Posted in Creative Writing, Writing

Counselling

Don’t be stubborn.

Don’t be distrusting.

Don’t be so distressed.

Don’t carry the crimes of lost souls, into your new life.

These are the mantras,

I repeat in my mirror,

every morning,

trying hard to adore the idea,

of existing in such an unsure,

unappealing universe.

I don’t mean to be unkind,

but as a great crab once said,

the human world,

it’s a mess,

and,

yes,

I am messy,

but was I born this way,

or am I just the result of my environment?

It doesn’t really matter,

because,

we are where we are,

and I am miming my mantras,

to the mirror,

for far longer than I intended.

He holds onto me,

stubborn and seductive,

as I venture between the valleys,

without leaving his arms.

Maybe one day,

I will free him,

from the sentence my past suitors have inflicted,

on him,

and anyone else I encounter,

so that they do not fall prey,

to a prison,

that they refuse to escape from.

I want him to escape,

so that we can be free,

forever,

together,

but my mantras meld,

into one,

unintelligible mess,

and I forget,

all I remembered,

about how to be in love.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

I Am a Goddess

I am a goddess.
I wonder what it will feel like to live.
I hear the sound of the clouds, impossible, inspirational.
I see a new day.
I want what I deserve.
I am a goddess.

 

 

I pretend I am a human.
I feel accomplished in my performance.
I touch the darkest part of my soul, and all the secrets it has silenced.
I worry that I’ll never live forever.
I cry about my crimes, and all the ways I’ve marked myself.
I am a goddess.

 

 

I understand that life goes on.
I say that I decide when I do.
I dream about my diary entries.
I try to write myself better.
I hope my dreams come true.
I am a goddess.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Recovery

Some days,

I think I’ve recovered,

and then I remember,

the first time I thought I had,

and I miss my naivety,

so much,

that I drown myself,

in the knowledge that I will always be struggling for air.

I have a little girl,

but not in the way you think.

She’s so optimistic,

sticking around,

hoping for recovery that can never reach her.

People don’t get it.

I don’t want to spend my life,

with the word “oh” before my name,

as people who can’t understand,

rub my shoulders,

and tell me that it’s okay.

I don’t know how I want to spend my life.

I don’t know what “better” or “recovery” look like.

I don’t want their hands on my shoulders.

I don’t want pity in their voices.

I don’t want ghosts to still hold onto my little girl,

but,

nobody really gets what they want,

in the end.

Do they?

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Hunger Pains

I think I was ten.

Wearing midnight blue,

in the middle of the day.

My neighbourhood knew that one day,

probably in the middle of the day,

I’d be the world’s greatest dancer,

and so it span around me,

as I sat,

in the big girl’s passenger seat,

feeling real sweet,

in my midnight, midday, blue,

after dance class.

img_4959

Hawley Road.

You were my hero.

As I said,

I was probably ten,

but now,

I’d rather not say how old I am,

just that I am taking strepsil after stressed out strepsil,

hoping to finally choke to death.

img_4956

Anyway,

back to the car,

Hawley Road,

and the ten minute drive I cannot forget.

I think I was ten.

You were driving me home,

after dance class.

You’ve just done it again,

and I can’t see what I’m writing,

because the day you drove me home,

is replaying,

and tripping down my cheeks and lips.

img_4957

I was ten,

dance class.

I was a booster seat for a box,

filled with my favourite cakes.

I was Hawley Road.

Driving down ten.

Box booster seat.

I’d been dancing for hours.

I asked for a cake,

and you said,

that I was sent to dance,

so I could lose weight,

and suddenly,

I fell from the stars I performed for.

img_4958

I’m still falling now,

and I can see you,

forgetting to remember,

what I cannot forget.

I hadn’t had breakfast that day,

because we had overslept.


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Jigsaw

Can you fit my heart into yours?

There’s a missing piece,

several,

actually,

and I’ve begged them to come home,

so we can be complete,

but,

God,

they’re just like me.

Off at parties they never wanted to attend,

reliving rickshaw rides,

and dances at bus stops,

that are only wonderful in their heads.

pexels-photo-164531.jpeg

Hearts with heads,

God,

they’re just like me.

I see you’re missing pieces too.

You don’t have to tell me where they are,

or where you’ve been,

but,

maybe we can ignore what we lost,

and try to make a picture,

from the pieces that remain?


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