She-Wolf

She-Wolf

She has felt rage

the type that chars your guts

and leaves you bleeding

out your own eyeballs.

She has felt the explosion

of shrapnel

and the pain

from rogue shards

splintered between her bones and skin.

She knew of her orphaned dead,

speaking to their restless ghosts

till delirious

she lay next to them, near death,

in an effort to restore them to life

at the expense

of her own.

But that is not a rage

that climbs mountains,

it taught her only

how to cry tears of ash

in toxic blends of anger and acid

till asphyxiated.

Now

she leaves love notes

to her suffering,

marking the deaths

of all the possible happily-ever-afters

without a magical cure,

and with sharpened incisors

tipped in righteous furie,

she is released

to her once-upon-a-time.

Yu-Ju

Yu-Ju

It does not require a magic wand

you do not need three wishes

there is no genie with his lamp

or an idol to take your kisses.

There is no well to drop any pennies

nor holy water to bless us by

the grass is bare of four leaf clovers

and no shooting stars are in the sky.

But you have the greatest gift there is

it’s owned by no-one else,

tomorrow be a bit less predictable,

and instead

believe in yourself.

Fuck Slimming World

Fuck Slimming World

This poem speaks for itself

and my distaste for diet programmes

that program women

to project

society’s preferences

for our shape and size and self-esteem

onto the surface area of our skin

like it doesn’t matter

what lies within us.

For what happens

when we go back to basics?

Meet barbie,

I had sixteen of those

barbarically shaped

smile faked

false representations

for a woman full grown,

the only thing she was perfect for

was her plastic home.

I used to play-pretend

they were ballet dancers like me

pirouetting across the stage

like how

I was so vulnerable at my age

that I worried there were calories

in toothpaste,

or the time I watched

a teacher at my ballet school

put a single lettuce leaf on her plate

because she was ‘watching her weight’

as every other ten year old girl copied

when all we really wanted was the chocolate cake.

Then meet my mother

who measured my food intake

and commented on what I ate

till my relationship with food

was filled with hate

whilst my stomach stayed empty,

and it took till I was in college

to appreciate

that food could have a taste

that wasn’t guilt.

For my sister

this lesson came too late,

she’s spent half my life

in and out of hospital

as her body wastes away

into a state of decay

and I don’t know if she’ll ever get better one day

or if I’ll get the chance to say

to her face

that she does not need to be reduced.

But mental health doesn’t work that way

neither does mine

it just fills me with shame

that my mother’s voice

still goes around in my brain

like she still measures

the size of my waist,

and I am still fighting

to lay claim

to a body that has always

been mine.

Then I go to work

where most of the women

attend weekly weigh-ins

and they speak of sustenance

as a ‘sin’

and the bin

is full of weight watchers wrappers

but just as full as the biscuit tin

which most of them still go in

because society’s pressure to be thin

is too much to hold in

your stomach.

So not many pounds are lost

but their love of self is

and they comment

‘how can you eat what you like and stay slim?’

because they have no idea what goes on within

my own mind,

and I just wish us women

would stop comparing ourselves to one another

or instagram pictures with filters

when the only scale we seem to consistently stand on

measures how critical we are of our sisters

or wishing we had another’s features

when we were designed by the universe

to be unique and individual creatures

but instead

our insides are starving

whilst women’s magazines beat us

for looking like our genes.

Is mine the only soul screaming

to be free

of this fucking hypocrisy

that tells us to love our bodies

when we’re still compared

to the tits on page three

or the pliable and barely legal

that dominate the porn industry,

because if it was up to me

I’d like to see

a few more hairs

and stretch marks

and natural beauty

on babestation tv,

and then we wonder why

women get plastic surgery

and go under the knife

like we’re a fucking carvery,

because we’re so hungry

for some basic regard

we’re robbed of any capacity

for creativity,

and that’s how they get us

in the end.

Because there is no ‘supposed to be’

in the human body

and your power doesn’t come

from how much botox you’ve had done

or if you’ve survived the day

on chewing gum.

It depends on

your insides

and how much you feel,

if there’s joy in your heart

and wild lust for what’s real,

because we’re not man-made models

we come from Mother Earth,

our bodies are fucking miracles

so why do we shun if a woman has skin rolls

after giving birth?

Like it’s only your post-baby body

that determines your worth

as a mother?

And everyone’s got a beach body

so if you’re at the beach

and it’s hot

you’ve got nothing to cover,

and if you sit on the fence

it’ll never blow over,

and then where does that leave

the next generation of girls?

Because I want them

to be born knowing

they can run

the fucking world.

Feeding the Ghosts

Feeding the Ghosts

Dear my demons,

it’s me again

just a quick note

as since we last spoke

I’ve done some more thinking

and I’ve come to see

that the one blocking

the door to your exit

is me.

See, I’ve left it wide open

but inside my head

is a maze

that I built

in the hope

to avoid your gazes

but instead

of keeping me safe

we’re both lost in here too,

stubbornly refusing to move.

And I’ve learnt

that you won’t go

if you’re asked,

I’ve tried being polite,

I’ve tried casting spells

or blasting you with a couple of good days

till I’m screaming at you to fuck off

and it’s me that’s got the headache.

Because I’m screaming at me,

your presence is me,

you come from me,

you’re the parts of me

I’ve decided are too painful

to be part of me

because I don’t want you

in here [mind] feeding this [heart].

But whilst you’re still my enemy

we’re all starving of something

so maybe it’s time I listened

to what you’ve got to say

and do something less predictable

and ask you to stay.

I’m not saying we’ll be friends here

this just isn’t worth the fight

and I might as well

get to know you

if you’re planning on popping in

through every hard time in my life.

And you’re pretty fucking persistent at that,

and maybe that’s something important,

like how I don’t give you enough credit

for still dropping by

and coming to see me

when no matter how hard you try

to pass a message onto me

all I do is my best

to ignore you,

I mean,

that’s a pretty shit job.

Look, I don’t think

I’ll get this right first time,

I’m still trying to come to terms

with the fact that you’re mine

and it’s pretty hard to face you

when all I’ve done is wanted you gone,

but in the spirit

of trying to love

every part of myself,

whilst I grab us a slice of cake

do you mind putting the kettle on?

How They Make Us Mute

How They Make Us Mute

Trusting my own judgment

enough to learn to like

my outward appearance

is not easy when

you blame yourself

for the poor judgment

of another’s hands

and how they wouldn’t hurt you

and then tore your love

for your body

away from your body

from the outside in

and how it leaves you stuck

in a cycle of self torment

trying to forgive yourself for something

you didn’t do to yourself

but somehow allowed happen

but didn’t

till your own false sense of safety

deludes it’s better

to hate your body

for something another did to it

because look what happened

when you had the audacity

to like it.

To the Boy who Lives

To the Boy who Lives

To the boy

who fell asleep

on my bedroom floor

in too much pain

to lie next

to the one you adore.

To the blood

that you shed

for a sense of relief,

how your skin

bears the scars

of your numbness beneath.

To the tears

that we’ve shared

when you’ve scraped through the fight

-ing your thoughts

that say peace

is the end of your life.

To the courage

with which you face

the depths of your mind;

victory is in the living,

and my love,

you’re alive.