Category: Creative writing

What comes after painting your guts on the wall?
dribbling onto floors and sheets of white paper.
what of the morning after?
do you still wake alone?
even though you love so deeply and i am waiting and aching for you too. 
from a hypothetical lover

There is this moment to the morning . 

Where the light hits really soft and the air is a little cold. 

And you think about all the things you’ve written. 

All the people you’ve been.

You study the grumbling rocks in your stomach and the crinkle in your brow. Somewhere – a crow is calling. 

You worry about money. 

You worry about failure in the sense that you won’t get to define success in all the ways you want to. 

You know there needs to be nothing to prove – that you have to know your worth is inherent. 

And there are deep parts of you who whisper of how far you will go. But it hasn’t happened yet so you really don’t know. 

And life seems the shortest when you are young sometimes. And it’s easier to grieve than to be proud. And what to write next? It must be perfect, it must be so beautiful, tangible, unique. I fear being thrown away. I fear being idolised. Do you see that neither of these are in my control? 

I sip warm tea on a relatively empty stomach. 

It’s hard to be home. 

Somewhere – a crow is calling.