Throw spilt salt over your left shoulder,
Spin spiders thrice around your head,
Keep new shoes off the table,
Hang a dreamcatcher above your bed
Do all of these things little one
She would hold me close and say
And you’ll be a witchy woman
Your luck will never go astray
I was taught this in the Summers
That I spent following her around
When Mum was busy going to work
Dad was nowhere to be found
With the whole world on her shoulders
Nan still carved out time for me
To make me a witchy woman
One content, one loved, one free.
Dec 8, 2020
Dec 8, 2020 at 8:06 AM UTC
He smells of fireworks.
Well, now that I think of it- not the explosions
His scent is of that burn that lingers-
I know,
I know that it is acrid,
That when he leaves I will taste it, while it burns my throat.
But isn't it exciting anyway?
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
Days when the darkest dreams I dreamt when I was small seem as faerie stories to me,
When I, monstrous, loom in the mirror ready to inflict another hurt
Days when my bones, awful, lumbering, heavy things sink so deep into my mattress springs that I cannot move for the weight of them
On these days, if it were not for my sanctuary, I would sleep and sleep till there was no waking-
but oh how lovely my sanctuary is.
It may not be brick, or wood or stone, but my mothers arms are safer than those- I swear.
And no, it has no guard standing watch, but my father is as good as- I know it.
And yes, it is dark outside.
It is so pitch that when I gaze through the window I am scared it might just have swallowed the sun-
But when my brothers are laughing with me,
or my grandparents are loving me,
or when all of these, my most beloved, are simply near to me;
I feel brighter than any star the universe has ever seen.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 5:12 PM UTC
Don't sell me a life where I am beautiful if I must walk on backs to reach it
Before I am a standard,
a plus size,
curves and hips and doughy thighs
I am flesh fused to bones that hold my head higher than this competition I did not choose to enter.
I will not compete with the girls I ran with at seven,
to win a title we are already entitled to.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 4:26 PM UTC
Blessed am I to dwell where travellers roam,
weary on their aching feet
they sit here, sand between toes, sunburnt scalp and ice-cream hands.
Where lit fires warm content bones, sheltered from storms beyond the panes.
But our storms are never ugly here,
rain dances bout' the cliffs, wind shaking woods, sky full of bruise coloured clouds.
Not neat,
this land is not of order, she is made of wilder stuff;
of 'untamed'- of 'free',
of rolling land and sprawling wood.
Not neat, no, but peace.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 7:15 PM UTC
I am not now an emotional being.
But if ever in my dreams, I was to stumble upon
That girl who wore my face when she was
Ten, twelve, fourteen,
I weep.
Taking her in my arms I try to hush her,
as she claws at her belly and screams at the mirror.
Hating herself, as only an innocent can,
wholly and completely
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 7:07 PM UTC
Those holy hours,
Fashioned for lovers
Recipe of contented sighs,
Futures planned in star hushed whispers
But it is I alone who dwells within them,
These lonely hours
Good only for licking wounds,
Or tearing new ones
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 3:38 PM UTC
Wine has loosened this tongue
I know of several words
Threatening to trip over themselves
Racing to you
My hands grasp at frayed edges of reason
I beg my tongue, don't betray me
But it is loose enough to hold a mind of its own
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
I craft my body each morning
Stunted silhouette of cliche mantras printed on the bonnets of cars, each I love you my mother ever uttered and the top ten ways to lose that winter weight
I ***** my fingers on the edges of shards of mirror
But patch them up with the letters my grandmother sent me
Each morning I do this
Sculpting a makeshift form for myself
With the things I find along the way
And each night I tear it apart
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
My days, nervous glances
Worrying for her, endlessly
She does not smile at his name
Now, she cringes at the sound
Each delicious syllable a knife
A paper cut
Words pass her quietly
She covers her ears,
Concentrating only on dissecting
Every opportunity she had
To not ***** up
Every opportunity missed
I watch her, anxious
Hands shaking, grasping
Head hitting pillow,
Mind wandering back to him
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC