I don’t know if I’ll be back again

I realize I’ve been MIA a while and my blog followers deserve to know why. As of recently my condition has worsened, and I’m forced to once again rely on a wheelchair to go anywhere significant/essential. This means I need to take time out to complete the pup’s essential training so that Gizzy might retire as she’s approaching eleven and I don’t believe it’s fair for her to continue to work as an assistance dog. It feels like ten steps back and I’ve been dealing with feelings of shame and self hatred. I realize now that if I gave less of a shit, I wouldn’t have rushed myself or done too much and ended up in this position. It’s absolutely on me for not telling people to go fuck themselves with a sharpened wooden stick and I acknowledge that I have let my insecurity get the best of me.


I’ve also noticed that since my condition has begun to decline once again, I’m more susceptible to social media and the toxic environment it can create. I have no desire to engage with platforms that perpetuate a false image and is a hive of negativity and judgement. I’m going to cut myself off before the spiral goes any further, as I would an infected limb. I will begin posting poetry to this blog on a regular schedule again once I have stabilised. I may make instagram posts now and then to promote said poetry or give important updates, but I will not respond to DMs and/or comments. Those who are a part of my life outside of a few pictures taken on my best days know how to contact me if necessary.


I intend to use this time to acclimatize to my new chair, work on my anxiety surrounding it and engage with more personal development. I will continue to write poetry because despite the government assessors statement that ‘if someone can read a page of a book there is no mental illness/cognitive dysfunction’ (which they were stupid and discriminatory enough to include in their report, thus violating the equality act good job tories), it is very therapeutic for me. Poetry is a way to process and understand the things that have happened, and begin to heal.


I will be continuing my musical education, still offer the usual tarot readings given to close friends and old querents but I no longer intend to share details of my life with those outside of my inner circle. This decision has been reached with the advice of friends and loved ones who have encouraged me (rightfully so) to realize that I need to put the opinions and feelings of others aside. This includes perhaps 99% of the family I was born into, particularly my toxic, violent brother and his wife who have proven they don’t deserve to be given an inch or step onto my property.
I genuinely believe that when a person is in distress, social media is one of the most toxic and volatile environments they might be exposed to. I will honestly welcome the break. I plan to write, practice my music and continue the research I need to do as I carry on writing a biography about John Clare, his experiences in my own town and the illnesses he himself suffered with. I might even finish my own poetry collection!


I’m hoping to return to the island of dreams when lockdown eases, wheelchair or not I need to return to the beloved cabin. I need to sit on the beach I’ve known as the back of my hand since childhood and breathe the air of home in. To visit the cafe hidden on the cliff paths and visit the one lion remaining from my happier, childhood days. I will go to the chapel of St, Cecilia tucked away in Quarr Abbey as I did so many times with mum and light a candle. I will visit old friends, swim in the oceanside pool for my physio and eat good seafood.


I may make a weekly photo update on this blog but I am not sure. I am aware of the vitriol and slander aimed at the disabled online due to the current generations’ fixation with sickness as something tragically romantic, and have no desire to experience it or encourage such individuals. I am no advocate or hero, and my recovery is mine and my inner circles’ business. I may also post the odd, insomnia-induced opinion piece or stream of consciousness but having experiencing difficulties after a service user of the mental health charity I frequent decided to mimic my entire life for a diagnosis and points, I intend to be very careful about what I share moving forward.


I’d like to end this post by thanking my dad, who can be difficult as fuck but tries, my second dad who due to being almost 100 believes everyone should join the army, my closest friends. My lover, who pulls no punches and tells me when it’s time to step away and ground myself. My witch bitches, who love me no matter what and just see a wheelchair with mountain bike tyres as an excuse to once again venture into the woods. My OG rescue dog and the pup, my two tarantulas and the little tabby tiger who moved in and earned the name catsquatch, for keeping me going. For giving me an essential reason to strap on my brace and get shit done even when I’m hurting.


My satanic hipster squad, for providing a constant source of both deep debates and inane laughter. The many other violinists, musicians and teachers, writers and other lovers of all creatures I’ve connected with. My girls, who proved you can slap a cult right in the face and ruin them. My various friends in the homeless crowd who never judge another person and somehow still believe in the best of people. My OG London crowd, who will no doubt be eager to assist me in getting on and off of trains.


I’m also grateful for the smaller, intangible things: a rainbow over the abandoned asylum clock tower that was my first free climb, the fellow dog owners of the estate who provide many canine cuddles and laughs. Sunrises where the sky is on fire, a friend making me a steaming cup of coffee or pushing me up a hill, giggling in the rain. I love you all and I’m so grateful you are in my life (you all know who you are). I’m not sure if I will return to regular social media interaction even after I have pulled myself from this pit and stabilized, but the blog will remain and the poetry will go on.
I love you all, and while life is difficult right now I am still grateful for the impact each of you have made upon my life. You have changed me for the better, and I wish to continue in that vein which is why I am taking a time out. So that I may heal and return and help others.


I’ll see the rest of you on the other side, maybe.


Regret nothing, deny everything, make sure you have an airtight alibi-
Adella

Let me tell you a story

The police in this town have begun an operation they want no one to know of, but the story is not theirs to tell.

‘operation antigua’ and the idea they are on the side that survivors of I and other young girls who were forced through the mill of abuse this town perpetuated inhabit is a publicity stunt at best, and a liability at worst. The irony being that being a suicidal victim of child sexual trauma makes I and others ‘unreliable’. Perhaps we are, in the sense that we don’t know if we’ll be here from day to day due to the carnivorous nature of post traumatic stress disorder and all that it brings.

I fully admit that I am both a victim and survivor of psychosis, but it doesn’t change what happened during the near decade of depravity and death I witnessed before fleeing to Europe: a decision which proved to be as near fatal as the events that transpired in this town and have done so for decades since I was born. The repercussions to linger long after.

That is neither here nor there however, so let me tell you the story of a small English town that fell to the advance of a shit religious cult, chapter by chapter. It includes all the aspects casual readers live and love for while they reside in a comfortable bubble: murder, betrayal, suicide.

Never to be felt in reality of course, but consumed by the masses nonetheless. There wasn’t a day I was homeless in the capital and didn’t see someone knee deep in some literary work of misery porn while prowling the underground. Did I pick your middle class pocket? Sorry, not sorry. The difference is of course, that this won’t be the handmaid’s tale: this is no work of fiction.

Consider your wallets fair payment for those the Jesus Army kidnapped from the streets and fear not: we’re buckled in now. Even should the local police force, who have proven themselves consistently untrustworthy in the form of officers who care more about projecting an alpha male personality before justice or equality, in the form of an aunt who was part of their ‘safeguarding’ team and left me to die on the streets.

(by the way, does it hurt to know I had a firearm sticking out of my yoga pants when you came calling that day?)

The fact is, even after the Jesus Army began to fall girls were victimised in this town. We were preyed upon like cattle; we were the person left to wander alone while the man eating lion did his job.

It begins with love and ends with blood.

It begins tomorrow.

If the police force are listening, I will not be silenced. Those far beyond your jurisdiction and corrupt hand are willing to tell the story. Why don’t you huddle under stained duvets the way we did, praying for help?

Suck it, this isn’t your tale to tell.

The Kiss

Her lips were nervous as a butterfly, unsure whether to alight or flit away into the sun. His were the bruised plums she longed to split open and taste, but with all the wariness of a wolf in winter her eyes found the rough, storm torn bark of the trees instead. Doubt was the wheel ever spinning in the cavity of her chest, long since filled with a straw doll that only beat when desperate to escape a self built cage. Wonder was the whistle of the amber leaves in her ears, reminders that while everything falls and nothing lasts beauty and grace come around again. Lipstick stained, crimson pavement collided with the busses who wait in line and forever long to run but lack the room or opportunity. At night they flee along roads slick as tears until the gas that blocks each star has run down and their eventual slow crawl and stop is cradled by neon blankets that cause all that is not silver to glitter and take on a new life. She was flighty and furious as the rats she once called brethren, in a tunnel that has no altar on the faded and crumbling platform but is holy as the dome that need bow its’ head to no-one in a city of splendour and filth.
He was the king of the dark alleys and cobbled archways and moved like a lion against the flood of people: all grace and restrained power, rippling pebbles on a moonlit lake.

The splash seems insignificant but the widening circles have an impact on the deepest parts of the black water. He was a reverse supernova, one that floods the world with fire and light that embraces those he chooses to touch instead of keeping the divine spark to himself. The stroke of his fingers were third degree burns waiting to happen; a sudden flash of heat followed by absence of pain. His words were honeyed and smooth as a finely aged scotch and she felt the same kick in her belly every time he spoke. He carried heaven and hell with him and the scent of smoke; a wildfire waiting to happen with sparklers for eyes and a smile that tore out her eyes. She had never imagined anything like him, and found herself believing he was real only because her imagination was too flawed to build such a dream. With a caress that cut deeper than any sword, he pressed his lips to hers and stilled anxious, overflowing words.

No Fury

if you lift me
into the sky
supernova
I’ll teach you to spread silver wings

you bring roses
I press and keep
as a secret
tucked between sweet smelling pages

they bear witness
to soft kisses
and coffee cups
warming the winter chill we found

loving the lake
cautious, small steps
onto swans’ ice
with willow branches of wind chimes

but you burn me?
I’ll strike a match
you’ll warm up quick
as the bridge of your life ignites

I promised

I promised once
to keep you close
but as fine wire
I was cut by my oath

I promised once
to help you shine
but tarnish remains
lungs swimming in brine

I promised once
to give you hope
but I am a wild horse
and you were the rope

I promised once
the stars were bright
but you draw curtains
burned by the light

I promised once
to never let you go
before the summer
faded into snow

I promised once
I wouldn’t leave
but I trade your suffocation
for an ocean breeze

and without you
I begin to breathe

Remember Then

when the green
has faded
into the grey
a dawn of ash
a mother slain
by the children
she gave all
before columns of smoke
before asphalt choked
the poison
that triggered her fall
when the ocean
has turned to stone
jaded
as those who passed her by
when the rivers turn to dust
forests flake and rust
with unslaked thirst
and forgotten rain
when the world is dry
remember when
you loved your steel
a four wheeled ego
the slim device
tucked into a pocket
that taught you how to feel
instead of breathing
in the air
then
you confined life to a cage
built by plastic
the death of earth
unfolds on a screen
while you wail
and whine and rail
that nothing is fair
the world is ending
while you stare
at worthless fantasy
a banquet for dynasty
while nature starves
because we carved
wounds into her bones
remember then
what you have done
and what you ought have
but did not

Stray cats, stray thoughts

I am real
for the first time
and it hurts
I am tender as
the butterfly that falls
when freshly burst

I can feel
for the first time
sinced the world burned
all I know
is freezing snow
stinging me
as hornets
blinding me
as did my wrong turns

I can see
where I was blind
and my stomach churns
the end of the road
was a circle
woven with sins and clover
that tore at my stomach
as a hungry wyrm

I can listen
where before I spoke
now I find new words
but the fire within
I cannot quench, nor give in
and all that I have learned
lingers as the leopard
in the verdant branches
waiting to tear a throat
mine, or hers?

Doctors’ orders

He told me to scribble

all of my hopes

But when you’re a skeleton

Limbs rattle and clank

only to cause a flood of ink

No real tears to cry

or soft words remain

to envelope bones

Weathered by the years

softened by the rain

He told me to write down all of my dreams…

but there are bats in my skull

and nobody in the world

wants to hear them scream

Some things you can’t say

to polite company

or in general

lest they shut you away

My memories do not belong in words

but in containment

A cage for violence and blood

who flutter as frightened birds

She matters

It’s endless
Phone off the hook
A shark that swam away
but still carries steel
and will close teeth again

before this dawn is over

Receiver held carefully
as a venomous beast
A voice of propriety
brings the doom
Another matter
of lost strays and identity

awaits beneath the bridge

To protect and serve
the rats scurry to and fro
Blinding uniforms and tape
begin to ice the bones

Indifferent to tears
as the snow that fell

and the air
is a paper cut sting
Whip of a thousand wounds
You may throw up
or burst free of your skin
as scent smothers
this new normal

The routine before breakfast

They die in droves here
after all
or thrash and fade in clinical beds
Bathroom tile chipped as their teeth
Broken mirrors
and bloody porcelain
crimson on knuckles

A metaphor, portrayal
of the lives we are forced to lead

or did
To vultures in yellow
she’s a number on faded paper
‘missing’
All of us are missing here
She wasn’t just the shell
of a desperate, strung out girl

She had red hair
curling in the damp nights

She was more than track marks
her soul was smooth, unmarred
She has… had a smile for everyone
except her mirror.
She could charm the devil
or brings angels to swooning
Too high to feel the cold

She loved cappuccinos
She lived in stilettos and stolen bangles
She loved us with a fire
to light the moon
and everything that walked this earth
Another story ends

at the dead end of a road
I feel too dead myself to wonder
if these are tears I shed
or the freeze that fell to rain

Taming Demons

the girl without wings
the monster under her bed
feet splintered by oak
and the savage words she spoke
temporarily
before lightning struck her blind

the familiar
strange somehow, as shadows’ depth
is drawn into cutting edge

the girl with no voice
the beast spinning songs of glory
bedtime tales, bad girls
who throw their stones to break bones
brittle ivory
softened as she is by smoke

the girl who grew up
then learned to leash her demons
at the end of silver ropes