Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The English Daughter Of An Immigrant

There is a river of ruby running up my arms and down my legs,

and in my chest,

a vault of vermillion,

a million shades soar all through my body,

and while my loyalties are split,

I still gave my heart to this island,

in part,

an honest, open heart,

split across the shining waves of the majestic Mediterranean.

Drowning with my hands untied.

I am at my most beautiful,

at the bottom of the ocean,

no longer conflicted,

no longer gifting my soul to one side or another,

just sleeping among the fishes,

as they leak into my dreams with sweet lullabies.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing


Can a dog born in a stable,

call itself a horse?

I call myself the name,

that my English mother gave me,

and I arrived to an audience,

of doctors and nurses.

The NHS is in a state,

but they’re not dragging babies out in stables,


so am I a dog,

or a horse,

or a swallow,

singing arias,

on the way out of the sea of scrubs and sedatives?

It always turns out,

that an English mother,

a name my teachers could pronounce,


in what is,

if we’re being honest,

an ugly language,

and several years of taxes,

do not count,


it doesn’t matter what you put in,

how you change,

or what you take out,

some people are marked,

faded ink on a passport,

but still visible,

to armchair border force guards.

I never thought of myself as a dog,

or a horse,

I haven’t enough legs to be either,

and I tried not to be so bothered,

finding home,

far away,

where the other half of my heart,

and DNA lies,

but it was a lie,

a fiction I felt in every inch of my unclaimed,

unwanted soul.


by a parent,

who feels no sense of duty,

and no sense of shame,

who tells me to assimilate,

and then tells me to fuck off,

back to the stable of shame,

pinning a tail on the donkey,

then pulling it off,

over and over,

until I scream


I’m a dog.

I’m a horse.

I’m not here,

but I am,

but I’ll go.”

And the stable is full of people,


blinded by confusion,

talking quietly among themselves,

not one of them the same,

because nobody is,

no matter how much you close your eyes,

to blur the lines,

that form your entire identity.

We are all people,

crammed into a stable,

on an island,

on a planet,

that is dying,

so does it really matter,

if I call myself a dog,

or a horse,

or by the name my English mother gave me?

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Sant Jordi, With You

It has been so many days,

three hundred and sixty six,

to be exact,

since I sent my dreams down the river,

on a boat,

I planned to sink,

seeing love,

as a damaging dream,

that would kill me,

if I didn’t kill it myself.


I spent a summer writing to myself,

sitting on the shelf,

where I felt safest,

banishing roses from my bedroom,

blood red beating heart,

begging for company.

I lamented,

languishing in loss,

living in a grey world,

dreaming of the dream I drowned.


I wrote a world of roses and promises,

but sometimes books burn,

torn and tattered,

when they are given with love,

but not loved in return,

so I decided to stop,

just writing to myself,

spending Sant Jordi with my soul,

buying myself books,


and cider.


This year,

I am at the riverbed,

reviving the dream that I drowned,

and mourned,

writing new books,

with new twists and turns,

roses on my skin,

with each kiss you plant,

and I give those kisses,

sweet like roses,

to the dream

that found her way back to me.

My heart,

safe in your gentle hands.

My dream,


My soul,


Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Thoughts On Writing, Writing

Sant Jordi

We pretend that we aren’t swayed,

but we still stay in awe of the twenty four hour magic,

the way everybody smiles just a little bit more,

the electric in our fingertips,

as we hold hands,

(just in case we get lost, definitely NOT because we are in love),

we go about the day,

slightly sailing through the air.


You gave me a single crimson rose,

while I signed my soul into seventy seven books,

ignoring you,

from my book fair booth,

but still looking up every few seconds,

to check you were still cutting back in line,

to get my attention.

Just a single crimson rose.


You are a waste of my time,

and a waste of my words,

or so I told myself,

as I signed my last book,

making it out to the waste I loved most in the world,

I singed my soul,

in black ink,

branded on the book I wish I didn’t write about you.


As night fell,

the day dancing down the street,

and out of sight,

you were still in line, all alone,

with your single crimson red rose,

not seeming to understand why it wasn’t enough,

for a girl who gave a gift,

that would last forever.


You held the sharp stem in your hands,

so tightly that you bled,

crawling onto the table of the booth,

under the soft, spring moon,

to declare to the town,

(that didn’t really care),

that you would grow me a garden of roses,

if I would stay and watch you grow.


I watered you,

from my eyes.

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