If i could weave the words of love for you on a fabric, the unending stitching of your name will be fluent in the language of my heart's rose is lighted with the devotion of your glance that is ablaze, touch me closer now, oh brooding one of the night, for I am your moon with the healing light.

is it more beautiful
the fleeting end
of a rainbow

the rippling end
of the suns reflection
like rain

your body will
wrinkle and shrivel
crack and deform itself
into a tapestry of frailty and age

what then, will you have?
your best feature taken away from you
no more wages paid - nobody wants elders

weep bitterly, for your life will speak for itself
a life of virtual prostitution, and for what?
notoriety? money? what for?

at the end of the day, you’ll have the light
a beacon of hope that guided you through
listen for it, and it’s still small voice

one day she was sent
to a man sprawled ‘cross the pavement
in blistering sun
he, ignored by everyone.
the nice girl instinct compelled her,
alongside Hippocratic responsibility as a doctor.
her good samaritan arc began,
he her neighbour, the collapsed man
she offers him aid,
and suggests he move to the shade.
her medical assessment deems him well
but onlooker pressure to do more, she cannot quell.
he asks her to buy him heavy drink-
she tells him to have another think.
they compromise and she buys him food
just like a good samaritan should.
She wishes him a good afternoon
but all too soon
the tale begins to muddle
as he approaches for a ‘cuddle’
her sense of unease
overwhelms her compulsion to people please
“I’d rather not but all the best though”!
- he snaps and his true colours show.
the nausea hits
as he starts to shout about her ****
and chips at her sense of self respect
with an accusing “you look like you like ***”
she fights irate tears
over his leers,
summons her tough
and states that’s enough.
when he spits on her feet
she backs down the street,
maintains her false front
as he yells ******* ****.
words shouldn’t cut
but she’s branded a ****
and yes, we should not give to receive
but oh how i grieve
that to help is to choose
sexist abuse
i want to follow jesus’ ways
but he did not have to contend with the ******* male gaze

At times, it feels my life’s been spent
Crawling through a tunnel, tight and bent
No room to stretch, no breath to spare
Just inch by inch through stifling air

It grips my ribs, it binds my chest,
But still, I crawl, I do my best.
It hurts, it aches, it steals my breath
But forward still, I crawl from death

There is no door, no secret track
No turning ’round, no going back
The only way is straight and true
The only way is pushing through

But I could swear this tunnel has no end
No torch, flare, curve, or bend
Just black on black, and cold like bone
I’ve called this narrow dark my own

Yet what becomes of one like me,
Who’s known the dark so constantly?
What happens when I reach the day,
And light attempts to guide my way?
What will it do to skin grown pale,
To bones that knew the dark so well?

Will sunlight scorch this shadowed flesh,
That’s only known the tunnel’s mesh?
Will open skies just make me blind,
Too much for one so far behind?

This flesh was wrapped in shadow’s arms,
It learned to see in night’s alarms
This skin knows only hush and shade,
Will warmth be more than I can take?

I dream of comfort, of golden air,
But tremble at its blistered glare.
The things I crave, the things I seek,
Are often sharp, and never meek.

To live, to heal, to see things through,
I fear the joy as much as the blue.
For pain and dark are twined in me,
And freedom stings like memory.

The dreams I hold are stitched with fright
Each hope I touch could spark or bite
For even joy can twist and sear
When light itself becomes a fear