Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Spooky Season, Writing

Flashback – The Bride Wore Blood

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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

She Was A Monster Too

Crazy Ken and Barbie,

butchers of the brightest stars,

the sweet innocents that couldn’t escape,

missed and mourned in grassy graves.

Interrupting the peace of the night,

the monsters of the moors scar the unsuspecting parents,

the kind of people who just do their best and never imagine that evil had its eye on their children.

There’s no such thing as an innocent accomplice,

you see,

no softer description to be doled out for the ones who insist they were following orders, and considered resisting.

It’s not enough to be apprehensive,

if you open the gates and let hell walk the Earth.

It’s not enough if you dance with the devil, at a distance, because you’re still too close, too compliant,

your hands are bloody and you are just as depraved.

Don’t you see what you’ve done?

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Dead Women Are Not Documentary Fodder

Pin me to your wall,

let me be your poster girl,

posted on lamp posts and Reddit threads,

with rhetoric and rumours.

Deconstruct my death,

before it’s even reported in full,

tell yourself you honour me with your curiosity,

tie me up in the tropes of true crime.

Dead girls never say no,

so,

regrettably,

you can call me what you like.

You bother me with your curiosity,

digging into my dirt,

your nails, filthy with fragments of my privacy,

an old life,

that I will never step into again,

now covered in oily fingerprints,

drenched in shame and assumption,

knee deep in necro stalking,

until a more captivating corpse comes along.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Wilma McCann, Emily Jackson, Irene Richardson, Patricia Atkinson, Jayne MacDonald, Jean Jordan, Yvonne Pearson, Helen Rytka, Vera Millward, Josephine Whitaker, Barbara Leach, Marguerite Walls, Jacqueline Hill.

“Say her name”, we ask,

minds are blank, his name echoes.

Infamous. Blood soaked.

“Say her name”, we ask,

set her free. Let her be hers.

His ghostly grip stays.

“Say her name”, we ask,

serial killers are stars.

Women. Trapped torches.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Gypsy Rose

Pills under my pretty tongue,

that never had a wrong word on it.

I promise,

I’ll be a lovely living doll.

Mama,

will I always be a beautiful girl?

Will you always dress me with the list,

condition couture,

downloaded while I slept?

Could you tell me what’s wrong with me today?

Tell me why I can’t be like the girls I see?

Tell me why I can’t explore summer skies,

Coca Cola nights?

gypsy rose blanchard

Why am I,

tethered to the bed we share,

by a feeding tube,

and a list of conditional couture,

downloaded while I slept,

slipped into my life,

until my life,

is just your medical mood board,

and I am just your lovely living doll,

who never learned to live?

Mama,

will I always be a beautiful girl?


Sign the petition here.


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