An apology

An apology

to you

who makes me blush

and scream

and tries too hard

to make me better.

 

I am sorry

for myself

for my bitter ways

and for my bitter words

but this is my all

and everything.

 

I hope you forgive

my selfish mind

that tries desperately

to win your approval

but falls too quick

and bruises.

 

 

 

 

 

Love Island is a fine example of pseudo-feminism

It is impossible to avoid Love Island this year, as much as I have tried and succeeded over the last couple of seasons. If it’s not on your TV it’s on social media, or the news, or in the magazines, or someone is talking about it on your bus on the journey home. I decided to take the plunge and find out what everyone has been raving about. 1 minute 23 seconds in to the first episode and I can’t go on. I have seen more unsolicited skin in that time than I have in the last month. I’d heard the rumours, but never quite expected it to be so, let’s say, in your face.

Oh and of course there’s the token ‘fatty’, who can we just highlight is not in the slightest bit overweight. How can a normal looking guy look so abnormal? His body is better than most men but sat next to the testosterone-infused six-packs that form the majority of the male population of the show, he looks almost ‘chubby’. Find the anomaly seems a much more suitable game for this show, than girls squashing watermelons with their bums.

All in all, it just feels like another programme that perpetuates an unobtainable ideal that the average person can never reach. I went to a talk the other day where a man spoke candidly about social media. He asked the audience: ‘How many times do you put down your phone after scrolling through Instagram and actually feel good about yourself?’. The answer for me, and most others in the crowd, was ‘rarely’. That’s not right. After this, I unfollowed all the fitness inspiration accounts, the Victoria’s Secrets models, the bikini brands, and the reality stars with their pimped-up body-parts and glam squads. What was left was a stream of art, architecture, photography, travel photos, and friends. It was cleansing. I’d recommend it.

Who knows, maybe I’m speaking on behalf of thousands of hushed voices, or maybe I’m just another insecure girl who’s jealous and doesn’t know how to handle it…

Girls

It was a game

A way to pass time

Between her and her

When life dried up

And they’d run out of jokes

So they turned to me

Maybe, because I was closest?

They spit

And flicked dirt at my face

They dropped rocks

From their high heights

That hit me hard

Didn’t bruise

But instead formed scars

Instantly

Across my body

Made me nothing

When I used to be everything

Or at least

A piece of their everything

Plastic time

What is tomorrow’s perfect?

When today we play

on mental moments

with plastic time

that doesn’t last as long

but travels at the same pace

What is tomorrow’s now?

When this disposable thing

is no longer new

or useful

or relevant

What do I do then?

When all my money is spent

on repeats

of something already wonderful

What do I do then?

I trace the mountain tops

I trace the mountain tops

with my eyes

and now my pencil too

scratching, outlining the tip

I dip and duck into creases

I shade and shadow

shallow edges

and dark ridges

black and white

I use my fingers now

letting them walk

across cliff face

and jump down

so I have to bend knuckle

to reach back up

to sharper edges

that cut my skin

as I graze the points

and then my hand

falls downwards

as I reach the end of the cliff

and I dip

cold

into icy waters

20.3.18

She knew we were watching

and everyone else

As she led her parade

of butter skin

and salted and bleached hair

past boys who shouldn’t be looking

and girls who couldn’t stop

because these newly bronzed baby faces

are kissed and caressed

by our eyes

and they savour

the judgement

that imprints on their damp skin

and they pretend it’s a compliment

but this compliment

will bite them tomorrow

when they look in the mirror

and see our eyes looking back