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Tag: moon

The wolf cries boy cries wolf


The wolf cries boy and no one comes running. Not the first time, not any time after that. Every full moon an empty howl fills a sky darker than the bottom of his feet.

He’s been running for too long – dirty and distant – running wild rings around the haunting.

Night descends in a furious wash of colour. Not a timid shower but a flood of blood and violence. His solace hides in a sympathetic sky and his pleads become the wolf.

The boy cries wolf and everyone comes running. To point fingers and to watch the fight.


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.

The last time I bled, I did not die




When the waves break at the turn of each blood moon I remind myself that the last time I bled, I did not die. Nor the time before that. Nor the time I took a knife to my arm, nor the time that barbed wire striped my leg. Till today, everything that has made me bleed has not yet killed me.

And although it has not made me stronger, there’s something kind of sneaky-like writing your own destiny into the stars – scars – stars. Definitely stars… Like the gods of sky and that blood moon gave me the chance to fill in the blanks of my own brief chapter.

If I were not made of this flesh that ebbs and flows with red lunar tides, I would think I were immortal, and surely that is something to be afraid of.


On the day I detail the insides of my veins for you… when I pour out my insides for you to wade in my secrets…you tell me that you are drowning, and you want nothing less than to die in my honesty. You say that you would rather live without me.

You asked for it – that messy truth… yet you leave me to bleed out, washing your hands of me with your own honesty. You say it’s a choice… that I can choose… And so I do. I choose to hide from you.

So tell me what you know of trying to peel off your own skin? Tell me what you know of them cutting out your tongue? Now tell me what you know of silence – silence so thick not even thoughts slip through? Tell me what you know of them blaming you?

Haemophiliac. Hypocrite. Hypochondriac. Can you hear the liquid draining from my heart in strings of metaphors? Let these ears and eyes bleed. Taste and see it is not good.


I never owned a red scarf or a red dress. I am a matador; they are bulls. I never want to draw them to myself because we all know what happened before. Those nights. Those hands. Those toys…on the floor.

Sons can be red too. Yet they are far more rarely chosen than daughters… Daughters are picked like ripening rubies from mother nature’s tree. Just like Eve who ate the fruit, so they’re devoured by Adams who claim to hold their energy – claim to be the ribs that made them.

I am that fruit – bursting strawberries – in all the sweetness and mess. I dare you to eat me; I dare you to try and keep down the poison of my blood. The same blood that follows the command of the moon and does not surrender.

A self-portrait in metaphor and rhyme


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Please don’t ask me how I am; I’m going to be fine. If you give me even a little of your time, I know I’ll have to explain more than you want to hear and more than I want to say so please… carry on with your day, carry on with your life – go home to your wife and tell her you love her because you don’t know when will be the last time.

The first time I told someone I loved them, I was sat in a very uncomfortable, badly-upholstered two-seater dirty-cream couch that was stiff enough to starch a shirt and not quite deep enough to hide myself in especially because all these throw cushions. What’s up with throw cushions anyway?

Anyway… I have never regretted so few words so much, in such little time, in so many ways that I’ve kept track of every single second I’ve said it since then just to make sure that it never comes out as strained as it did – especially when I one day say it to myself.

I have never said “I love you” to my body. I never told myself that I look lovely, I’d rather be put on a shelf in an abandoned house on that street we used to live on when I was five. When life wasn’t too complicated… well… when life wasn’t too clear in a five-year-old’s mind to be complicated. My body belongs on a shelf in an abandoned house on the street I saw as my yellow brick road, but it never led anywhere golden.

It just led to scraped knees and saying goodbye to friends that leave and getting lost and training wheels that would get stuck on stones and then falling and then broken bones and then broken homes and the only difference is that a doctor can’t fix that. They can prescribe pills and ask how it feels and give you medicine and tell you to come back for a check-up and the last time I checked, you can’t medicate memories without killing off your own character in the story. You can’t preach away adultery or prescribe treatment for a wound that isn’t visible on your skin. Can’t you see that we’re rotting? Can’t you see the bleeding? Can’t you see that the heart has already stopped beating and we’re just waiting for someone to declare the time of death.

When it finally happens, it will probably be a Sunday, at 11:45. I will have a talk with the moon and he will try and convince me of all the light that still exists and I’ll tell him that I know; I have pale skin. That’s proof enough that there’s light enough to still keep me a little white despite the sins.When I close my eyes I still see flickers and sparks in the dark and in the tunnel they tell me I’m walking through there is something bright at the end – like the sun or a train or my life, or just somewhere I can be everything and nothing all at once without having to worry about the right words to use when I explain myself.

Somewhere without having to worry about a convincing way to tell you “I’m fine”. Without having to worry about the fact that even that simple phrase has already wasted too much of your time and I have said more than I wanted to say… I imagine you’ve heard more than you came here to hear.

Because you know it’s not true.