You squander my time like it’s nothing;
an extraneous entity, to consume as you please.
Yet here you are again, come with hands held out,
looking to get you s’more.

But baby, I’ve no more for you.
For any of you.
No energy for empty connections;
no words in my vernacular
for one more meaningless exchange.
I’ve not one more minute to spend
giving a fuck that I’m wondering
why I even give a fuck.

–  K.Wilson

I want you…

When I said ‘I want you’, what I meant was this:

I want early mornings that bleed into hazy afternoons where time doesn’t exist. I want sandwiches on the grass in my lunch break. I want Saturdays and supermarkets and incredulity that I buy my mango already chopped. I want late nights and hotel bars with tumblers of Old Fashioned, hot in our throats. I want breakfast in Paris, or breakfast on a Sunday or arguments about not fucking eating breakfast. I want to slow dance, with wine thick in our veins. I want pillow talk. I want the truth. I want you to tell me all of the things you think I don’t want to know.  I want to laugh at bad movies and to read aloud to you. I want to fall in love with your words but still correct your grammar. I want in-jokes and your attempts at a northern accent. I want to try the food you ordered, because you always make the better choice. I want to learn to speak Italian and how to cook pasta with you. I want bank holiday Mondays. And Cinco de Mayos – I want a diary full of anniversaries of the first moments we share. I want to wake up, realising we fell asleep holding hands again. I want one dessert and two forks, although one will do. I want to know what you want before you know. I want you to know me that way too. I want your words and your trust and your silence. I want to explore with you; to get lost with you. I want to protect you. I want love without limits that blurs the boundaries of our very souls; one that moves us through time. I want your body on mine; to know you with an intimacy we can hardly conceive. I want to be all the things you need. I want ‘everyday’. I want every day. I want family. I want a place to belong. I want to be the one you come home to. I want you to hear what I really say, when fear stifles my words. I want you to see my walls are to protect myself, not to keep you out. I want you to help me take them down, brick-by-brick. I want our love to be as necessary yet instinctive as breathing.

I want you. What part of that wasn’t I clear about?

How to be a Woman

In honour of International Women’s Day, a re-post of a poem I wrote a while ago.  Here’s to every strong, independent, talented, compassionate woman I’ve ever had the fortune to know.  Especially my daughter, who continues to teach me how to be a woman.


Don’t Call Me Beautiful

I see how it really is.
It’s not simply the size of my waist,
or the curve of my breasts
that don’t measure up to your idea
of beautiful.
Your judgement goes far deeper than the skin you
taught me to hate.
You picked away at me,
pointing out all of the ways I was not enough,
until I believed you.
But my insecurity, you said, made me
even more unattractive.

It’s not befitting of a lady to be strong;
those provocative opinions and that wilful independence
would never bring me love.
At least that’s what you told me;
and there was nothing pretty about my vulgar mouth.

But you failed to silence me by
making ‘beautiful’ my most valuable
yet unattainable commodity;
a way you could dismiss me
when I wasn’t what you thought I should be.
Go ahead.
Ignore what I say.
Reduce me to the sum of the skin I’m in.
Let your jeers and taunts
drown out my voice.
Laugh at me. Dismiss me. Insult me. Put me in your box.
But know that I will never be shamed into submission.
Because I’ll never be as concerned as you are,
with how I look.

No, I’m not beautiful.
What ever made you imagine I aim to be?

I’m not beautiful,
I am so much more than that.

You’ll never know my worth.
It’s in the places you’re not looking.

 – K.W


Yesterday I was everything;
Empress of all I surveyed.
The strength to
raise armies –
of nations.

I was immortal.

I am nothing –
the warrior in me
Left behind,
a husk of a woman –
a tormented soul
unable to raise even her head
this pillow,
Nor conquer the grief in
her chest.

There’s no fight left in me,
for today
I would gladly surrender
my kingdom
for the taste of just
one moment of

 – k.w