Sunday, 22 February 2009

Holding a Grenade

It’s like holding a grenade in my hand, and deciding when to pull out the pin and throw it.

Like, do I pull and throw, when I’m angry for no reason?

Do I pull and throw when I miss you?

Do I pull and throw when I’m dying for that cigarette that I’m now holding in my hand, but I know that I’ll only disappoint you?

I know I’ll only disappoint you.

I’m like a grenade, when you’re holding me. I’m like a time bomb,

Can you feel me ticking?

I'm like a time bomb with my irrationality; like a time bomb with my love; like a time bomb with my thoughts and dreams and aspirations and I’m





It’s only a matter of time.

It’s only a matter of time until I explode; until I let go, give it away and show you who I really am, what I’m really like.

Perhaps you already know.

Perhaps you already know and you like it; maybe my craziness is appealing; maybe I’m a challenge.

I wish I was a challenge, I wish I wasn’t so open, so easy, and so easy to read.

I wish I was a grenade with the pin in.

I wish a lot of things.

But I have that strange gift of knowing exactly what I am.

I am a grenade that you pulled the pin out of and you can’t remember how many seconds it’s been.

How long is it going to take until I explode, over react and fuck things up?

I am a time bomb.

So I take the grenade that is throbbing in my hand, pull out the pin and swallow it.


I’m too stubborn to let my explosion be public.

So I take that grenade, pull out the pin and shove it down my throat.

I’ll swallow it.

Keep it inside and never ever say a thing.

I’ll keep swallowing until you notice, until you realise, until you end it.

I will never say a thing.

Saturday, 14 February 2009

Keep On

Keep going when it seems like its over – keep going
When it’s all falling down around you and your freedom is torn - keep going
When you think it’s hopeless and all you dream about is quitting.
(Don’t quit.)

Life is a challenge, life is what you make it, life is a race that we are all running.
It’s not about money or fame or success;
It’s about trying and fighting and second chances.

Get on the bus and don’t get off,
Watch the train a Rollin’
Watch the rain a fallin’
And get on board.

Sometimes words and actions upset you; sometimes it all seems too hard.
Sometimes it’s easier to sit and wait.
It’s not about winning; it’s about running the race.

I know this is all cliché, I know this is all shit,
But I think the clichés are.......

I can’t do this without smoking.
I can’t write, or be ‘writerly’ without a rollie in my hand. Without that smoke rolling round my head; choking its way down into my lungs. That grey chain of calm, smooth, succulent smoke, and that image it holds in my head.
When I’m smoking, I’m working.
When I’m smoking, I’m writing, I’m a writer, I’m starved, I’m craved, I’m crazed, I’m crazy.
I am Jack.

But now, I’m just a girl,
I’m just a girl with a rash on her arm, an ache in her head and a swirling sense of nausea in her stomach.
I am not a writer, the lights are bright, and the air is clean. This is NOT creativity.

But keep going, keep on, keep trudging along. Keep walking on through that cloud of smog, keep running the race.
‘Even when it seems the world is against you – I am always on your side.’

Wednesday, 11 February 2009

If My Life Was a Movie

If my life were a would know how I would know what I am doing right now –you would be watching me.

If my life is a movie what genre would it be? Probably horror; first thing in the morning;

Probably comedy 24/7;

Probably romantic for 10% of the time

And most definitely Sci-fi....when I’m talking to myself – you know that I talk to myself?

If my life is a movie then I’m a movie star; I’m the lead; I’m the siren of the silver screen. You are a five minute flash; a cameo role.

If my life is a movie then it makes sense, how people know what I’m thinking or saying or just about to do.

It makes sense when I swear people watch me from their windows as I go; watch me and whisper,

‘That’s that girl...’

It makes sense how you could know things that I would never tell; like when I was a child; I used to kiss my pillow, pretend it was a man whom I loved...I never told anyone, but my sister knew; she knew and she told all her friends about me and my secret little game –

I was so ashamed,

But never worked out how she knew.

You say my eyes give me away; well maybe my eyes are movie screens. Maybe in the deep blue wells of my eyes lie the stories and troubles and turns of my life.

Maybe my life is not a movie, maybe I’m just transparent – you can see right through me.

Because I am such a terrible liar; the truth must just be written across my face in thick black marker.

Or maybe that’s what I want you to believe.

Maybe my life is a movie, and I am the villain. Maybe I am deceitful and nasty and opaque – maybe my big brother is watching and I am playing the game, maybe I’m just acting, trying to be who I want to be.

If my life was a movie, or a music video, how would you know

If I was being true or false

Wrong or right

Hero or villain?

If my life was a movie who would be the star?

Monday, 9 February 2009

I Can't Live Without....

I can’t live without writing, without words on a page, books to read and magazines to flick through. Who goes thru a day without reading a word?

I can’t live without air, obviously. I can’t live without life.

I can’t live without looking at the lines on my hands and knowing what they mean and where they come from.

I can’t live without nicotine, really? I’d like to take that back; I can’t live without addiction, I’ve an addictive personality. I can’t live without a fascination from one day to another.

What about imagination? I can’t live without that, without the ability to float off into a distant planet, to engage my thought in something so unreal but totally real inside me. I can wonder for hours in a dream of anything, really, anything man, I can imagine it all.

I can’t live without memories, of good times and bad. Of those days with my family on the beach in Cornwall, running from the waves and catching lobster for tea. I can’t live without the memories of you being on drugs, me being on drugs and you trying to kill me. The memories of different men, at different times, watching you walk away from my balcony, hearing you say I’m lying when I wasn’t, seeing the look on your face when I finally gave up.

All these memories are me, are who I am today. Imagine living without any of your past. I can’t live without my past, and my luggage.

I can’t live without sunglasses, my eyes need a shield. After all the things those eyes have seen, the sun burns straight through them.

I can’t live without the things that make me who I am.

I can’t live without the thought that I’m going to be better.

I can’t live without a roof over my head and a lock on the door, without something to live for.

I can’t live without my womanhood; I could never be a man. I can’t live without my sexuality and passion and bitten lip.

And then of course, there’s music. There is no question there, no contest, no second guesses. I’m not talking about constantly listening to my iPod, wherever I go with that fizz tizz shit pouring out of my ears for others to hear. I mean the music of life. The melodies I grew up with in the back of my mind, the sound of the central heating back home, the whirring of the radiators. The rhythm of the cars drawing deep breaths past my door. Those trains on the track outside that flat. Remember? The rhythm that flooded into my tears every night that I lived there, every three minutes.

The rhythm of life. And the beat that goes with it.

The songs that you remember from many years ago, and they bring out a smell and a feeling and a punch from the past.

The song that you used to play on repeat every single night because you were in love with a boy, that song makes you cringe every time you hear it. And smile, of course.

Now I cannot live without a smile. That’s cheesy I know, but a smile from a stranger is worth a million words. A smile from a loved one is priceless. And smiling, on your own, when only you know what you’re smiling about, might seem a little crazy. I can’t live without crazy.

Crazy makes living interesting.


It’s easy for you to say, but I can’t let you read anything I write.

I’ve got the grudge, the itch.

A swarm of mayflies, for one day only; angelically circling your heart, taking in your breath and getting tangled in your hair. I’m like a bird. I’m going to shed my skin; spread my wings and fly, high above you

I’ve got to scratch this out. Free myself. Think of topics and write about them, just write.