The most liked piece in 2018 on My Screaming Twenties. Thank you all for your support. I'm excited for what 2019 holds and the release of my debut poetry collection in the Spring. Therapy On our first date I told you I'd dated two before you. The first, Liza was blonde, stern but … Continue reading Therapy [Top 5 of 2018]
After failing to heed my therapist’s advice not to open them all at once, I stopped. I cleared away the mess ‘Friendship’, ‘Love’ and ‘Work’ had made and left ‘Childhood’ on the table. It stayed like that for days; like a baby elephant in the room with all of the gold edges becoming unstuck. A … Continue reading Four Boxes: Childhood
There were two boxes left. I was surrounded by layers of paper, glitter crumpled candy canes and velvet red. The mess which is left you when endeavour to delve a little deeper. ‘Work’ and ‘Childhood’ remained. The snowflaked blue box is cold to touch and the ink on the label is smudged. This box frightens … Continue reading Four Boxes: Work
I waited but a few hours before ‘Love’ overcame me; compelled me to gingerly remove the sprig of holly. The red berries burning brightly in the light. A leaf nicked my palm in my gentle haste and drew a pinpoint of blood, which my lips closed over and kissed away. The ribbon was tied tight, … Continue reading Four Boxes: Love
For Christmas, my therapist gifted me four boxes. Beautifully wrapped with thick, Clinton paper and ribbon. Each had a label. ‘Work’ was decorated in snowflakes, the ribbon was blue. ‘Love’ was deep red with a sprig of holly on top. ‘Friendship’ was busy with candy canes and glitter. ‘Childhood’ was gold, just gold and without … Continue reading Four Boxes: Friendship
On our first date I told you I'd dated two before you. The first, Liza was blonde, stern but held stories in her eyes, yours, mine and every fortnight we sat before her fireplace. I often cried and she held me at arms length, preferring emails to the confines of a room; room I … Continue reading Therapy
Blackout poetry - the art of tearing out a page, circling words and blacking out the rest in marker. Who knew therapy could be so cheap?
In this one the walls are green. You could say sickly, although vomit may just be the substance, the colour I choose to conjure. My eyes rest, figuratively never physically of course, on the roll of crocheted blankets. Papers are thrust forward (my interpretation) whilst my eyes linger, trying to put a finger on the … Continue reading A Psychologist’s Office
