Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Pride Month 2022, Writing

Flashback – Back On The Boat

My mistress’ eyes are the only thing I see when I sleep.
However hard I try to escape the bounds of boundless affection,
all I do is dream of her glacial gaze,
in the service of a temptress,
reeling all day, long after I have awoken.
It isn’t a bad life, to be in love.

Last night, she told me that I have stolen her sleep,
opening the windows of her mind and gliding in,
visiting when night falls, to leave my love for her to find when morning comes.
Every day, she says, she wakes up with my lipstick trailing down her tender, slender throat.
So it goes.

All we do is dream,
stuck in a cycle of wanting but never getting,
having, for just a second, with closed eyes and distant bodies.
Life is so tough, when my lover goes to war,
I just dream of her eyes, and await her return.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Pride Month 2022, Writing

My Body Is A Party

My body is a party,
but nobody is invited,
because I am a terrible host,
toasting my terrible timorousness,
taking in the empty room and taking a shallow breath as the sound of silence sends me into tears.

How do you fall in love when you are in love with self loathing?
I heard once that I could meet somebody who really loves me,
but I didn’t love the idea of sticky clubs and selling my heart to the highest bidder under flashing lights,
so I stayed home,
surrounded by the sonnets and songs of my youth,
wondering why life was,
as I had also once heard,
sick and cruel.

Do you think that happiness is the kind of thing that happens for everyone?
I’m starting to think that it doesn’t,
drawn into long debates with myself about fate,
the waiting game and my place on this planet,
and I just think
“Hasn’t it been long enough?”
Life owes you nothing but surely I am owed something?
I’ve been here this whole time,
rolling with the vibes and the punches that follow,
furious and flowing so quickly that soon,
they are all that is left.

Don’t mind me, I’m just going through something.
It’s a challenge to keep it cool when I am made or ice,
melting, only to learn hard lessons that help me to freeze again.
I don’t mean to complain,
but I’ve gained nothing from never ending smiles and positive affirmations,
so there’s no path left but the painful whines of a wild child,
lost in the wilderness,
waiting for her lover to lock eyes with her across a room,
and whisper,
“You’re what I’ve been looking for.”

I could find the wrong one in one minute,
it really just takes a second for him to slither in, but, the right one?
She is elusive,
exclusive and evasive.
I have torn myself apart,
trying to be ready for her to find me,
trying to fix all of the issues and pack away the tissues I have cried into,
fixing my make up and pretending I have my shit together,
so that she knows I am ready to be loved,
but it’s all a lost cause,
because the truth is,
my greatest fear is,
I will never be ready.

I will never be ready,
so my body remains a party that I don’t want to be at,
and I stare through the sea at a locked door,
unconvinced but reassured that it’s safer if it stays that way.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Pride Month 2022, Writing

Flashback – Shadow Banned

I left lavender letters on the pillowcase,
my eyes glittering in the sunrise’s gaze.
There were shadows spying in the door way,
but I had resigned myself to life as a laboured spirit,
so I had accepted it long ago.
The shadows toddled down the hallway behind me,
endlessly emulating the soft sway of my hips,
but never quite getting it,
reaching into the cupboard under my sink,
to search for a pot of paint, about my shade, to go for a swim in.

It made no difference.
I wrote myself in synths and sighs,
immortalising the girl I was last night on a cassette tape,
and the shadows sat at the kitchen table,
playing it,
rewinding it,
playing it,
rewinding it,
until I got sick of it and snapped the tape in two,
ribbons of rarity cascaded to the carpet,
and the shadows wanted it so badly that they launched to the floor,
holding what remained of the cracked shell and torn up insides.

I had become so used to telling people that I was a poisoned apple,
that I forgot to tell them I was cured,
fit for consumption,
keeping up the hostility,
the shadows once again copying me,
until they became so unbearable,
so unbelievably hard to love that even I became appealing by comparison.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Pride Month 2022, Writing

Flashback – Darling, When You Look My Way

It was 4am, and I was in Dartford park.
There was nothing to be afraid of anymore,
nowhere to hide and nothing to hide from,
just the steady back and forth of the swings as I rang out my own personal new year, months and hours too late.
I had decided that day, that I was going to start again.
It would be like I had died, and come back as something much more manageable for all the people that had grown sick of what I currently am.
It was a nonsense, of course,
as many things are when it comes to me,
but I needed some kind of delusional promise to keep myself going.

I would have given you everything, my love,
eternal adoration,
all my riches,
all my fruit salad chewits,
if you’d just let yourself be loved.
I sang that song you always loved at my show last night,
my audience were kind, indulging me as I bored them to tears with a song, composed by Britain’s most beloved tax cheat,
and they cheered politely when it was done,
so I considered our conversation done,
until of course, you had to post about my childhood favourite movie.

It feels like you’re still talking to me.
I’m your pretty Peggy Ray,
going missing on the moon,
because that’s just what you do to me,
and maybe one day,
I’ll come back down to Earth,
but for now,
I can’t face it.

Don’t be surprised when you spy me in all of our old haunts,
taunting myself with my memories is how I handle the news that nothing has changed and I am still seventeen, somewhere inside myself.
I lost myself, a little, when I loved you,
lost my shit and said “Fuck it!” because I wanted to be young and in love for a bit,
something sweet for the summer,
postcards full of lustful longing that soon became letters,
then suitcases full of songs and stanzas about the stupid, clever girl that has lived in my head for a decade.

I had to delete your number,
because as sweet as you find my self destructive tendencies,
there were only so many times I could drunkenly text you the lyrics to Mark Owen’s “Hail Mary” before I gained the self awareness to put my heart away,
praying that my next lover will be able to love me when both of us are sober.

Here I am,
singing into dark, empty skies,
swinging like my life depends on it,
dreaming of a goodbye kiss that becomes so crazed and dazed that it never ends.
I’m still here,
4am, Dartford park,
swinging higher and higher, hoping to see the stars from that song you always loved.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Pride Month 2022, Writing

On Her Mind

She said I was on her mind,
and that she hoped I was happy,
so I made her a mix tape of all my mixed up feelings, and hid it at the bottom of my wardrobe,
where we used to reside,
residents of the heartbreak hotel that we ran together,
like an old married couple.

She told me I was hers,
and I couldn’t get enough of it,
how it felt,
how it sounded,
how it grounded me.
Our bodies speak while we are silent,
and even from miles away,
I dance to the sweet melody of her.