Maybe ain’t no good


It’s true, it took a while for me to see you. Really see you. See the value you possessed. I was still emotionally wrapped in the arms of another. Wrapped in the arms of my past. But I told you this, at every twist and turn. You asked and I always answered. Always. Did I not? I looked you in the eye and told you I wasn’t sure, because I wasn’t.

But now I am.

Y’see, when I love, I love entirely. I am committed, bound to that love. Although, my dedication often keeps me tethered long after the lover has left. My heart still playing out the beat, even though the music has come to an end. This is who I am. I cannot shallow breathe. I inhale. I consume.

And that circus we inhabited, that land of possibilities, built on selfishness, didn’t help, as its fickleness fed yours. How could the idea of building something solid with you there not seem risky. Yet when you took me to your roots, showed me your kin, in that Gaelic light, I saw a man of worth. It’s just a shame his presence left as soon as the plane did.

But I meant it though, when I said that I choose you. Because I’ve honoured my last love now. Laid it to rest. Your love inspired me to do so. So perhaps you were right, in a way, you were a bandaid over the crack. Only it seems as though you healed me more than I ever thought you could.

But I will not wait for a maybe, anymore than I would have expected you to have waited for mine. Because we both deserve better than a maybe. Better than an ‘I might run away’, or an ‘I believe in second chances’, as you’re running out the door.

That concrete jungle we called home, peeled off layers. Swept away the detritus. But eventually, it left me bare. I became disinterested, disorientated and a sense of powerlessness washed over me like holy water, stripping me of sin. Yet returning to the lands that gave me life, have served to remind me of who I was and who I am.

And I am not a person who lives on maybes. I’ve built a life on taking chances, on seeing things through. On diving into the depths and learning how to swim along the way. And yes, sometimes I learn too late, but honestly, I think life’s too short not to leap over the kitchen table for what sets your soul on fire.

Sure, sometimes you get burnt, but you gotta accept that sometimes the lessons just come that way. That’s life baby. That’s living.



We are the lions that sleep amongst sheep. Drawn to weak men who seek strong women that represent that which they cannot give themselves. Yet, whilst we are strong and capable, we have also learned to be soft, to be vulnerable, to understand our weaknesses do not define us, nor do they serve as representation of our whole.

We have learnt to be lovers, to be caregivers, to be mothers, whilst having to fend for ourselves. We have needed to be courageous whilst the world around us has been cruel. We are held accountable, held to a standard by those who do not do so for themselves. They see us as fragile, yet we have shown more toughness in one single menstrual cycle than most have shown in a lifetime.

We have been their saviours. We have been their muses and inspiration. We have wept for them when they could not weep themselves. We have also wept because of them, because they could not encompass the totality of their being. We have suffered through their insufferable hatred of themselves. And not hardened but softened ever more.

They have been shallow, cold, manipulative and when we have shown them love, empathy, forgiveness and understanding in return, they have perceived it as weakness, disqualified us as adversaries and left us for dead. Still, we go on.

I think of soft hearts and gentle curves and how they have been grabbed at, abused and broken. How we have offered our hopes and dreams and opened our doors to the possibility of a shared existence only to have them robbed and burned. Yet we build again and again and we do not lose hope.

We are the fearless, who have lived through the destruction. Battered and bruised but never defeated. Shedding ourselves each month so that we may one day bear their children. Giving life to a broken world.

We are the representation of all that they fear they will never be man enough to be. Soft yet powerful. Afraid yet courageous. Broken yet not bitter. We embody the duality that they have been taught to hide. We have been teachers when the lessons were unwilling to be learnt. We have forgiven even when it has been impossible to forget.

And we stand amongst the flock, ever more willing to take on the burden of their inabilities to feed themselves. We nurture when we could destroy. We cradle when we could suffocate out of the collective sorrow, bred by their misunderstandings of themselves.

We are the lions and you will know us by our roar.

Futile love


I shake from the words I have read and cannot unread. Her words poetically sounding out the depth of an affection only a lion could know. A fierce kind of love that ripped right through you. She loved you like a storm loves to be chaotic. Won you over with talk of dreams that engulfed your imagination more so than any other lover before.

I know that kind of love. I have felt it in my heart and in my loins. I have lost count of the nights spent howling at the moon, broken and consumed by such a love. Felt demolished by it. Would have died for it. And did, in a way, many times.

I question if anything will ever taste that way again and if not, would it even be worth the bite. But to think like this is pointless. I could spend my whole life waiting for that kind of love to come again. Perhaps it was just never meant to last forever, as I wished it had. I mean, could a fire burn that bright for the rest of a lifetime. Could you live with the burns.

So I look at you now and you say you’re fine. You tell me tales of how that love was toxic. How it was never built to last. Yet I feel inside that you still think of it. Pine for it. Perhaps in the same way that I think of him and wonder if he ever pines for me, for my poetic love.

I think of her and of you and what it must be like to now be with me, in the same way that I think of him and how he is and who he might now be loving. It seems I am the child of all my broken hearts and yet, sometimes I am filled with concern that I may never love you the way that she did. Don’t we all deserve the fire. Don’t we all deserve the flames.

I love you like a soft breeze. Gentle and able. It grows, slowly and there are doubts. It’s an honest kind of love. You said to me we were like two people learning to eat salad after years of burgers. Is this what other people feel when they’re in love. It’s been so long since I’ve had a stable kind of love, I really can’t remember.

In truth, maybe I’ve never had a stable kind of love. Only broken plates and screams. Tears on street corners that faded into rain. Walking out of my way just in case I get to see them. Handwritten letters in handmade envelopes, posted in mailboxes and found by lovers other than me.

They called it crazy, I said it was love.

I think we all want the storm though. I think we all want to be torn apart by the passion of someone else’s desire. For our heart, our mind, our body. For someone to look at us like they’ve seen the light at the end of the tunnel. For them to hold us in a death grip made up of a future so grand it would be impossible to let go.

I wonder if we could ever have that with each other, or whether it’s an instantaneous kind of thing. Have we been so burned that we won’t allow ourselves the fall. Jaded by the disappointing endings that followed on from such firework starts. Stuck in a romance novel that finished several chapters ago, but we can’t put it down.

In truth, I don’t think our love story inspires you. I’m unconvinced that my body’s curves make you wish they were full of your DNA. I believe you could survive without me. I imagine you write lists of all my faults inside your journals, as you have no doubt done with others gone before.

Or perhaps, we will just accept that I will never be her and you will never be him. Perhaps we will simply be us, loving at a temperature that keeps us warm enough all year.