this one's for the girls

This one’s for the girls
who laughed and danced
that day on the beach
screamed 70s songs into the wind
and snuck past the ferry conductor
for free rides across the harbour.

This one’s for the girls,
who worried themselves sick
over each other’s problems
and memorised books to help them cope,
listing loves and wants and wishes
and couples
on covertly exchanged
scraps of exam paper.

This one’s for the girls,
thrown together by another,
second best and knowing it,
bound by comfortable silences
and sprints in the rain.

This one’s for the girls,
who no-one ever thought
would work,
who could kick over sandcastles
at least to begin with,
but proved everyone else right
in the end.

This one’s for the girls,
who don’t know what they’re
missing out on,
or what’s to come,
who only know right now,
that if they share their insecurities
someone else will feel the same.

This one’s for the girls.

tire me out

I remember my mother being glamourous.
Smelling like powder, with her hair
blowdried out, around her ears,
ruched skirts swishing
around her ankles.

I remember my mother the way she was,
the way she should be.
Laughing,
entertaining,
playing.
Loved.

Now,
she is just tired.

for thunderstorms

For those who open their curtains
on rainy nights,
and stare out
into the pink-tinged clouds,
and dream
of dancing

on their decks.

For the double flash of light,
and the people who are missing it
for parents who know better
than their children
and for their children
who disobey them.

For the light at night,
bringing hope,
and for the people who stare up at it

and feel nothing.

plead

I am too much like my father
that much I know.

Too often I share his jokes,
too often I say his lines,
too often I wish he loved me more.

But please,
God,
don’t let me be like that.

Please,
God,
make me be
more like my mother,
not like him.

Because the more
similarities
she notices

The more
I remind her
of someone
once there

Then
the more
I see in her face
that she hurts.

and when she hurts,
so do I.

say please

talk





as though that one word
could inspire
anything
but awkward silences
and pauses.

like being commanded
to tell a joke
to be funny
to be yourself.

what can you possibly
do,
but the opposite?

silence

Silence
like nothing else
can tear down boundaries
and rip
the hearts of those you love.

Open doors
and lift up bridges,
finally let you
drop your head
down to your chest
or rest it
on their shoulder.

Silence, like the time between
clocks, ticking,
slowly passing
you by,
from chime
to chime
or breath
to breath.

Silence, my old friend,
silence,
that dreaded enemy,
silence to be cut with a knife
like tension
drenched in icing.

Silence in sleep
or in waking,
or best of all
in that forgotten state
somewhere in between
where dreams become
memories
and fears switch over
to dreams.

the only thing

the difference between me and her
is that i am in this for the words
while she is in this for the glory

stories

How much of our lives are shaped by the stories we are told?
And how do we have any of our own left, after we have been told so many?

stupid

i don't want to ever be to you
what you are to me
right now.

loathed

how can you be so stupid?

help

it’s so much easier
being on the other end
of a computer
where no one can see
your face.

but so much harder too.