Ode to Daughter

Dear daughter,
You were born a child of the universe.
You entered battling meteors on the backs of shooting stars,
Found your voice alongside thunderstorms and earthquakes,
Wrote your name into a constellation, and carved out your own orbits.
You can paint the entire galaxy from memory,
So don’t you dare tell me you are afraid of glass, because

Dear daughter,
Sometimes, the world will rob you of what is rightfully yours,
But that is why you were given legs, so you can chase after adversity the way lightening chases darkness.
I want you to be like the lakes that shine, so stubbornly blue, even when the sky is grey.
You are not to be silenced by full stops, expiry dates,
You are no contortionist, you were never able to fit into boxes.
Your voice is not laundry that can be folded and put away.
Never apologise for being right, for knowing,
But remember to always forgive those brave enough to admit their mistakes.

Dear daughter,
Your skin is soft, and it will dent easily from the imprints of those you encounter,
And you’ll wonder why feelings seem to enter easier and linger longer in your body than they do in that of others,
But never scold yourself for these emotions that flood, no;
Others will tell you your skin is too thin, they will call your heart fragile,
They will talk about stoicism like it is a victory,
But oh, do they know how wonderful it is to feel so much, to feel so alive?
To feel is not to suffer, to feel is not to surrender, so

Dear daughter,
You can cry yourself to sleep if you’re upset, but don’t you ever fall asleep to the hunger of wanting more;
The dreams you satiate yourself through will never follow into reality.
Sometimes, it is as simple as looking down at your arms and realising
The wings you were searching for have been there all along.
And when you finally set flight, you will learn that there is no such thing as falling,
Not when every cell in your body is praying for the contrary.

And dear daughter,
Please, do not ever
Mistake blue eyes for the sky, or golden hair for the sun,
Believe for a second that one person is enough to be your entire world.
Never be ashamed of standing closer to the stars than them;
Remember, “you aren’t like other girls” is not always a compliment,
The word ‘different’ is not synonymous with ‘better’.

So when you are soaring through the skies and a knight in shining armour holds out his hand,
Be sure to tell him thanks, but no thanks-
“I am not a damsel in distress.”

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Catharsis

And even afterwards, you had a way of leaking back into my life,
Seeping into my words like a broken fountain pen.
No, perhaps ‘flooding’ is more appropriate, the way
You exuded my mind as a swarm of writing prompts,
Sweeping through, making a home in all my emptiness,
Romanticising the way loneliness wrapped its tendrils around my neck;
Mascara-smudged eyes, ice-cream binge clichés,
Offering a vaccine to writer’s block
(How could a writer, of all people, refuse that?)

But of all the words that have slipped from my mouth,
Of all the words that you so unknowingly stained,
These will be the last, I am sure of it,
For there must be lighter things to write about
Than bleeding hearts and charred souls.

I am finally sick of the forced giggles and loud voices that
Push through these lips – my lips, that walked into other lips the way you walked out of my life,
Desperate to show you I’d moved on already, as if it were a key competition;
Fighting through to the finals, only to find you never even bothered to register.

How pathetic it was, for me to enthuse about letting go,
Only to spend more nights writing about you
(If you can’t beat the pain, embellish it).
A hundred and twenty five hurricanes later, and I finally realise
You can never truly be free from something you’ve glued your palms onto-
Even if you loosen your fingers, pull away, you’re still holding on.
But the rain has finally ceased, so let the sun-rays melt this glue.
Don’t you worry about me losing my grip-
My hands have finally found other things they want to reach for.

There may be less to write about now,
But at least I have nothing left to prove;
Not to myself, and especially not to you.
At least I’ve finally reclaimed my life,
No longer living an existence designed to make you miss me.
At last I can laugh today, properly, without thinking to myself
“See, I can be happy without you.”

And so now I sleep with the windows open,
Wearing nothing but filtered moonlight-
Gentle curves and soft skin against ivory satin sheets;
This body is mine, mine alone.
It is a liberating moment to realise
I belong to no one.

Fault Lines

It is a fault of yours
To fumble with words.
Search for hours, and emerge purely with silence;
Pick heavenly roses, but present them only when they have wilted.
Somewhere beneath your tongue, there is a forgotten dictionary.

It is a fault of this language
To package acidic words so they taste like caramel;
Dipped in something sweet, but filled with liquid white lies.
There are too many synonyms for ‘beautiful’-
You are not as ideal as they write you.

It is a fault of a writer
To have surrendered to words,
To cradle them like the last flowers of spring,
Swallow them like ambrosia even if they taste untrue,
Reluctant to squander even those that pierce her throat.

You tell me there’s a word for the way my hand fits into yours,
For the way I look on lazy Sunday mornings.
‘Perfect’, you say,
You’re perfect.
But my fingers have almost forgotten the touch of your skin,
And you have not seen me for the last 47 Sundays.

Say sorry all you want, but make the same mistakes over and over and you’ll never stop apologising
(Just ask Sisyphus).
Darling, aren’t you sick of asking for forgiveness? Don’t the words grind into your palate by now?

I’m starting to wonder how you came to be the one to teach me heartbreak poetry.
Tell me, is there a word that can bridge this distance between us?

Time Machine

For Heidi

I watch you play adult in high-rise apartments-
Paying bills, folding laundry, loading the dishwasher,
In Louboutin heels and tailored blazers,
Drinking morning coffees in kitchens with marble backdrops.

But your heart still pauses at girlish intricacies-
Dream catchers from the market, wooden musical boxes, Parisian pink accents.
The entire Harry Potter series is alongside bank statements,
And there is a teddy bear in the corner.

We are a sea away from our parents, from home.
I flew to your place from mine, but there is something unfamiliar
About the way the air is void of our childhood;
There are no long-forgotten memories that jump from these surroundings,
Nothing that makes us say,
“Remember that time when…?”

But we do the same things anyway;
Drive to the cinemas for a Disney remake,
Succumb to nostalgia, and spend the night watching originals,
(Even though we both know better than happily ever afters now).

You have work early the next morning, and I have a flight to catch,
So we stay up later than we should,
Listening to each other’s stories like a good novel we just can’t put down,
Words tumbling from our mouths the way we used to roll down grassy hills;
This is a type of effervescence no technology can ever convey.

I tell you about a laughter I save for moments like these,
For when happiness is this pure, this distilled, this sacred.
I want to run to the scientists and announce that somehow we’ve done it – we’ve travelled back in time,
For how else do you explain the way we can sit here as adults
But, in every other way, be so completely and wonderfully,
Children?

Return to Sender

I still think about you.
I don’t want to, but the idle mind is not blessed with the luxury of choice.
I wonder if you’ll ever read this and see your name written all over it
(You would not be wrong).

Did you realise I bruised easily? You were so careful with your words;
“I knew you wouldn’t be happy about it,” you said in the end,
As if I would be angry, annoyed, or even disappointed.
No darling, the word should have been ‘upset’;
Shattered, maybe-
Devastated, heartbroken-
“I knew you would be crushed.”
You needn’t have worried about words hurting me, I’ve seen them all.
So I reassured you that it was fine, that I’d walk away;
After all, my legs are strong from our tip-toe kisses.

When I came to you after drunken mistakes, you asked me
Why I became so casual about the kinds of lips and bodies that pressed against me on Friday nights
When I once blushed from your caresses.
I tell you
It’s easier in this maze of bodies.
I knew about this, that’s why I left my soul at home for safekeeping.
It’s difficult to remember what it means to have a name, a personality,
To believe in this darkness that I am anything more than flesh and bones.
And in those moments, I can almost pretend that the strange body coiled around me
Belongs to you.

I finally understand now that this is our fate, the inevitable,
Even though the idealist within me, the one who still wants to believe in happily ever afters, wishes otherwise.
But there is no point in trying to prolong
A story that has come to an end, with sequels of foolish fantasies and delusional daydreams-
That was not the author’s intention.
No one keeps writing with a pen that has run out of ink-
I should know that best.

Maybe we both deserve better,
So I hope you find someone who makes you happier,
And I hope she makes you laugh, in a way
I don’t think I was ever able to.

Clair de Lune (plus thank you for 1k!)

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For everyone who has achieved their goals but is still unable to forget their dreams

Young girl,
Palms blossom towards the sun,
Tries to catch daylight in her hands.
Whispers to the sky-
I just want to save some for the night;
I want to be like the moon.

Grown girl,
Shoots for the moon, but loses her way connecting the dots of constellations.
Writes her name into the night instead,
And seeks refuge among the stars,
Learning to become the brightest of them all.

People see her today and ask why she still refuses to sleep,
Why she still reaches for the moon
Even after she has become the sun, because
They don’t know that in her dreams she’s still chasing crescents.
Her heart has long since been eclipsed,
And it still swells like the tidal waves,
Unyielding, locked, forever devoted to the solar system’s crystal ball.

She doesn’t tell others
There is a difference between the comfort of satisfaction,
And the surge of distilled, incandescent bliss.
She wants to walk the moon today,
Fill the craters with her secrets,
If for no other reason than for the little girl who once howled to it every night.


Hey everyone! Recently, I found out I reached 1000 followers! This was absolutely unbelievable and utterly shocking. I started this blog about a year or so ago, and since then have had some simply amazing comments and feedback.  It has really inspired me to keep writing, and as a result I have grown so much as a writer. Thank you!

In light of this milestone, I’ve decided to start an Instagram. The image above is an idea of what I will be posting; they will range from fragments of some of my older poems, to completely new ones! Please click here (username: heart.beating.wings) and give it a follow – it would mean the world to me!

Once again, thank you all so much. I promise to continue writing to the very best of my ability 🙂

Lots of love,

Mel xx

To Those Nights

And what is there to do, but douse myself with more alcohol?
I don’t know how else to rouse these ashes within me.
People scream “shots!”, over and over
Until I’m crawling around, looking for bullets.
I spilt my dignity somewhere along with my fourteenth tequila;
I’d look for it, but I think I’ve spent too long on my knees tonight already.

People whisper (not so quietly)
“She’s that girl”, as if they’ve never been here,
As if they’ve never had a night of wanting to forget what it means to exist,
Of wanting to smother their feelings with a plastic bag,
Of wanting to rend their nerve endings.
They think between these sweaty bodies I can’t hear them-
I wish I couldn’t.

I see men eyeing my chest, and I pull down my top a little lower.
His hands run up my legs,
I know somewhere deep down that his fingers are too far
But I don’t stop him-
It’s been a while since someone has noticed the shape of my waist.
I give a smile so sweet he wonders how my teeth have not yet decayed;
The air is hot with steamy breaths
And I iron lipstick stains onto his collar.

3AM, my mother thinks I am fast asleep in bed,
But I am still stumbling down highways, wondering how I came to be so alone alive.
There is only so much time left
Before these lips forget how to smile, forget how to kiss again,
And I am so afraid of having to peel off these sticky clothes,
For this pulsing in my ears to stop, to have to hear my thoughts again,
And oh no I think I can already feel faint stings of regret;
Sobriety is so cold, so silent.

Maybe if I run fast enough, I can still break free from this skin that imprisons me,
Because from where I’m placed, this street doesn’t appear to ever end.
So I tell myself,
Run and run, baby don’t you dare stop,
And I shout to the wind that grapples for my hair-
Try and catch me now.