Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Don’t Be So Mean To Baby, ‘Cause Baby’s So Good To You

You must be made of stone,
because you seem so unmoved,
unimpressed by my infatuation,
just a wry, dry laugh as you grab my waist and grab a kiss from the lips of your special girl.
I drown,
dreaming of you in the shadow of the sun and the mood lighting of the moon.

I drown in your doe eyes,
dining on your divine ambition,
enthralled by all the things you dream about,
because you made a better woman of me, the moment we kissed.
You’ve made a monster too,
a desperate damsel,
who will die without her lips on every inch of you,
dying for another taste,
dancing in my drama,
watching your death stare climb over the frame of your glasses,
as you struggle to work through my disruption.

I am as annoying to the state as a striking worker,
as adorable to you as a plane full of puppies,
but like the state,
you stay with your head stuck in the sand,
ignoring my cries for attention and affection,
and I spin out,
circling your sandy grave with a solemn sob.

I list the longing looks I give you,
counting up your debts as you strip back my depths,
until I am aching, on the floor before you.
You play it painfully cool,
and sometimes, I wonder if you care for me at all,
but then you kneel down next to me,
paying back my longing looks with lingering kisses,
and I feel like I am existing in a dream.

You are a high that I hunger for,
forever.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Grandma

The daughter of an industrial town,
her mind and ambition flowed as fast as the much watched waves of the Mersey,
and she was much maligned,
as clever little girls often are,
but they are the kind of girls that build the strongest women.

Running across the bridge to Runcorn,
dark hair flowing and glowing in the moonlit wind,
the world wasn’t ready for a woman like her,
but she wasn’t ready to settle for the bounds they believed she should stick to,
and as the sun set across Spike Island,
she had made up her mind to be more than everyone was capable of allowing her to be.

Clever little girls that grow into strong women don’t just grow in their own regard,
they topple dams and tear down walls with weary smiles,
knowing that they alone must change a lazy, spiteful society,
so that more girls can grow and flower,
climbing higher and higher,
until they reach down a hand,
pulling each other over the barriers of their bounds, towards the road to freedom.

She never stopped.
Her eyes as focused as her detractors and their dismal desire to keep her compliant.
She, like so many before her,
and like so many after her hoped to do,
became the woman that she needed,
and the woman that a terrified, antiquated ogre could not stand,
standing tall, to show babies in pink blouses how to do the same,
and as I struggled to my feet before her,
I knew that one day,
I would be lucky to be just like her.

Posted in Blog

#IBelieveHer

A few years ago, I recorded and released a podcast, discussing the behaviour of a man and his abuse of me and other women. I did this to try and raise awareness, because I knew he was attempting to use social media to find and abuse new victims, and I felt it was important to use my platform to try and make sure other women and girls didn’t go through what I and other women had.

I spoke with other women who felt brave enough to open up about their own abuse by him, after hearing the episode, and I also spoke with women and girls who recognised that they could have been victims, if they hadn’t fallen off of his radar as he quickly moved between targets for his abuse. 

In 2021, I unpublished the episode, as I was advised by the police that they were hoping CPS would charge him for his crimes. They’ve now decided they can’t be bothered to do that, so I am once again sharing the episode in the hope that women who may have been silenced feel less alone, and that women who are lucky enough to have not yet met him can protect themselves from him.

Spotify

Anchor

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Monogamy

We planted flowers where nobody would find them,
exchanging vows like Christmas gifts at the gates of he old factory on the hill that was meant to be flats six months ago.
Life was always slow, in this kind of town,
the kind of place where sunsets and winter winds become one,
and life goes on,
day by day,
late bus by late bus,
late dinner by late dinner,
collapsing into a slumber that allowed another day to creep by.

It was the same,
until I saw her,
and that’s when I began sowing seeds on the streets,
smiling at the sun that set them on the right path.
I trained my left hand to carry the heavy, holy promise of her love,
but I could never be ready.

I held her like a mother.
I shivered like a child.
I don’t think I’m done growing,
but it stumbles by the wayside for a while,
my bones, breaking and healing as my soul sits atop my shoulders, shaking her head as I search my surroundings for danger, that would never come.

Her vows and her faith weigh heavy on my mind,
but her body is light and loving on my lap.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Women Have Sore Throats

I have got a sore throat.

So many words have soared past my painted lips,

but they never click in the ears and minds of those who bind me in their bastard bounds,

rounding on me with furious, famished eyes,

and I stand before them,

saying the same things,

screaming and shouting,

about my right to exist without their insistence on extracting my will to live with their torment.

I cannot plead anymore for them to picture me with my humanity intact.

I’ve got nothing left.