Growth

Growth

I’m made up of moments

scribbled in the margins

of a worn out notebook.

These are the seeds sprinkled on recycled trees,

watered by tea-stained cups,

collections of my teardrops.

This is the hope drunk,

burning my throat

as silence drowns from the inside out,

the pen eating each forgotten line

with the fragility of shaking hands,

they hold these feelings as a gentle kiss

between fingers,

held still for a breath

to let the birds bless

this communion of sacred togetherness.

My spirit alive in the ink that spills,

once stalled, for now pours,

as I discover

there is no touch more intimate.

The Distant Present

The Distant Present

I’ve noticed the change,

where before clouds would pass

now this weather is still.

Torrential rain or sunshine rays

and I observe from above,

untouched by the daily gusts of wind,

I am holding this self in place.

Something stays with me,

I cannot put my finger on it,

but a trace of your soul remains in my days

and I’ve never felt more peaceful.

I trace yours

with intentions sent across ocean waves.

Our love spans continents,

don’t ask me how

you exist so close when so far away.

Scrabble

Scrabble

Dividing kilometres

by the words I can add up on my fingers,

hand to heart co-ordinating my pen to write

of your absent mind

whilst my mouth holds back lines,

sentences strung from the day’s reminders of you.

Tina knew,

love has something to do with it

but now is neither the time nor the place

to submit to measured spirits,

I’ve always drunk till contented

and even one can be too much for me.

So I sip today slowly,

stall my letters, keep them short,

the score only matters to those playing the game

and I am no one’s to gain.

I race with the softest of movements,

choices so silent I could slip away.

One For The Road

One For The Road

This empty hotel room

senses the lack of you,

scent lingering on sunken pillows

smells bittersweet, blended with jealousy

as my heart bottles this moment,

cap screwed on tight

in an effort to capture perfection

before it leaves on a plane.

I belong to the longing

and gather what stays,

your tiny imprints and easy mornings,

how you take your coffee,

the fit of your arm

as it curls around my waist.

Time’s precious reminder to stay present,

savour textures,

so I’ll take one of everything you sell

and make each bite last

somehow

until the market stalls open

with even more of this good for sale.

Don’t Hold My Head Down

Don’t Hold My Head Down

If you keep doing what you’ve always done

you’ll keep getting what you’ve always got

and you’ve always done

what makes someone else happy.

Stayed over when you felt you should have left,

wanted to say no but instead you said

‘maybe’ or ‘I don’t know yet’

till pressure turned it into a yes

or it was just conceived as one

when often silence is a siren song,

willing someone to listen

and notice something’s wrong

because there’s a voice here that lacks confidence

in saying what they need

and passive participation

just because the other person said please

doesn’t mean it’s the best decision for you,

and if you hesitate or have to convince yourself to act

then that’s your body saying

you don’t really want to do that,

it’s just hard to know how else the situation will pass

and one makes you uncomfortable for longer.

You don’t need to be stronger

because you aren’t weak

it’s just that you’ve learned through past experience

that it doesn’t matter if you scream out,

your consent is something people have forgotten about

and then your energy was spent on figuring out

how to get help

when it’s clear that no one hears you.

How do you turn up the volume

to a world that presumes

we all speak the same body language

and show fear in the same way?

Most women’s battle cries are first seen in their eyes

because it’s perceived as an easier option than refusal

to instead freeze or play friendly,

because appeasement is indoctrinated

from an early age

where we are taught that men are violent

and it’s not safe as an adult

to leave our house at night

without company,

keys between our finger tips,

not to style our hair in a manner

that someone could grip

because a man’s arousal is our responsibility

and when it’s seen as our fault then the consensus

expects us to do something about

that erection in his pants now,

and it doesn’t matter about reciprocation

or the years our ancestors fought

for our sexual liberation

because we’re a nation of porn users

waiting on Stormzy’s Vossi Bop, cum-shot, money-pot facial

that actress was obviously gagging for

just after the point that the man behind the camera

called her a whore, whilst another man

sticks his dick in her mouth

and holds her head down,

leaving the next generation in no doubt

that a quick internet search

will show the worth of a woman’s body

in the 21st century,

bent over a casting sofa

as three men penetrate her

and piss on her chest.

Society at its best, no holes left to fuck,

a president that brags of grabbing us by the pussy

and still his fucking time isn’t up.

Two girls one cup

because we’re forced to share the shit

that most men don’t want to be burdened with

because feminism doesn’t equate to being masculine

it just means you’re a pussy

to be in the minority

that stand in solidarity

with a woman’s authority over her own cunt.

On the cusp of a sexual revolution

but some still want the opportunity for a witch hunt,

like how 200 million women and girls have been cut,

it’s the new version of burning alive

because if the world gave women permission to have pleasure

it could satiate her life

in ways men don’t know how to satisfy.

So continue to feed her lies

about her lesser place in society

because really you’re worried

she’d be a threat to male survival as we know it.

Death of dependency in exchange for respect

where sex happens when we’re ready

and we’re free to lay down boundaries

and leave when it feels uneasy

because there’s no assumption

that by a certain number date

or in exchange for his undivided time

we’ll end up in his bed for the night,

sacrificing our needs to pacify a man’s pride

because we’re told that caring is in our genes.

The overarching theme that feeds

the means by which we put aside our desires,

burn out our fires

because having a libido just makes us sluts

and sex ends when the man cums

and we’ve always done

what makes someone else happy.

If You And I Had Been Elemental Forces

If You And I Had Been Elemental Forces

Camden market, where I came by

those shoes on your feet. A comfortable fit

to make this mountain climb an easier course,

with a sky of clouds to conquer,

autographed with the mind’s eye.

To finish the picture,

sometimes, we painted our own clouds.

Called this one cumulonimbus,

another formed the shape we know as shame

next to those of cotton-candy kindness

frozen in time. This pattern came

and stayed, covering the stars

like a foggy window pane

and sending down showers of shadows

we forgot were homemade,

but our cheeks will always wet the same

when our skin meets one another’s pain

and mine are still soaked through

from being too soft or hard on you.

Each counted towards the chance of an impending storm

and luck was skirting the lightning strikes

that tracked our every step,

as moonlight fell on this divided town.

Until one of us, lost

the other one, left

both chasing the finer weather.