You have my word

One word can change your life.

Tag: lifestyle

Fall asleep in the airwaves


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


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.

Do not go gentle into those empty lies


Please stop coming to me in my dreams. Please stop curling up defenseless with me while I’m asleep. Please stop filling me with your memories. Please. I can still feel you. Move. Please.

I’ve moved forward; I’ve moved on. I’ve moved so you wouldn’t find me standing still. I have spent all this time being unfrozen, melted to stay away from you. Running. Running water. Free flow. Free. Free. You freeze me. Hard.

I have found value in soft, smooth strength. Slow. Not stuck fast. Slow down, baby, and find yourself. Find your fears in your own night’s sleep. Befriend them – know them and you will know yourself.

Dreams rest between terror’s teeth. Get up close. Tremble with its breath on your neck. Stand up straight. Hold your head high. Do not go gentle into the lies you’ve become comfortable telling yourself. You are done with these, love.

There is nothing left for you in those lies – there is no you left in those lies. Life. The simplest adjustment and you’ll come into so much… more… without me. And that is what is best.

You belong to you. I belong to myself and my own dreams and sleep and peace, and you do not need me. It’s okay.

For the first time I don’t feel guilty for you walking away. I’ve drowned my doubts in those dreams. I am enough without your memories.

I wish you well. Now sleep.

You are much more diamond than dirt


I pick you up like a diamond, like all I’ve been doing is digging and here you are. Small. The kind of size I can comfortably fit my arms and dreams around. Glistening. Those eyes that absorb more than their fair share of colour and light. But life isn’t fair and you were cut for more.

If I said, “You’re a diamond in the rough,” you’d probably give me a slap. I might like it but that’s cliché, lazy writing and you deserve better than that. So here goes: You are a whole fucking mine and my face is covered in dirt.

Like Maya, I’m convinced you have diamonds at the meeting of your thighs… and beneath your tongue… and in that smile, those lips. The sentence is possibly less poetic but the sentiment still exists.

I don’t know much about diamonds because my experience is mostly in dirt, but I do know a good thing when I see it. You are a good thing. You are good – not made less by the places you’ve been. A diamond’s value lies simply in what it is – who you are. You are diamond.

Precious. Picked up. Protected. Preserved. Just right, but not perfect. Perfect would be untruthful and far too unattainable for this pile of dirt.

It would be my pleasure, my dear, treasure, to hold you in my hand or cradle you until the right hands have you. Hopefully mine. But I have all time, and us, to see where you land up.

A pendant perhaps, bringing only good luck. A deeply set ring of “I do” – I do want to traverse this dirt road with you.

My diamond. Sharp and rough, uncut and not giving a fuck. That’s my favourite thing about you.