climbing into a car with a stranger (or not)

I wasn’t chasing adventure or fun

(didn’t expect to find a gold-star tucked in my knickers
for a messy foot-down *******)

I wasn’t after acceptance
or love

I wasn’t seeking thrills as I closed the door
knowing he’d had too much drink
or a couple of pills
or both

I was looking for a way out

loneliness flows from the centre of me,
in waves unmet by wall.

beautiful words- less so
once I catch them
tangled in a thread of thought
hooked on Cupid’s bow
dragged back by reluctance
until they drown

refill your cup from mine,
move my food to your plate -
I can’t eat alone.

don’t go.

(take)

Outside - reflection on dark,
but I am adrift in lamplit reality
with nothing to say.

Lips and fingers, shuttered glance -
click, quick lick extinguished.

(I’m sure it’s wrong to view this as impending beauty)

He turns - avoids tide-salt breeze made
fast by alleyway and dark.

Again - click, quick lick. Hand’s a shield,
spark’s hidden, can still feel it.

(Behind closed-door words fly; heard and unheard)

We're here, lost and found inside his ritual.

I watch you spark up. A small frown grows deep, then disappears when you inhale. Whole moments pass, and you hold that new smoke in your lungs. You are shuttered, you are gone. I like that you return to me first. Even before your eyes are fully open you find me; warm and backlit through lids, a ghost through dark lashes.  

You reach for me, run a finger under my vest strap. I like that you switch the cigarette to your left hand and don’t seem to notice. The ember-glow dances and sways. Smoke spills up in a silver ribbon when you exhale.

I grew up hidden.
it was easy-
no one really looked.
Mum cut my hair,
to be more like them-
and teachers
shamed my voice
into silence,
before I’d even found
my words.

Sweet nothings bore me.

Secrets shared in the first ten minutes
are worth less than the effort it takes me
to hear them.

So say something new, in words
that burn my skin when they touch.
Must try harder.

Last night I slept in a white-walled room, surrounded by pinned butterflies framed with old love. They were so beautiful I wanted them as mine. Sheets fell as I stood and looked at each in turn, watched my own reflection ghost over their glass. I unpacked them. Held Lost to my heart ‘til its wings moved with my pulse. Took Lonely in my mouth ‘til it was whole. Peace settled in my hair. Regret hid. Lust danced in circles on my hand.

Outside, dark exists in vast swathes. Inside, lamps tell various truths from different angles: To my left is a life measured in chapters, to my right one measured in pills. I look to the window for answers - Instead all I see is an expanse of inky-black glass and rain shattered ghosts.

I’m in filthy jeans and vest, muddy boots tucked under a bar stool. I'm sun-sore across my shoulders and neck, with dirt-dust clung to me, all over. My hair’s graded real short because men like it long, and I’m so done with them. I wonder briefly, through this haze of hormones and *****, if maybe there's a woman for me. I’ve stayed too late. Workwear’s gone home, showered, got changed. I’m alone. I’m the wrecked remains of Monday-through-Friday in this sparkling sea. I ache. I really ache. I should leave, but you buy me one more drink and I stay.

A shade hidden in rain-puddle-oil and January dust,
too dark for love. But please, slip fingers between
my clothes and my skin, press. Press in and whisper.
Whisper spells to quell the bloom of old ghosts and
sting of raw nerves.

I awoke at silly-o’clock. Made tea, and re(a)d.
Probably shouldn’t ree(a)d when I’m still sleep-blurry...

I re(a)d fork as frock. Thought- what the hell, to her mouth?
Didn’t seem that kind of novel.

I re(a)d Evil as Elvis. Thought- **** me, this guy’s really
got it in for dead rock n roll stars.

Spilled my tea laughing and ow’d.

It is painful being me.

bare feet on concrete
skin pressed pink to cold plaster

sun-needles through roof-gaps
fall on rain-rotted rafters

(root and vine)
soles and spine -

tie me here

TW - domestic abuse  


If I had discovered you, Silhouette, told the world to you, cast a spell
to flatten the curve of you - could you have stayed?

If I had stopped hateful hands moving from heavy ******* over new
roundness to naive-wet - could I have run with you?

If I had pushed through their countdown, their grip and anesthesia -
clammed up, stood up - would they have let us get away?


I should have kept you - Silhouette - cocooned and safe.


He discovered you in a slow transformation I hadn’t felt - turned me
around to face him, like a naughty child.

I wondered the game we played. He slid hands up my vest, cupped my *******, drew fingers down the symmetry of my belly.

He laughed because I was wet, but I opened to him, I always did. I learned
about you, Silhouette, when he whispered you can’t keep it.

When he and I fall, as natural light fades,
into *** at the end of our day-
We stay twisted for hours
in the chaos we make,
even burning good light the next morning.

muse

Sometimes I stay on a while, once his work's done.
Depends on his mood. Today I’ll not.

Won’t let me see, but can tell he’s drawing me sweet.
He didn’t handle me into position-

Instead, worked an inch or so above hip and thigh
with invisible thread.

And- dragged across paper, the charcoal is pleading.
Often it whispers and moans.

The strokes that he’s using are careful, considered.
I'd rather go home.

muse

the slow salt of her tongue licks deep the sandstone
that broke and bound her to shore

I’ll slip my shoes off,
love you quietly.

Take baby steps, and
place cold soles

With care enough to
avoid the sharps.

do you wave to your mother with those hands?

whew

****

Lamps are placed apart. Space enough
for dark to seed between them -

an hourglass. Black sand filled to curves
of light spilled on grey tarmac.

Sifted words with softly-softly meaning, fall.
And maybe, maybe are easy enough to sweep away-
but they leave a thin film,
like settled dust.
They leave a thin film- and
I have to touch.

He was cross.
I cried.
I’m putting things right.
Changing my life,
or changing it back.
Something along those lines.
Can’t think quite what.
She’s holding my hand
down.
Wanted to see if washing-up liquid
came out of the thing they stuck in me.
It didn’t.
Looks just like the top off a bottle
of Fairy.
Fairy? I’m making a fairy.
No, not a fairy.
I’m here to make an Angel.
That’s nice,
except I don’t believe in
such crap.
They’re pushing something
into my bottle-top-hand.
I’m here to make an Angel.
That's nice.
They’re counting down.
Crap.

We have an hour,
wrapped in a green field, with a sleeper bench
which I straddle.  
The air is thick with the closing of summer,
the sun low, and cool shadows slip over warm skin,
make me shiver.
You are curious. It’s been a long time-
but you notice me shift forward, and
remember. You join me.
I’m wearing jeans that you love, seams
press as I slide and you
understand. I am already near. So long
waiting for you. Wanting.
You don’t interfere, just watch as
I unbutton, undress and
lean back. Sweet little circles
grow firm as pleasure pools hot,
like jelly left in the sun.
Then you are there, scoop me up,
we fall into the grass.
For a moment- we don't move.
I have missed us.

telly’s on, just enough noise.
my head in your lap, relaxed as you
play with my hair.
safe. so safe with you.
explore thoughts, map dreams.
your children sleep sound upstairs.
warm hands on
chilled skin,
an invite to press
in, to face you, to turn, to
trace words with my tongue.
your finger-tips slip under
the band of my jeans,
give me permission to need.

telly’s on, just enough noise.
my head in your lap, confused as you
play with my hair.
safe? so safe with you?
probe thoughts, tap dreams.
your children sleep sound upstairs?
strong hands on
hot skin,
a demand to press
in? to taste you? to burn? to
raze words with my tongue?
wet fingers unfasten
the studs on my jeans
give you permission to take?

telly’s on, just enough noise.
my head in your lap, ashamed as you
play with my hair.
brave. so brave for you.
hide thoughts, snare dreams.
your children sleep sound upstairs.
heavy hands on
flushed skin,
an invite to press
in, to face you, to turn, to
erase words with my tongue.
careful fingers push, just
enough through my jeans,
give me permission to want.

over again.

is it possible we touched?

that you spilled into me
thoughts like cigarette smoke?

silver threaded, exhaled in a rush

is it possible we spoke?

turned to whispers
the dark corners of our minds?

twined my words with your songs

is it possible we loved?

will again, you and I- immortal?

This time together tumbles
like hourglass-sand.
Worn sun disappears between trees,
takes with it our colour- so
I undress you in the monochrome
of secrets.
Shadows feel hot beneath my hand,
and slip from sweet to salt-
Taste delicious as
I trace your rising-tide scent
with greedy kisses.
I encourage wave after wave until
you glisten
on my tongue, on my lips,
on my skin. Spent,
we find peace.
Tangled together- we whisper
tiny prayers to an unreality of sky.
Try to stave off our ever-after.

We fall together
into grass that needs cutting.
Still-warm-ground grazes hot skin
as we move. Align limbs, seek
each others’ mouth
then kiss for the first time in years.
I ache for you, an actual pain
that has me pleading
and arching, and nipping your lip as
you half-turn from me, teasing.
We laugh through our kisses, but
you are bleeding. I pause.
Pull away. My guilt swims in your eyes.
You cradle me to your chest-
weave kind words through my hair.
Then you tilt my head back, kiss my neck,
kiss my face.
Run the tip of your tongue down the length
of my throat. Take my hand and
press it hard to your jeans-
Your need equals mine.
Time is ticking.

Together under a slow-folding sky
we write our future in non-existent stars.
Each breath I exhale is warm
against the soft curve of your neck- and
your fingers rest possessive
between my thighs.
Time gathers pace, the space around us
is suddenly too vast.
Static crackles- a bad signal, through trees
and swaying grass.
Your reaction is violent, fast and hard as I arch up-
I take you hurt, I take you angry.
I take you deep- and lick and bite and scratch-
Try to sign you out
from this whole-wide Universe as mine to keep.
Yet I leave not a mark on you.
No trace of salt, or blood, or broken skin.
And even as you wash me into feeling
with frustrated waves of heat,
I look up to find my face is not
reflected in your eyes.
Long before our tide recedes
I am clean and all alone.

a kaleidoscopic version of me, twisted and shook
to look like broken stained-glass.
really just beads in a toy
lined with mirrors.

they sit in empty chairs and speak kettle-whistle,
wishing us well.

fingers unfurl a thought into words
slide sensation between dream
and nostalgia

I will gift-wrap an hour, let it exist outside of time and in a space
just for us. And when the end comes, it will vanish.
Leave no print, no clue, no trace- except for our memory
of touch, scent and taste. And an ache, a longing to return.
If I give, will you take?

~

it’s been a good evening. now she’s wearing her robe and you’re sat with a drink watching telly. you lean forward to refill yours but spill it. she looks nervous for a moment and you think that’s sweet.

she thinks you drink too much- now she’s wary. she felt you eye each step she took when you were out. you lean in and she remembers winning every day at school, a silly playground game they called Don’t Flinch!

your mates fancy her- you saw them flirt. now she’s blush-pink and pretty and on your couch. she told you she was wet before you could order another round, so you didn’t bother. it’s really early, but you’re home.

she avoided talking. thought she’d stopped you getting gone. but you got Scotch in a drawer she didn’t find. half a bottle in, your eyes tell how gone you are. she’s sussing if you’ll get hard or just pass out.

you run a hand down the centre of her robe. reveal sheer knickers you’ve not seen her in before. you drag your fingers slowly from those knickers to her mouth- ask her where she got them- she doesn’t know.

(she looks scared and you think that's hot)

~

I am the permanent pause that ends conversation. History was beat and bled to fit into a village, and I think it’s dead now. I think it’s buried. Other than home-schooling and a little pyrography, a healthy distrust of law and society- I’ve given mine nothing of my tangled identity. Maybe my grandkids will pick at the threads, weave a story worth telling. But those threads for me plait a line to be trod, abandoned, or toed.

little girl, drawing.
chalk on the wall,
red brick on the path-
she’s more than quiet.
not all of it bad.

click of heels made dull
along pavements swept with rain
through rainbow painted puddles
past brick-bottle barricades

We're home early and
he didn’t start a fight,
or get ill, or spill a drink
over a stranger.
I would congratulate myself-
Except the hall clock
ticks a countdown and
Scotch pulled from a drawer
just lit the fuse.
  
I rewind the whole evening in my mind-
try to find the excuse he’ll use this time.