The burden 

A short, unfinished piece started by me remembering my father saying “you’re not my son, so don’t act like one”.

Our sons, our brothers

Placed on a pedal stool before they could sit

Already perfect and complete.

Not allowed to falter

And failures considered growth.

Safe to go, wear, love as they see fit.

The world opened to them,

Open for the taking –  they can take it.

So they take and they take.

Our fathers and uncles,

Telling us all of their burden.

The men who upped.

Yet how they forget

The backs that cracked

And the bellies that split in two

To give them the world.

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Happy thoughts 

It only takes one thought, an unhappy thought, to slip and fall. Down down down. Into the depths and darkness. Gulping in the smoke and smog. Twisting and turning until I almost hit the ground. Where I will lie broken. 

And that’s where you may find me. Revitalise me with your happy thoughts. That become my happy thoughts. Teach me to float back up. Until I have the strength to fly and then soar. 

So come with me, where dreams are born, and time is never planned. Just think of happy things, and your heart will fly on wings, forever, in Never Never Land! – Peter Pan

She did not stir

CW: rape, pedophilia

She kept the dirty secret for 18 years. Past when she stopped wearing a nappy. Past when she knew it was wrong. Past when she started her period. Past the legal age. Past having her first boyfriend. Past the first time she had consensual sex. 

And in all this time he continued. 

He’d come to her at the dead of night when the trains had stopped and the house was silent. He’d stay up watching tv. That silent too. Then he’d go out to the balcony for a smoke. And then he’d come into her room. 

The sound of the door handle pushing down always woke her up. But she never stirred. Did not flutter her eyelids. Did not flinch her fingers. Did not crease her forehead. She lay down curled up in her duvet. She was made of China, she was not real. 

He’d move the duvet back and put his hands down her top. Gently caress her breasts, round and round the nipple. And still she would not stir. She could smell the choke of the smoke on his arm and still she would not stir. 

Still standing he would move the duvet back more and slip his fingers into her pants. And there he would rub her clit. Back and forth. And despite what she ordered her body, the lips would get wet. But still she would not stir. 

And then he would bend down and lick her. His tongue would go inside, up and down. She would feel electric pulsing through her. She will loose control of her mind and want to grab his head and hold him there so he never stops. She will want to thrust her pelvis up so his tongue can rub deeper. But still she would not stir. 

Often he would rub his cock himself. Other times he would move her hand on it and thrust. And sometimes, just sometimes, he would climb on top of her and push it inside of her. Still she would not stir. He would always come outside and dry his mess on a cloth. His longi, his vest? She heard the movement of cloth but never peaked. She never stirred. 

And once he had come he would leave. Often her vagina was still buzzing. Pressure building inside that would never be released. He would shut the door behind him. And then, and only then, would she move. Curl into a tighter ball and cry. The house still silent. 

And then her father would go back and lie next to her mother. And she kept that dirty little secret for 18 years. 

The one that will get away

As we sit in blissful silence I feel safe and content. You are the one I don’t need to try with. I want to rest my head on your shoulder and have you rest your head on mine. I want you to stroke my back as I close my eyes and forget about the day. I can forget about work and non-work. It will be just me and you laughing about aliens and Jon Snow.

You told me you’re afraid you’re unable to ever form bonds. You feel anxious around people – even your best friend. You worry about going out and would much rather be alone. Silence worries you. “But a few years ago you said you can be silent around me, has that changed?” “No.”

“Wow. That’s pretty cool. I feel safe around you too,” I say. “I feel the connection too. It feels like electricity on my knees and a coolness in my mind,”  I do not say.

And months have gone by. I introduce you to my friend. And you decide to give it a go. “She’s perfect for you.” I say. “I wish you had tried with me” I do not say.

I know I do not love you. So why do I feel shards sticking into me every time you speak about her?

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Keeping memories: 5 awesome ways to record 2016

Still on the New Years hype and came across cute ideas to make this year one to remember. Journaling is quite daunting for many people so here are 5 ways you can still capture 2016 with minimum effort. I know it’s already the 2nd day but it’s easy to catch up on a few days.

  1. Memory jar:

    (Image from who-arted.com)

    Use an empty mason jar and fill with one memory to summarise the day. This can be a comment someone said, somewhere you went – any memory from the day. Write the date on the paper too. Fold it up and place in the jar. By the end of the year you will have 365 memories to look back on and can make a scrap book out of them.

  2. heyday app: a person journal on your phone. This app automatically collates where you’ve been and your photos everyday – a journal that writes itself. I’ve not used the app before but have just downloaded it so will follow up with an edit on how it goes.
  3. Memory box:

    (image from Design Sponge*)

    A box full of index cards for everyday of the year. You write one line summary of the day. Next year, you would write another line beneath the previous year – and reminisce about the day you had the year before. This idea takes a little effort to make – step by step instructions can be found here (check out the comments section for links to buying the box) – but I think it’s worth it. For those of you unable to make the box – here’s a book you can buy that has the same idea.

  4. Social media: private accounts are a great space to store memories. Tweet your daily happenings with a 140-character limit or Instragram a photo a day. Create a different Snapchat account and add yourself. Now, every time you send a snap – ones that you’ll want to remember – send a copy to yourself. Log in next year to see the whole story.
  5. Ticket box:

    (image from inspiredhoneybox)

    Fill a shadow box (a photoframe designed to let you put items in) with tickets collected throughout the year. This can include anything you want – holidays, cinema, theme parks, comedy shows, even restaurants. And this is an especially cute idea for couples where you can write “admit two”.

Happy memory collecting. Personally going to stick to the memory jar because I love creating scrapbooks and I think it’ll make a lovely scrapbook. I have also downloaded Heyday and am excited to see how that works.

Sometimes you will never know the true value of a moment until it become a memory – Unknown

Being ready

She wakes up ready.
Ready to take on everything she is not ready for.

As her kettle brews she brushes her hair. She irons the clothes that fit too tight and don’t fall right. She lines her eyes, applies mascara and taints her lips. She wraps her scarf around her head and pins it into place. She drinks her tea. And puts on plasters before wearing her heels. She is ready.

Ready to pretend she understands the capitalistic world she’s thrown herself in where the corporate call themselves the alternative. They pride themselves as diverse and inclusive yet she sees no one like herself and does not fit in. She pretends she does not mind that they get drunk and speak too close, spewing horrible fumes and dropping alcohol onto her beautiful gown. She pretends she does not feel offended when they assume she is against LGBT rights. She tries to laugh as the scoff at “chavs only buying clothes from Primark” whilst she is dressed in mostly Primark clothes and lives with her mum in a council house. She is patient when they ask “are you Islam?” and “so what are you doing about ISIS?”. She hides her offence at the “I volunteered in Africa (because obviously Africa is a country to them). It was weird because I was the only white person in the village”. She goes along to yet another evening of networking with the same clones and the same stench of wine.

And when all is done, she can come back home. She takes off the heels at the door, unwraps her scarf, wipes off the black around her eyes and changes into her mexi. She does not have to be ready anymore. She sighs with relief and gets ready for bed, dreading the morning ahead.

Stepping onto a brand-new path is difficult, but not more difficult than remaining in a situation, which is not nurturing to the whole woman. – Maya Angelou

Meant to be

I know we are not meant to be. You’re all logic and measurements. All seriousness and get it done tick box. I’m all heart and emotion. All living in the moment, don’t hurt anyone, it’ll work out fine in the end.

I know you sit there judging me. Wishing I could be more like you. Stop cursing. Stop laughing so loud with your boys that are trying so hard to make me laugh. Stop wearing that deep red lipstick that flickers a desire within you that you don’t want to need to control.

I know we are not meant to be. But you’re so perfect to me. And I want nothing more than to fit into your puzzle. Create our own picture. Solve it together. They all think I’m so cool. Chilled and feisty. The banter train ready. Get set, go. And I do go. Keep going till they ask me if it could, perhaps, be. But it can’t. Because I don’t want them. Even though I know we are not meant to be.

No matter how impossible, unattainable, or unimaginable something may be, if it’s meant to be – it’ll be. – unknown 

Brown Beauty

She sat up, briefly glancing at her reflection. An action she could not avoid every morning since it hang opposite her bed. Most mornings she would avoid looking in that direction. And should her lazy eyes focus for too long, she’d turn her head. Her skin too dark, her hair too frizzy, her nose too pointy. Too many faults to be beautiful. Too much to deal with first thing in the morning.  Continue reading