The Lover’s Feast

For years she mistook longing

for love,

The ache of yearning became

An almost-pleasant solution to romanticism.


You should have told her loving doesn’t

Hurt this much,

That she did not have to tolerate fingers pressed

Into her wounds.

That always yearning, never questioning

Is not the twenty-first century romance.

That emotion is not a cocoon

Wrapped around to save from nakedness.

That “love hurts” is bullshit.


But she’s fallen in love with infatuation.

She’s aroused by the distance between them

She has forgotten all the answers,

Left sweet and bitter

Like rotting fruit.


You should have told my darling

That love shouldn’t hurt like this

That disappointment is not a lover’s feast

That her emotions are not a one-way inconvenience

You should have told my darling

Love was never meant to be unrequited.

Taking Advantage

TW: Sexual Assault

But that afternoon he asked himself, with his infinite capacity for illusion, if such pitiless indifference might not be a subterfuge for hiding the torments of love.

Gabriel García Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera




You mined her pizza-stuffed body unreservedly,

Equal parts violent,

Equal parts tender.

She didn’t tell you it hurt.

She was just grateful you remembered her name.

You were experiment number three,

Packing and unpacking her,

Stuffing her hesitant, ragdoll limbs with optimistic greed.


The doctor asks, was it penetrative?

She’s unsure what to say,

Because you were mental above physical,

Spiritual, above mental.

Today your face is sun-kissed and carefree,

Today she realises you penetrated her soul,

And she cries, curled like  a snail’s shell,

Because – well, you wanted to talk and she didn’t.

She should [will] stop living by the rules.


She was unsure whether her brothers and sisters would welcome her,

But she was taught to go through God, not man.

Man showed her law,

God showed her grace,

She slept free of shame.


But one month later, she feels her body,

All one hundred-and-something pounds of it,

It feels like guilt when it hangs

heavy like a burden.


He apologised –

No, not quite.

He was good at that – making his words sound apologetic

Without ever uttering the word.

“I hope you don’t think I took advantage.”

She infers, one year later,

That he sobered midway,

and decided continuing was a good idea.

He was experiment number one,

the reason for the others who followed.


Experiment number two cannot be remembered,

It is improper. Wrong. An act of betrayal.

But she needs to remember, at least once.

She remembers the fear of the word “no”.

She is sorry for the hypocrisy,

And she is sorry that he was your husband.

And she is perplexed that his hands know a body,

ashamed of its own mother.

She’d never rejected a man from the bed so assertively.


She is the common denominator,

And in this form she is free from didacticism,

free to blame herself.


The terrible paradox is that she is the experiment.

She always has been.

Her one-hundred-and-something body,

hanging heavy like wet clothes,

doesn’t know how to be otherwise.


It’s been a while since I wrote poetry. So here is a poem with an obnoxiously lengthy title, entitled ‘Entitled’ (for short).** If, like me, you enjoy reading things in PDF format (it just feels nicer) you can read the PDF version here: CLICK HERE FOR OBNOXIOUSLY TITLED POEM

If, unlike me, you’re not a total weirdo and have no preference, you can read the poem below 🙂 Have a good day people xx

*It’s not obnoxious if you acknowledge the obnoxiousness. In other words, the humble-brag never fails.

*’…title, entitled ‘Entitled’ may just about be grammatically correct. I am proud of myself.





One of my resolutions was to feel.

Yes. That all. To feel.

This Resolution Game has no rules.

How does one acknowledge and understand their anger?

How do I understand my pain, my sorrow or my joy?

Can I pass go? Can I collect two hundred?

Because after making my resolution,

I still censor my thoughts.

I still do not KNOW my thoughts.

Let me stay in jail, because I can’t bear the freedom.


There are a series of doors,

Some tried, tested.

Most – if we’re being honest, all – were locked.

You opened every one, peeked in, and poked about.

Doors left ajar have always pissed me off,

but I am not entitled to call you a bastard.

This is laughable.


Let’s make it six days,

Six days to die then be reborn.

It’s all about timing.


Hope hurts and hope hurts and hope hurts and

Hope kills.


And the “what if’ burns.