Words and such.

I haven't written almost any poetry in years, but, in the meantime, I have been writing stories, and some of them are available online!

For more frequent updates and writerly things follow my instagram: @mercedes_georgia_mayes

If you like my poetry, do consider checking out my stories below:

It was the dog, I think.

No...perhaps the cat.

Running off without looking back.

You said it was hazy- it all happened so fast-

but the details were clearer than they

should have been. Clear enough to last,

fresh in my mind and ordered now

amongst recollections:

a leash too tight

a shout too sharp

discordant whines

redrawn lines

'what's yours is what's mine's...

It was me, I think.

The air is fresher here.

Hmm, colder too.

Doesn’t seem to matter much

when you slip into view.

The sky seems so much wider here.

Duller, though, at times.

But none of that can phase me

if I see it through your eyes.

The food tastes better here.

Except for when it’s not.

I can’t find the room to complain

when you occupy my thoughts.

My heart feels warmer here.

Sometimes it gets too much.

So strong it feels that often

I have to brush away

your touch.

My head feels clearer here.

I can piece together more.

I can start to remember just how much of a bore 

it is, how much of a chore, 

that monumental hill just to reach the fucking store.

And I can’t quite remember what I brought you here for

if you won’t go up the hill 

if you keep smoking in the clean air

and telling my mum her food can’t compare

or that you love the way the snow traps us here.

Can’t seem to remember,

or perhaps seeing for the first time,

that I had painted you 

The scales are unbalanced,

the weights upon them cause a sway,

but I can’t see the difference either way.

One side is burdened with all I stand against

the other, although heavy,

seems, at least, to make some sense.

And Justice blindly brandishes them both as if to say:

these are the only options, 

there is no other way.

I wonder that she does this. 

I’ve wondered for a while.

And yet I also recognise the lack of any smile

upon her stoic face.

Of what she seems to value, I cannot find a trace.

What, then, is she suggesting, as she dangles these scales above,

perhaps there are more powerful things than truth and justice and love.

Free-range thought in the midst of containment:

how it feels to be trapped in your own home.

A fancy cage with less jarring bars 

obscuring the outside world.

Still, my shit’s on the floor, and nobody 

is coming to clean it up. I’ve left the door open 

and no one’s complaining that it’s like a barn.

And I am watched, all hours of the day

little cameras, little eyes through curtained slits,

will she make a break for it?

I won’t. I don’t. 

But that’s the problem with free range, you see?

The thought is unchecked, unbalanced, unlike me

and it escapes the bounds of conformity: 

what if I, too, defy convention, defy detention- 

but the stress is getting to me, I’m plucking out my hair-

I’m motherclucking scared and I find myself fattening 

like they want me to, not like the pretty animals 

roaming the zoos, but like a lamb to the slaughter,

like a moth to the flame, until I’m plump enough to shoulder 

the blade coming down around my neck.

In my haste- in your indulgence of it-

there is a moment

cast in precious ivory and doubt

where I lose something.

And in the time it has taken 

for me to realise- you to catch up-

the impression of its importance

has bloated in my mind- your ankles.

Suddenly, I cannot trust

Your judgement- my restraint,

For fear of sculpting my life

A sharper shade of risk.

Lights and smiles abound.

The world is swathed in sound;

People singing, people cheering,

Ignoring all the silent leering

Of all the millions far away

Unable to rejoice this day.

Phones are off and tvs streaming.

This day there is no room for screaming...

Unless it’s at our family

Those that we love most ardently.

For love explodes this time of year

Into frustrated floods of tears.

It’s hard enough without the crying

Of all the others out there dying-

So let us stop, tune out, okay?

It won’t hurt (will it?) just for today.

Straws will not break the camel’s back.

They’ll just keep piling up in their neat little stack.

Each extra strand will bear a weight

and the camel in turn will acclimate.

By the time the next strand has started its descent

the camel will forget where the last straw went.

Eventually, it will be so commonplace 

that the straws will appear without leaving a trace.

The camel so resilient, the stack so tall,

that it would be more uncomfortable to have no straw at all.

And each little straw will seem all the smaller,

to the straws higher up in the pecking order.

Straws will not break the camel’s back.

They’ll just keep piling up in their neat little stack.

Wake up! Groggy, blurry, haze.

A dizzy lurch through empty days.

Try to trace back all your steps,

What you gained and what you left.

Get up! Dizzy, haggard, tired.

Drink some coffee, go get wired.

Let your eyes roll over screens

Filled with hate and hope and dreams.

Look out! Lazy, worthless, tool.

Be careful you don’t look a fool.

Rub your eyes and bite your tongue,

Your day has only just begun.

It starts slowly

My reflection in your eyes

Your reflection in mine

A subtle image 

Grasped by like minds

A mirrored action

Ruled by give and take

A shared appreciation

For what’s at stake

Suddenly a dance

You step forward I step back

Our swords clash between us

In defence and attack

And now it’s all to quick

I crave my image like I’m sick

We slice and cut to carve us out

Of each other’s eye

I want the me in yours

You want the you in mine.

Got a hankerin’ for flesh that’s yours,

a wish to chase you out of doors,

a need to get you in my clutches:

outta those clothes and into these crutches.

Got a thirst for blood that’s in your veins,

a want to pick apart you brains,

a hunger for your precious heart:

to bite and tear and rip apart.

Walk in, steal the floor; 

make the masses feel your draw.

Chin up, steps clear;

instil passion, instil fear.

Gaze forward, eyes aglow;

let them think what they think they know.

Dress trailing, form tall;

leave them crawling in your thrall.

Steps fading, leave no trace

but the memory of your transient grace.

Caged indecency

Picked loose

Tender scabs 

Plucked through

Tightened flesh

Unbound

Paradise lost

And found

I keep a shell in my pocket

which, when I hold,

let’s me feel the press of your

palm as you pushed it in mine.

It lets me hear

the gentle whisper over the waves,

your breath warm against my jaw,

our noses pink against the wind,

my heart tame beneath your words.

I hold it when I’m alone

and I want you to come home.

It is not a beautiful thing

that flowers in my chest.

It is a blunt and mounting pressure

that blooms beneath my breast.

It constricts with creeping vines

my lungs, my throat, my heart:

I worry that it’s planning

on tearing me apart.

It wanes and waxes with the tides

of my unruly thoughts.

Just when I think it’s gone away,

I feel it shift- contort.

The petals push against my skin,

the roots dig in, then squeeze,

the pollen gets into my head,

and I go on, diseased.

The blooming isn’t beautiful,

of seeds corrupt like this.

But hope springs eternal,

and I cannot resist.