Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The Way I Am

This is just the way it is.
Nestled in our nihilism,
watching Geno documentaries with dropped jaws and wide eyes.
I smoke cigarettes as you slink your hands around my waist,
not a care in the world,
not even for you,
nor for the blue aura that beats in the air,
pulsing and pushing as your eyes light up.
This is just the way it is.
You cower from what crawls across the screen,
but your doom was always fast asleep in your lap.
This is just the way I am.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Fix Me, Love Me

You’re on the doorstep, in the moonlight,
coaxing me me from my candy land of contorted chapters,
where I awake, unable to question, and unable to experience,
just sitting in place,
bastardised beauty queen,
doing everything I can just to get through it.

I ride alone as the night falls,
and you follow along,
flying on the wind with such will that it frightens me.
Fix me if you feel like it,
or love me as life left me.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Coping Mechanisms For When I Remember That You Are No Longer Mine

It’s only over,
that’s all.
Memories exist,
but taste oh so bland.

It’s only over,
you know.
I’ll remember you,
like I remember Hastings beach on a sunny day,
when I dug myself into the sand with a sullen, tear soaked face and begged to stay.

It’s only over,
I guess.
I have nothing to cry about but everything.
I write your name in the margins of my notebooks when my mind is absent,
ruining my best pen with furious, frustrated scribbles to cover it when my mind returns,
but I’m not thinking about it too deeply.

It’s only over,
I say.
It’s not the end of the world.
I’ll never see the end of the world.
The Earth does not shatter or explode when I remember,
but a small knot is tied inside my stomach,
and I recall that day on the beach,
just a child who didn’t understand that happy days only contain the same twenty four hours as sad ones.

Posted in Writing, Blog, Creative Writing

Little Girls Must Fight Their Urges

Someone mentioned your name yesterday,
and my nails dug into my palm,
the marks still present as I struggled out of a dream of you this morning,
asking myself why my impulse is still to punish myself for your presence in my subconscious when I am supposedly free?

The trains are fucked this morning and all I can do is recall how you insisted on driving,
donning a cool, calm persona as you pressed your fingertips to the wheel,
your nails digging into the leather as you find yourself aflame,
your eyes had stared a little too long at my legs,
and your lip was carved by your teeth.

We’re not so different, you and me.

Posted in Writing, Blog, Creative Writing

Ever Present Changes

Flowers are fading as winter hangs in the air,
hot chocolate in her hands and a smug smile on her face.
Trees grasp to the last of their green glimmer,
glittering lover’s tears trickling down the solid branches as another departure is dragged out,
winter’s wicked grin towers grim over autumn’s last weeks,
watching the earth wither and die.
It’s okay.
Everything will return,
just as it always does,
if I wait,
I can be here to see it.