Dysphoria

He chose me for my sadness, he told me; the challenge of it, of replacing the dead weight with life, my pallor with English rose. I know a project when I see one, he said, appraising my rib-caged flesh, my hollow eyes.  With each button opening, a mans desire. When he was done, I was sure I had counted each ceiling tile twice, compartmentalised each shade of white and grey, the slight mould of green in the left corner, the opal spider’s web on the right, the light flicker. My leaden legs shaking slightly with the weight of him; his breath in my ear. I wanted to slice him, groin to neck, and back again. But I soothed myself, my girly wiles, count to ten, then back again, Just remember to smile. 

Wanderlust

I fell in love

with a nightingale

He took my heart

And flew away

Do not fall in love 

with a nightingale 

They cannot stay

For this you pay

Its the wind 

you see?

It calls them still

It whispers:

Fly away from her

She will never do you good

A home girl and a Wanderer 

will always be apart

So take off now just be a man

Don’t mind her broken heart

The nightingale must fly away

There are so many things to see

I know you want to look at her

But think of Paris, Spain and Italy 

So fly off now don’t be afraid

Her face, it soon will fade

Just remember it is yours, the sky

and soar soar soar 

up high.

The Magic Women

I often see folklore tales in my dreams

Of sorceress women and waning witches

With ropes around their necks or flailing in black waters

They are always beautiful 

with night sky skin and milky white eyes

but the men who hunt them say 

Their beauty is threatening just like

The runes and healing stones that they clutch to their breasts

What do they know? Is always the question, 

a crystal ball, a palm reading, a fortune-tellers kiss,

Look what I see, they say in unison, a smile playing on their lips,

each with a single tarot card between their teeth.

Until I Met You

I didn’t consider myself a writer until I met you.

You were all scruffy hair and spectacles

at the end of your nose,

all classic novels

and 20 cups of tea

to keep you going

your tap, tap, tap on your writing desk

with your ink-stained finger tips.

I inspired you, you had said

once

and I clung to this long after you had forgotten,

Your gentle smile and freckles and your one armed hugs

I

wrapped myself in your wool jumper that winter

jotting down pencil words in messy notebooks,

with sore fingertips on typewriter keys,

I am certain,

I wasn’t a writer,

Until you inspired me.