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?