Poetry

'The Key' 2022

Observing a room of twirling rose-blush stars,

Eyes blurred.

A tongue previously tied from shame so easily un-knotted by a glass of wine,

Words slurred.

It seems every other participant locked their chest of hurt,

Threw away the key, and forgot about me.

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'To Those Who Still Like Me' 2022

This is a plea to those who still like me.

 

My mind is riddled with guilt over words I don’t remember and actions I can’t recall.

More intoxicated now by a need to regain a sense of acceptance, than I was the night I unlocked my chest and unleashed the memories I’d spent a year squashing within.

Actions I kept secret out of respect for those who never respected me.

I thought I did the right thing by telling the truth,

But now with the reality of sobriety drowning me,

It doesn’t matter how often I’m reassured, I simply can’t remove the shard of regret I pushed into my own stomach the night I opened my mouth and let those haunted sentences spill from my tongue.

 

He hasn’t contacted me since I did that.

Perhaps my friends forgot about me completely,

Or perhaps they converse in kitchens, like school kids passing notes in class.

I think I would prefer to be forgotten about.

To be like a passing breeze,

A momentary tap of sunlight,

Or that one final dot of rain.

Because I’m just constantly checking Instagram now.

Who viewed my story?

Who is top of the list?

Why don’t they contact me?

What did I say to them?

 

I’ve become so tightly wound-up in my mind, so comfortable being in Stockholm,

That I can’t seem to locate the escape plan I drew up in October 2021.

 

So,

This is a plea to those who still like me.

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'The Performance' 2021

A Three-Part Poem

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Part 1

The Gardener

Kind eyes, wise and blue as the sea, shadowed beneath a straw hat,

Watching her, watching the bride,

Her, dressed as a rose, too tempting for his green fingers to resist,

Perhaps if he preferred lavender, buttercups, or violets, everything would’ve been sweeter,

Kinder, more peaceful,

But she was such a blossoming rose,

Blushing and endearing,

Dancing, swaying, fluttering in the warm spring breeze,

He would ignore her thorns, for the opportunity to cradle her petals,

To inhale her, be filled by her, utterly consumed.

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Part 2

The Rose

He was different.

Others were bandaged in black, shoulders sharp, standing structured and tall,

But he was like a breeze, he gave breath,

Like water, he hydrated,

And as a gardener would, he supplied the conditions to flourish.

But he only saw the superficial.

He would dodge my thorns, he would trim and file the points down,

He was looking for the perfect centre piece for his garden,

To gaze upon, proud, with love and adoration.

But the more he would shape and conduct,

The more I would pierce,

The further my roots would nestle within the soil,

The soil of our home.

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Part 3

The Home

Oh, how they became one,

Their garden a perfume, a flourish of colour and warmth,

Their fragrance, hovering around the newly built cradles,

A hypnotic cloud to hide the never-ending trimming and piercing,

The praying.

The knowledge that this was wrong,

The forbidden words filling throats with cotton, dry and tight.

Fighting, in the hopes that one of them would untie the knot,

But like a gardener, he continued to care,

And like a rose, she existed to perform.

And so, when summer was complete,

When he couldn’t supply the conditions to thrive,

And her petals fell,

And her thorns became knotted,

And her roots wouldn’t come loose,

Like a bird, he flew, free.

 

And the cradles rocked,

And the cries would echo,

But the house was still.

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'My Soldier's Arms' 2021

A Two-Part Poem

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Part 1

You gift me your arms, cocooning me whole,

My home, my church, my ground.

You would tease and I would laugh,

You would watch the cricket whilst I would cook.

Sunlight was sprinkled across the wooden kitchen table,

A room glowing golden,

My happy bubble of forever summer Sunday mornings.

How selfish of me.

How cruel of me to employ you as my shield,

Turning a blind eye to the battlefield you would face alone.

Whilst I was cradled, safe in your love,

You were being littered in metal.

And it took some years, but target practice became so regular that the wounds stopped healing,

And bullet holes became bloody windows for me to peak through.

Only then did I really know of the bitter world you experience,

Tasting of copper, sharp on the tongue.

Looking acidic, slicing eyes.

Smelling rancid, blistering a nose.

And that knowledge butchered me.

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Part 2

Slipping my arms out from under your desperate grasp,

Sprouting them into vines and growing around your middle,

Weaving threads together, a blanket to block the rounds of fire.

Desperate to become your knight,

“Please let me protect you”.

Hoping you can heal in the short time I’m offering.

Laying my head upon your chest, heartbeat hollowing my skull, ear to ear,

Your eyes look upon vacant, whilst mine fill with tears,

Stinging in salt,

Experiencing just a moment of the pain you’ve endured for years.

Twisting you away from the frontline,

Willing you to retreat,

Dancing you towards Eden.

I can see the light, a dazzling exit sign,

But has this world smothered your vision?

Praying to a god, whichever one might still believe in I,

And whilst my friends laughed, cringing at my idea of spirit,

I continued to hope.

Continued to beg.

Because you are my childhood,

My memories,

My guiding star,

My anchor,

My Soldier.