Tag Archives: Obsession


The roses in the garden were wilting, as though they were nodding their approval of your ignorance towards me. So I tugged them from the earth, removed their mocking heads, and threw them into the sad September breeze. The stalks they cried. The thorns they hailed. And the embers of petals floated back to me, and melded to my sweating body like greedy leeches. The embers still remain there, burning into my soul, like a wild and sorry tattoo.


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Words strangle my throat; I try

Three thousand ways to

Come crawling to your bare feet

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Midnight, beats pumping, last orders. She watches him; he winks. She smears gloss to hungry lips. Gloss, she thought, it always mesmerizes him.

Morning after; their heads throb, and he induces rejection, mascara tears. Passing her tongue over furred teeth, she walks home with regret. Love, she thought, is more appetising beneath the glitter ball.


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What made me become a writer?

The writing seed was planted inside me one rainy Sunday in 2004, while I was relaxing and reading in my ridiculously-small-rented-room in South-East London. I had been browsing the book section of a Croydon charity shop the day before, and had been instantly grabbed by a beautifully dreary front cover, and a sinister title. The book was called ‘Beneath the Skin’ by Nicci French. I had read the premise, test-read a random page (as I always do after plucking a book from the shelf), and had carried it straight to the till.

That Sunday afternoon I had downed numerous cups of tea – the heat of the liquid had fused with the irresistible chill that the pages were breathing into me. I turned page, after page, after page, until I reached the end. My instant thought upon closing the cover was ‘I wish I had written this book.’ Actually, I might have even whispered it aloud into those four walls.

I had fallen asleep that night with the book, the characters whirling around in my mind. The fear, darkness, reality, and loneliness that the book had aroused in me, had had even more effect in the darkness of the night, under the glow of the moon. I knew I would never forget this book. It had created an itch in my heart.

The following day I had been at work. I had clicked Google in my lunch hour. And in the search bar I clicked ‘How to write a novel’.

My obsession had begun.


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An excerpt from Goodreads;

“When she laughs, she makes a pealing sound, like a doorbell. If I told her I loved her, she would laugh at me like that. She would think I was not serious. That is what women do. They turn what is serious and big into a small thing, a joke. Love is not a joke. It is a matter of life and death. One day, soon, she will understand that.”


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She handpicked the last rose of summer; watched the petals wilt into a ballet of depression. The ghost of his apology of deceit had bred in her mind for days. She knew that walking unafraid in a world devoid of him could never equal the burning desire of a restored heart. She crushed the rose in her hand. Someday she would visit his office and attempt to rekindle the love of her lover; a man whom she would always believe to be a raw diamond in the earth.


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I dig my nails into his tattoo, and watch my name Rosa fall to pieces upon his skin. In his sleep, he releases silent billows of air; and I inhale them devotedly, counting one, two and three. I feel like I could consume every part of him. He must feel me digging him, for he awakes startled, tired and bemused. He tugs his arm from my grip, looks at me as though I’m crazy, and rolls over on the bed. His coldness kills me. My head sinks heavily into the pillow. My body shivers with emptiness, and I curl into a comfort ball, pulling my knees, my arms, into my chest. My heart wrings knowing that he’s out of my reach. And my mind cries for just an ounce of his love.


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