1906

It was all too much,
each day the heavy weight
of continuing on waited
to crush her,
knowing her arms were too weak to
lift the load above
her head once
it fell.
She couldn’t hold it off
any
longer.
It had hung there for
far too long,
taunting her,
teasing it’s imminent
collapse.

Her body shook,
the power of 1906
San Francisco
quaking her
from the inside out,
until she lay
paralyzed,
frozen by the power of it’s
force.
The weight dangled
above her eyes,
shaken loose by
her mind
and soul,
if that even
dwelled inside
of her,
she didn’t know.
Not anymore.

She resigned,
and closed her eyes,
and held her arms
out to the sides,
her hands facing the sky,
begging for it,
wanting for it to obliterate her,
just this time.
Finally
finally
finally.

The darkness
descends.

Original Poetry: © Kelsey H. 5.4.17

Bloomsbury

I saw the
edge of the universe
that I had been seeking
since 1924
at the bottom
of an empty glass
at The London Pub
as the sirens of
Bloomsbury
wailed and
filled my ears,
my eyes connecting
with Virginia Woolf
as I wandered onto
the pavement
of Woburn Place,
but I lost her as I passed
the Tesco Express
across from
the Russell Square stop,
since she said
she’d buy the flowers herself,
as I disappeared
onto the Piccadilly Line,
and she dissolved
into the blooms
of Tavistock Square.

Original Work: Kelsey H. 3.26.17

The Bathtub

She sat in the lukewarm water for going on the second hour, and kept her eyes closed, not wanting to accidentally catch her reflection in the mirror opposite. She used to fit in this tiny bathtub much more easily, but she had stopped paying attention to what she ate at least six months ago; maybe longer, she couldn’t be sure anymore. The bath salts had settled under her legs and bum, the bubbles long since popped, leaving a milky, white film on the surface of the water. That deep sense of aching, that had been permeating her stomach and chest for hours was still there, sinking her further down onto the white ceramic, until she felt absorbed by the cool material. She never knew where this sadness came from, but when it hit, it felt like being stuck in a room as you watch the walls slowly be consumed with fire, and you’re waiting for the inevitable explosion. The heat of the flames sounded good right now, she mused. Reaching the tap to add hot water to the tub would be simple, but she couldn’t muster the energy to rise up and reach out for it, so instead, she sank further, until her head dipped below the surface of the water, and she could taste the manufactured lavender scent against her tongue. She didn’t know how long she was going to stay under there.

Original Work: Kelsey H. 1.23.17

Excerpt from my short story, “Wild Horses”

The following content belongs to me, the author. Opening scene from my short story, titled, Wild Horses

“She traced the freckles on his back with her fingertips. His eyelashes fluttered. She pressed her lips to his left shoulder blade. His lips puckered involuntarily. She felt the warmth of his skin, as the burning light poured into the quiet bedroom. Layla stood up from the comfort of their bed, wrapping the white sheet around her body. She loved his house. Mid-century modern in the Hollywood Hills, full of tall windows and endless natural light. It was Southern California. She loved the high quality white bedding, and framed replicas of work by Pollock, Kandinsky, and Rothko, which adorned the walls. Everything was modern, contemporary, and him. It was Alfie.

The bedside table was stacked with the stuff that made up his busy life. His notebook for his lyrics, a book of poetry by Cocteau he bought in Paris once upon a tour. His worn copy of South of the Border West of the Sun by Murakami; It was a gift from her. She picked it up in Manhattan at a book store in Soho, shortly after they met.”

Original Work: Kelsey H. Written in Autumn 2015, in Manchester, England.

Zenith

Thin silver slivers of midnight moonlight
sliding through silk hanging high
on windows I can’t reach
to open,
needing to free the stale air
of your dead love,
needing to embrace
the cool whispers
of an approaching tomorrow,
when I will forget
that your name
lives forever in the protagonist
of my favourite book,
and you will forget
the scent of my freshly washed hair
on the cotton of your
blue pillowcase,
and we will forget that for
a short, bright time
in an otherwise
achingly dark world,
we found the ecstasy of existence,
we found the zenith
of us.

Original Work: Kelsey H. 2/12/16

Irish Tea

He brought tea to bed
because it’s what his mother had taught him
to do
as a child,
on cold winter nights when the wind
was howling
and rain beat against his windows,
old as his homeland itself,
she would bring him tea,
and he brought it to me
20 years later
in a flat far newer
than that old, worn down house
he took me to
that weekend in April,
when he pretended to still be a Catholic
and crossed himself at Mass
to make his father proud.

He lay tangled in white cotton sheets,
skin grasping on
to a slight tan
from a week of more sun
than his body had seen
all year.
I licked my lips
instinctively
as I watched his fingers
graze the dip in his waist
and squeeze his hip;
I wished my teeth could dig
into his soft flesh
and nibble just a bit
as I kissed further down below
his sheet
that was covering
my favourite spot
on the inner part of his thigh.

His lilt was gentle music
as he whispered against
the skin of my neck,
his full weight on top of me
anchoring me,
freeing me,
as the rain beat against the windows
and soaked into the earth below.
His skin always smelled
like the sea,
even when he was far away
from home.

He told of his plan
to take me to Killarney
and show me where
his mother had come from
when she was just a girl,
when her mother brought her tea,
on cold winter nights
when the wind was howling
and the rain beat against the windows
of her father’s house.

I’m still waiting.

Original Work: KEH 30/11/16

The Sun Will Rise

I lie in bed
And all the voices
In my head
Come screaming
To the forefront
Of every thought
I’ve ever had
And I doubt myself
And everything I am
The color of the sky
And the green of your eyes
I could say I love you
But the voices tell me
No
I am loved by no one
And they remind so
I am alone
Adrift
At sea
Anchorless
And floating free
From here to eternity
The voices say I’m mad
And maybe it’s really true
I see everything around me
From cityscape
To morning dew
And then I see you
Upon a hill that cannot be reached
Up there you love
To quietly preach
What you love
And who you are
Born from dust
Of the furthest star
When the voices try to fight me
Break me into two
But I know better
I’ve learned their tricks
I’ve built a wall
Brick by brick
Upon that mountaintop we reign
Life and love are not a game
The voices take their leave
But will return
I’ll burn them down
Their ashes to an urn
I made for them
One sunny day
When pain was kept
Far at bay
For I learned very long ago
The sun will rise
And the wind will blow
And fields of flowers
Will banish snow
And off to wonderland
We go
One day
One day
When the sun does rise
And you exhale
All your lies
The sun will shine
All day till night
And set again
The last rays of light
In the west
On Pacific shores
And I will finally say
No more
No more
No more
Enough, now…
Enough.

Original Work: Kelsey H. 3/13/15

Santa Monica

sea foam painted sea glass
sunk into the sockets of his face,
Santa Monica sunshine
glazing summer skin

cerulean skies, limoncello light,
ignite tie-dyed waves,
come crashing into tanned legs
tangled with mine
trapeze twirling limbs
our breath born into hymns

hands deep in searing sand
clamouring for cool
in the harbour heat
sipping sex on the beach
on the beach towels,
spilled on skin, melting in mouths
the Pier caked in Pacific salt
heavy in the air-

it tasted like him

crank of the carousel,
carnival aria,
kaleidoscope
blurring sun drunk eyes,
his candy floss lips
against mine,
round and round
spinning
into Santa Monica
sunsets

fairy lights of the ferris wheel
take me home
damp white cotton sheets
damp white cotton
between my legs
his weight
anchors me
fingers grip his hip
salt above his lip
tangled in his sea swept hair
tongues tasting sweet summer sweat

“when I’m fucked up that’s the real me…”
bass booming
shaking the bed
cannabis zephyr
in post-coital air
his sea foam sea glass

illuminated

by Santa Monica stars.

[Original Work, belongs to me, the author: K.E.H. Written: March 2016 in Manchester, England.]