things it could do,
because he is a servant of my best friend’s father,
and he can never tell a lie.

I want it, but I cannot accept it.
He takes my tears and let’s them trickle back into my eyes,
but they never stay in place.
I take to the seas after sundown,
never going down with the ship,
because he has the audacity to save me, each time I try to drown.

A young man on the hill,
holding the child of a tree in his humble hand.
He guides me back to shore,
pulling me from the wreckage, when he must,
much too good to me,
and never asking anything in return.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

How Insensitive

Each setting of the sun,
minute and moment brings me closer to you.
I can feel the fire of your arrival,
itching underneath my skin,
and though I’m still lost in my lonely lullabies,
fast asleep by the time the day begins,
I wake up when I feel your hand in mine,
every time,
without fail.

You’re on the way,
and I don’t know if I will ever be ready, to just be happy,
because how can I learn to live anew, when all my ghosts gather by my bedside?
They stop the clocks, shaking me from my sleep at 3am every morning,
to remind me how many seconds have slipped through my shaking hands,
and how unprepared I am to be truly loved.

Last night,
I rose from my nightmares and noticed that I only ever cried when I gave myself a moment to meet my memories.
I cried for the girl who cried in dark, windowless bathrooms,
her panic, trapped in her throat, as she scrubbed her skin until it bled, to get foreign fingertips from her body.
I cried for how cruel I was.
How insensitive I must have seemed, when I stared back from the mirror,
unmoved by her tears. How cruel I was, when I made her go back to the bed that she shared with her greatest fear.

I will never talk to you about it,
and you’ll feel excluded,
untrusted,
my cruelty continuing,
tearing apart a new, untouched soul.
I’ll never apologise in person,
but your face will join my ghosts,
and I will never sleep again.

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.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The Vanity Of The Violet Divinity

I am lost in my reflection,

painting away my pain,

ebony across my eyelids and pink paint on my soft lips.

This is just the vanity of the violet divinity,

with my eyelashes thunderous and thick,

throat full of codeine that tampers with my whisky dreams.

Dreams where I am not defined by what I see,

because I just feel sweet peach lights dancing all across my skin,

soft violins play out the sun set,

and I am so beautiful.