Each piece has been written with Love, from me. Make your own selection.
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The failed relationship attempts – irrelevant – she’s learning.
The bell rings, signally the new match and she’s up, ready.
Knock me down off my pedestal and scoop me up in your arms.
Love me despite my imperfections, not because you refuse to see them.
What type of girl leaves her rich husband? – a crazy one.
“Darling that’s what affairs are for; medication! You don’t actually leave…”
That which we fear within ourselves, is our greatest protection.
Our sweet spot of actualisation.
Our internal fire, is nothing to fear.
These ‘flow-guys’ aren’t the teachers they seem. But they are good for something…
I like to dip my toes in the wild tide, take a walk on the dark side…
I bunny burrow myself deep down with them, curiouser and curiouser… becoming queen of the underworld.
I used to believe that you could love someone right.
Love them right back from the edge.
Just share enough of yourself with them so that they had something in them too.
I didn’t need to be all of me, if it meant having some of him.
Sacrifice your voice to the Patriarch, little mermaid. Don’t sing here.
Yesterday morning, in his bed, suffocating in silence, still. Again, after all these years, the silent killer. Just say it, speak the words, no one is holding you hostage here. I chocked out: “I feel…
My heart has been stopped, broken, frozen, melted, and skipped a million beats for true love and the fleeting ideas of it…
Caught up in the motion that one love is life’s true notion.
Compulsively, addicted to Love as the goal, solution and purpose of life.
I want to create a shape that fits us - in the ever changing motion we exist.
Embracing the energy of movement that is some version of us, moment to moment.
I thought they’d initiated an invitation to unlock? I’m a shape shifting key, but the turn isn't an on, it’s an away. From me, from themselves?
Till death do us part.
I kept my promise.
I did die.
My resurrection is my greatest rebellion.
Life goes on after a husband. How dare I leave? I dared.
Because the cake of life celebrates her rebirth as a free women, and we’re all invited to sing around her candles.
Her light, to light up thousands more.
You’re the little bit of too much I desire.
You’re so extra, even without the whipped cream - complete without the toppings.
Let me raise you baby,
I’ll be your sacred muse.
Just listen to what I say dear and
do the things I choose.
Living in limo because of their indecision,
Faithfully bound by my sadomasochism.
His hands on my hips, without thinking we’ve kissed,
Was there something I missed?
We live a life that’s alternate, distinctive and true.
And as much as you love me, you’ll love you too.
I won’t be your world, we’ll embrace the world together.
Distinct are our colours, but we’re birds of a feather.
It’s time for witch, bitch
No more hiding, no more lies
Watch me shape, shift
Out the closet, into pride
Come out and play, slay
Dragons fall and dragons rise.
I thought, he’s 38 and Jewish – surely any notions of how cool drugs are, fell out when his hair started too? I mean 38 is old right?
I thought it would be: second time lucky, but it seems that my dreams of becoming Tinderella didn’t exactly come true. And by ‘didn’t exactly’ I mean: in no shape or form whatsoever.
Within a few weeks I was planning how I’d uproot and move to America. We got on so well, laughed all the time, spent all our time together, what could be better?
Turns out real. Real could be better than fantasy.
“Is that an 12 pack?”
pointing to the back line of dancers straight into the most magnificent stomach I have ever seen, belonging to a creature even more beautiful. Abs-solutely delectable.
I wanted to climb him like a tree.
But seriously, you’d want to fuck with a writer?
You want to try play a blogger that writes about dating online?
Turns out, it was a yes.
So, here’s how he lost the girl in 10 days…
Did I truly believe that this Caprice takeaway / model boy and I had a future together? That we shared some transcendent connection because he could “see sparks fly” when I spoke?
It’s as if between my legs is a diamond carrot that must be safely buried or dangled seductively to entice the man to hunter-chase me. Lion to my bunny. Hop, hop away, catch me if you can!
Giggle, Giggle. Sugar and spice.
I’m not what little girls are made of.
Women who hope to get love in return for sexual favour are using themselves. They’ve reduced themselves to a body part. Put the value of their self-worth between their legs.
I live my life for Love or Content.
It’s clear which I’d prefer, but I’ll take the latter if that’s what I’m given.
So when a boy behaves like a one pager – that’s what I reduce him too.
“Tall, slim, blonde, full breasted and… quiet.”
Sounded like a poster girl for the patriarchal dream!
When it comes to men, I don’t put anything into my mouth, that didn’t want to be there in the first place.
It’s not like I’m ‘out to get’ anyone. It’s just that something needs to be said about the consistency of the fuck-boy generation...
Or is it that ‘putting myself out there’ is to much for someone who feels not enough?
I’ve been ‘putting myself out’ there since I was born.
I am out there.
“No thanks, I don’t want to see you again because if you’re not generous at brunch, you’re not going to be generous in bed”.
Your relationship status is not a reflection of your daily happiness levels or general life satisfaction. Often what goes hand in hand with a relationship is expectations… and they usually fall short.
It’s the time for self expansion into vastness of our totalities.
May we be self sufficient; self satisfied and complete in our own unique complex entireties.
May we encourage women to become!
Queen bee with her drones.
She, with the honey.
And it’s in my bones -this garden of eden shame I carry - that there is something wrong with me for wanting more, to know what’s out there, to taste the truth.
So I’ve suppressed myself in subservience to them.
Lost myself. Let myself be swallowed up, trying to be who I think 'I should'.
Do I just cut to the part where he told me he’d broken his penis?
Leather licked at my thigh. Sliced through the air, stung me with a sharp hot burn. Just for a second. With each precise sting, he’d marked me, his.
How would it burn down around me this time?
Would I light the match, or would he?
As usual, I didn’t have to wait long...
I don’t buy into societal norms and constructs of “should” “must” and “have to”.
But how do you explain that to someone bound up in it?
You live, by example.
I remembered, his side profile. Sideburns, mole on cheek, mediterranean skin, slicked-back hair. Mine. His. How I wanted him.
How I no longer did.
Sister, you’re a patriarchal prisoner. And you’re loosing, more than just yourself. You’re wasting your life like this..
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