i know girls

i know girls who don't eat for a week before they see their boyfriends.

i know girls who stand in front of the mirror and mentally will themselves

to be physically thinner even though their bmi tells the rest of the world that

they are severely underweight. i know girls who hate everything they

will eat, and everything they ate.


i know girls who dress provocatively, because your brains do not

attract people as much as a freshly-shaved slab of thigh meat. i know

girls who get into debt for the sake of a little black dress because

as long as you look easy, it doesn't matter if you can't make ends

meet. i know girls who date boys they don't like based on the justification,

'well, a girl's got to eat.'


i know girls who refuse to speak out, refuse to make eye contact,

in the hope that they'll leave with a small shred of ego in tact because,

some girls seem to be easy prey.


i know some girls who are full of words, that they're not quite sure how to say.

when you talk to me like that

do you know how you sound when you talk to me like that?

for a split second, i don't even know you. you become a stranger

that, given the choice, i wouldn't even associate myself with.


you ball up your words and hurl them as grenades, aiming for

areas that will suffer most from the impact and, if by some miracle

i remain in tact, you'll find something heavier to catapult my way.


there's hardly anything i can do or say, not without the risk of

making things even worse which seems to be the relentless curse

tied to the action of me opening my mouth.


i will stutter out vowels that you will punctuate with your

unimpressed scowls and soon i will begin to search for my

rock, that i may crawl back under it, where i am safe. ish.


you use unflattering adjectives in a grammatically incorrect

manner, pieced together with a wrench and rusty spanner as

if i'm not worthy of full and proper insults.


                             do you know how you sound when you talk to me like that?

for a split second, i don't even know you.

out of sight

Out of sight, out of mind. That's how it's been,

How it will always be. While I burn with anguish

In the absence of you; you fail to notice the

Absence of me. You will remember when you

See me, or when you're alone; when you need

Company via the phone, or when you remember

You have an 'other half'. The fact remains

You can easily live without me -- 

why i write

because there are voices in my head that need to come out.

because there are words that i can't simply say, i need to

SHOUT and what better way, than through the medium of

literature. because there are stories that my own voice can't

remember well enough to tell; because there are accusations

that my voice isn't loud enough to yell; because there are

some things, that need a more permanent home on paper, to

prevent them being swept away by the air. because it's in me,

to write. because somewhere in my veins there are several

different strains of literature, and they need a way to come

out. it feels like lately, my own heartbeat rumbles along in

the same rhythm of Shakespeare's feet and that kind of bond

isn't a coincidence. i write so i am not ignored. so i leave an

imprint on this world even if it is just a footprint on the vast

space of the internet. even if i only ever write poems that

people will always forget, consciously. i live in hope that

subconsciously, they're carrying a piece of me and that, will

be a good enough justification, of why i spent my life writing.

fat girls don't get laid

they tell me i'm a clown, as a term of endearment. they mean it

in a nice way although i'm never sure what to say when they brand

me as the funny one. it feels like a polite synonym for the ugly one.

the one that people don't notice, that is, until i crack a joke; then,

i'm the bell of the ball. free entertainment for all. i'll admit that in

the right situation, i'm a fucking hoot, but that doesn't compensate

for the fact that my sex appeal is on mute and some idiot lost my

remote. the globe of my gut will shudder with pleasure at every

inappropriate joke i endeavour but at the end of the night, no one

wants to go home with the funny, fat chick. no. she isn't the right

kind of stimulant for a di-

so i will remain a clown. i will spit out one-liners and cruel verbal

concoctions with a sarcastic spin, i'll be so open that you'll think

i've let you all in but actually, i'm a closed book. a big book. with

pages torn and stained. by the sad and hurtful reality, that

fat girls don't get laid.

forcing it

I’m forcing it. I give myself prompts to try igniting
An idea that will turn into some form of writing
And then I lose my patience when it all fails.
I hover over the page, holding my innards, entrails,
I’m just looking for something to throw them into.
As I bear down to write, my pen rips straight through,
My notebook and I know I’m trying, way too hard,
That whatever I force out, I will eventually discard,
Only to tear another page from the spine of my book,
I’ll scribble my name and shout, ‘I wrote something, look!’

a loose thread

there is a loose thread lingering just below my hairline,
curiosity says I should pull it, see what I find,
that on the other end there might be treasures of the mind.

it may be a guide to a world that I can then explore,
it may be the doorbell to a previously unopened door,
or it may lasso me, tug me, lifeless, to the floor.

there is a loose thread lingering just below my hairline,
logic says I should just leave it, it might not be mine.
‘Or it might be the only thread holding together your mind.’

is this how curiosity killed the cat?

tick to-

The clocked never ticked as loudly as it did on the day you left. As if the clock was also bereft.

As if my rhymes and its chimes were the only things that could move us past the tragedy of losing a member of the household. As if the clock, also had a story that needed to be told.

It ticked out of sync with the rest of the clocks, like the pendulum was suffering a severe state of shock and time, suddenly wasn't important. 

As I waved goodbye to the poetry I thought was my calling, the clock waved goodbye, and time started falling. We both developed some mechanical faults in the absence of you. 

good morning, world / clever world

Good morning, world, I say, glumly.

Good morning, girl, the world says back.

While the world wanders around, smugly,

I spend my days looking for what I lack.

A love life, that's complicated. Too much time.

A sex life? That's somewhere, long ago dead.

Some talent, I had it once, had a knack for rhyme,

But when I try to pen a poem, it gets stuck in my head.

Good evening, world, I say, defeated.

Good evening, girl, the world says back. 

World, why do I feel so shamefully conceited?

Girl, why are you always looking for the things you lack? 

stalker

I scrawled across your mirror in black eye-liner.
It was a wonderful surprise for you to find late at
Night, when you got home from your new date.

‘I told you that shirt would look good on you.’

Probably not as surprising as the piece of paper,
Pinned to the back of your bathroom door to talk
To you before you went back to our bedroom.

‘The tie was too much for a first date, though.’

There was a flutter of rage and panic intertwined
As you groped around in your pocket for the key
That you felt sure I had given back to you earlier.

‘Sleep tight.’

I wrote in red lipstick on your sheets.

wasteland

There is the unsettling crunch of something that
Used to be alive, beneath your feet, as you navigate
Throughout the broken chairs. Their tables are
Long missing. There is a discarded picture

Of a couple kissing; God only knows how it found
Its way here. It is faded and torn at the edges;
Representative of how you feel as you shift through
This world and wonder whether anything you see

Is even real. The sky is black, and although you’re
Killing time in the hope that sunlight will attack
You eventually crunch your way through to the
Reality that this world is as good as it gets.

Full of regrets, you question:

How the hell do we escape this wasteland?

snow

The sky is blue until the snow falls. And then
The world becomes a blinding light of a reality
Where daylight seems endless. The clarity of
White forces us to see things

That we aren’t all ready to see. The sprinkling
Turns into the suffocation of a universe and you,
You stand there and watch the snow scatter
Confusion across your landscape. And you
Thoroughly dread the day

When someone walks across your snow.

unfinished reading

On my bed, there is a detective novel entitled The Dead that
I am three chapters into reading; after the boredom of the first
Two, the words are bleeding into each other but, I’m determined
To find out who killed that prostitute.

In the kitchen, balanced on the toaster, is a collection of poetry,
The title of which I forget. I seem to have cherry-picked the best
Bits and discarded the rest with the loose intention of finding out
What the other writers wanted to say.

On the dining room table you’ll find Shakespeare’s Collected Works
That has been treated unkind, the binding is fragile, unstable. I left
It to rest on the table with the intention of finding out if there was
Method in Hamlet’s madness.

On the wall in my study, at eye-level, so when I rise it’s the first
Thing there to greet my eyes is a post-it. Will you ever finish a book? 

to my pet

I may not understand how you sleep for twenty hours out of the
Day but do not for a second think that I judge you for it. If anything,
I adore it. In a similar fashion to how I adore that high-pitched
Bark that emerges from between your square-set jaw every time
I rest a treat on the floor and tell you to wait a second before you
Devour it. Something that I do not adore, but am somewhat
Jealous of, is your ability to find a wonderful scent in the most
Disgusting of things. Your olfactory abilities put mine to shame
And while I breeze through life smelling everything the same, you
Rediscover the smell of grass every time you go outside. In the
Same way you discover the scent of meat every time we sneak
Half of our dinner out of a restaurant for your dining pleasure too.
I swear, you eat better than some humans do. I don’t understand
Dog greeting, and how it becomes appropriate to sniff someone
Else’s junk upon meeting but hey, it’s just your way. I suppose the
Saving grace is that you’re usually the one being sniffed so, at
Least your nose is clean. I love that you have an intrinsic ability to
Just know when one of us needs a reassuring lick on the arm; in
The same way that we know, when you move to the little sofa to
Be on your own, you do not want to be cuddled, but that’s part
Of your charm. I don’t understand how someone who can’t speak
Has become the best company for me throughout the day; how
Someone who doesn’t comprehend language can always pinpoint
The right thing to say; how someone, who isn’t even a someone,
Has become one of my favourite someones in the world. I don’t
Understand how anyone could ever look into those eyes and
Willingly hurt you, or desert you, do anything but love you. I
Don’t understand how we got so lucky, to have such a perfect pet.

why must we rhyme all the time

If there is anything about literature that I truly hate,
It’s the effort that it takes us to try and negotiate
Rhyming words into the closing of parallel lines.
I’m honestly asking you this: Who has the time?
You might find that your poem fits and flows better,
If you stop worrying about the final cluster of letters,
If you stopped forcing unwilling images to come out,
And if you stopped filling your lines with so much self-doubt.
So when you next think of a rhyme that doesn’t fit, show it,
Because a poem doesn’t fit a rhyme, a poem fits the poet.

a mid-afternoon anti-climax

She had been sat on the park bench for two hours, thirty-
Two minutes and approximately fifty-one seconds when the
Man, who had been circling the park for twenty-eight minutes,
Asked her if the end of the seat was free. It could have been
The start of a Match.com advert, easily. All they needed was
Some soft guitar sounds in the background and a cameraman
To catch her smile at a suggestive angle and it would have
Been ready for television. Unfortunately the scene was only
Privy to my vision but, it certainly gave me some romantic
Hope. He asked her if she smoked. She smiled and no as he
Awkwardly slipped the pack of Mayfair smooth back in his
Pocket; although his lighter falling in between the grooves of
The bench kind of ruined the subtlety. She inadvertently
Smiled at me but, we both knew she was really smiling at him.
He told her he was trying to quit and she said, You’re not doing
A very good job of it with another smile, and something that
Looked like a wink, although it could have been a confused
Blink. She didn’t seem like the winking type. He asked her
What her name was and I didn’t catch but whatever it was,
He thought it was nice. He didn’t say so but you could tell;
The way he echoed her, the way it fell from his lips, it was
A name that his tongue liked to say. I’m Stephen, Stephen
Grey he said with a handshake, which was a mistake; one
Does not shake hands when one is cruising in a park. I
Watched them for one hour, forty-three minutes and
Twenty-nine seconds. As the sun started to fall asleep it
Soon became apparent their love bubble would soon thrust
Them back into the open world. The question all stories seem
To end with, does the boy get the girl? He took out his wallet,
Withdrew a business card, and paused for a moment to look
 At her hard. There was something beautiful about a woman
In fading sunlight. Nah, she said, You’re alright. It’s been nice
Talking though, have a wonderful night.

With thanks to Macklemore

“Can’t you take some of the knowledge you have and like, convert it into the knowledge that your sister has?”

Little did I know that those words would ring in my ear for at least
A year after they had been spoken. My Grandfather, raised on numbers
And brick-laying, probably didn’t really know what he was saying when
He told me be more like my sister. Because what he was really telling
Me to do was ignore the voice in my head that tells me to write; to
Ignore the metaphors that keep me awake at night and the similes,
That I’m always trying to complicate. What he was really telling me to
Do was go against the grain of my brain, disregard the years I had spent
Reading books and absorbing techniques and swap it for a future in
Numbers, which would be bleak, but admittedly more fiscal. What
My Grandfather really wanted was for me to make a career, rather
Than spend my best years writing poetry that the majority of the world
Will never hear, and the few the do, probably won’t even like. He didn’t
Want me to waste a life. But…

“A life lived for art is never a life wasted.”

under our carpet

Under our carpet there is the argument from thirteen weeks
Ago about when you mouthed a filthy word to your friend and
Said that is was a joke. It’s sitting there, next to the time that you
Were angry at me for no apparent reason, on top of the day you
Snapped at me before I’d even spoke. Under our carpet is every
Bad mood and every harsh comment that shouldn’t have been
Uttered, but was, even though neither of us are sure of the
Reason because, we’re too busy pretending things haven’t
Happened. Under our carpet is the time you said I think she
Might be able to help me understand things like I’m the one
That doesn’t make sense, although, if you raked through our
Past tense you’d find yourself to be just as confusing as me.
Under our carpet are the tears that I’ve cried, and never told
You about, because no one wants a girlfriend that isn’t okay.
But I don’t want a girlfriend who lies I can already hear you
Say as you read that line. Under our carpet is every time I’ve
Told you I’m fine, just because I need to forget whatever it is
That’s been brushed under the carpet this time.

the world needs reassurance

On this cynical globe that I have found myself walking
Around there are many life lessons worth hearing. There
Are many people worth fearing and many sites worth
Seeing and, even when you’re having ‘one of those days’
It’s important to remember how lucky you are for just
Being here.  On this perverse planet, lingering boldly
Out in space, there are times when your duvet seems
Like your only safe place and I know from experience
That those are the days when you should definitely
Get out of bed, because no one ever shook the world
By the shoulders with a pillow under their head. No, in
This world, you need a helmet. You need crash gear so
When the world comes crumbling in on you, you can
Fight your way out and shout, ‘Hey, world, I’m still
Here.’ You’re right, it is easier said than done. But this
World, despite being beautiful, has bad days, just like
Us, and rather than flap about to make a fuss I think
We should all just breathe deeply, relax, take the
Weight of our shoulders and the burdens off our
Backs and remember, we are lucky to be here. So
When the world tries to tear you down, remind
Yourselves of that. When it treats you like the gum
On its shoe, you hold it with the tenderness of a
Lover and say, ‘Hey, things will be okay.’ Because
Sometimes, the world needs reassurance too.

things aren't always fair

Life is like the playground bully while you are the child.
You are either the child that rolls with the punches, steals
Other children’s lunches and simply takes things as they
Come. Or, you are the child that eats their luncheon meat
Perched on the edge of the toilet seat because you are
Tired of going hungry. Either way you will grow up into
The type of person that says, ‘Life isn’t fair.’ And you’re
Right. When you’re staring up at your ceiling the middle
Of the night, counting bills to the soundtrack of checkout
Tills to try and calculate how to negotiate your way past
The tax man this month, life isn’t fair. Nor is it fair when
You’ve been stuck in traffic long enough to make you late
For work, you miss the Monday morning perk of bacon
Sandwiches and you have to stay late to compensate for
The behaviour of the slow driver in front of you that
Morning. Life isn’t fair when you are caught yawning and
Looked at like you’re being rude when actually, you’re just
Looking for a little oxygen. Life isn’t fair when you need a
Talk and can’t find a friend. Life isn’t fair when the nail
That’s been holding your puncture together finally
Disappears in a bout of bad weather and you find yourself
Driving on steel. Life isn’t fair when the dream you’ve had
Since you were eight shrivels and, you suddenly realise
The possibility was never real. Life isn’t fair when, after
Giving her everything, she says, ‘I’m sorry, I just don’t
Love you anymore.’ And as she leaves she doesn’t even
Close the door. She took your heart and left a draught.

Sure, life isn’t always fair, but what’s your other route?