You have my word

One word can change your life.

I won’t have claws and nails here

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When I’m turned up to thunder, savouring the flash of fury in my fists, I am furthest from myself. Wrists bending, threatening to break in the grip of this fight, flesh still singing with the sting of that blow. The wake of this will still stand right here in the morning.

This time won’t be any different. And that’s the difference. She thinks he will change. He knows that his white knuckles – single white roses in a field of red – are his most desperate attempt to grab a hold of himself. He will not change.

I recount in slow motion. Any faster and my head starts to spin (sin, thin white lies, despise, disguise). My demise will be my own fists poised to strike and break the wrists that bend and the bones that breathe life here.

This hurt has held too long too much with its fingers around my heart. It has fueled my own fire, my flash, my fists. It has to go. It has to let go. I can’t grow if it won’t go. Go. Go. Go. God. Go.

I won’t have claws and nails here. Fury be gone. Love, come on, let go. Go. Go. Go. God. Go. Gone.

Fall asleep in the airwaves

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I don’t know if she’ll wake up. I keep my lips close to hers so she can take my air if hers is stolen. She takes my breath away. I give it freely to make space for the place she deserves in my chest.

Her chest heaves with the creaks of years weighted under worlds and wars. She has conquered them all. I lie next to her and wonder, at what cost? How many lives has she lost to find her way home – to sleep in this bed.

Rest now sweet warrior. Rest in peace but not in death. Let the armies carry your guns. Let the children pick flowers for your hair from branches higher than they can reach. Let other mothers lift up your hands. Let me kiss the top of your head.

You are one with my breath. I will watch over, walk with you. Will you let me catch you if you lose your ground? Let me hold you in the grip of your groans while the sky breathes heavy in the dark?

Queer moon, we are guided by your tides

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The moon is definitely gay. Nothing can sparkle that much and be straight. I mean, if you want to get technical with me, here you go: the moon is a circle so technically it can’t be straight. Anyway.

The moon is definitely queer. Totally in love with the sun and her rays but screws around with the stars in the dark. They don’t mind that he’s a little naughty – that she’s a little naughty – that they’re a little naughty.

The moon would definitely call itself fluid, spreading itself across the day and night sky. Non-binary bright. Lesbian lunar. Bisexual bright. It’s no wonder we’re so affected by the tides. The moon is definitely gay. Nothing can sparkle that much and be straight.

Nothing can sparkle that much despite thousands upon thousand trying to put it out. Nothing can sparkle that much without having been set on fire. Nothing can sparkle that much against the shadows that try and cut it down to size.

Too many shadows have taken too many of your shapes, squashing your fabulous, your fierce, your fight. You, forced to be half-moon – half you – semi-circle so sickle the length of years in your arms. You will outlive centuries of being trapped here.

When they stare at you and point from afar, don’t you dare blink. Don’t you dare look away. Don’t shuffle your feet, gay goddess. Don’t dim your man in the moon face. Look on. Light up. Love. Sparkle. They can learn a thing from you.

Nobody puts baby in the corner

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Nobody puts baby in the corner. But he did. And it wasn’t the first time. And it wasn’t the last time. And it wasn’t the worst time – she’d been through hotter hells than this a thousand times before. He thought he could save her – pull her up by her hair – help her escape from the flames. So he buried her in water. A daily funeral where her blood became part of the rush into her lungs, her mouth, her emptiness. He could never fill her emptiness. No one could. No one can. No amount of pills or drugs or sex or rock and roll me another joint.

Get me off. (Get off me.) I need another hit. (Stop hitting me.) Let’s tie the knot. (Untie me please.) I love you. (Leave me.) Don’t make me beg for it. (I’m begging you not to.) You enrage me. (You rape me.)

She lives like this. She dies like this. Broken ribs. Bruised lips. Limbs out of sockets. Torn ligaments. No treats, only tricks. Stupid bitch folded into a paper bird and thrown from the sixth story. Someone else is writing her story. Bound ankles and wrists. Hoisted like a crucifix – her head bowed like a flag at half mast. A mourning that can’t be missed though she’ll hide it as best she can. Windows boarded up with black eyes and long sleeves. Trips to the store like he doesn’t treat her like a whore. Everything is fine. Everything is fine.

Everything is falling apart. A fine line between being teased and being tortured. Pins and needles thrust into skin – a sickly voodoo – threading through flesh he tries to stitch her up again. She doesn’t even flinch. Her skin knows needles like the back of her hand. The marks, the scars, the car going too fast to get away from here. Anywhere. If only she didn’t have to ask. He guards the keys like she’s the last prisoner to leave. He keeps her. He keeps her in cupboards and behind closed doors, in confined spaces of his clasp-grasp-gasp for air, love. If you fight it’ll only be worse. I don’t want to but I’ll force you to.

Do as you’re told. Let me hold your hand, waist, throat. Don’t you dare scream. If you open your mouth you won’t eat for days. For weeks. He will starve her soul from her stomach. He can’t fill her void but he can make it his own. Make a home in her spine. He will call himself a god – divine. He pulls the strings, the nerves, the ending. He stops the clock. Get up. Get up. Get up. Stop. Walk. Go. Come. Come. Come here. Get lost. She is lost. She belongs to him.

Will she ever win?