Sleep talking

You slept on tiptoes

and between dreams

and told me

in your sleep

that I was stealing the covers

and I laughed

watching you cradled in cloud

and linen perfume.

 

You woke before the sun

and between seconds

and told me

as your eyes opened

that I’d stolen the covers

and I said I was sorry

and kissed your smiling greedy eyes

back to sleep.

Counting sheep

She looked at me weirdly today

And then not at all

And then my mind took me on another adventure

Where her hands were a harness around my neck

To keep my head upright, and my throat closed

Where her hands cut lengths of my hair off in my sleep

And began to weave a blanket to smother me with

Where her hands made fire and burnt my skin so it crackled

To show that I am lesser and I am not so fierce

 

 

And it took a while for me to escape my miserable dream

And find peace again in my sub-conscience

But also to rid the memory that her hands will return

To torment me again

Banana

I am peeling the skin,

thick repulsive dotted yellowed

lumpy boney

bruised

 

I am peeling the skin,

speckled brown sharp soft

dark edged

putrid

 

I am peeling the skin,

flesh spits outwards mouldy

squeezes squirts

doughy

 

I am peeling the skin,

sickening smell saliva decay

pulpy mess

wet

 

I am peeling the skin,

dig push finger into mush

pull out

sodden

 

I am peeling the skin,

grime on the floor sudden guilt

wasted taste

iron

 

I am peeling the skin,

rotting dirty fruit I think

thinking other

him

Do you understand it now?

Some people say they don’t understand my poems. But I don’t remember asking if they understood. I want to know if they enjoyed it.

Because. Because, this poem is about you. And that poem is about you too. That last one when I talked about those selfish girls or those feelings you get when you wake up and you’re no longer dreaming. That poem about hatred and jealousy is about you too. It’s selfish. You must think only about yourself. Poetry is completely selfish, you see.

So, tell me. What are you thinking about?

 

I’m thinking about him…

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