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Sh May 28
Blood is thicker than water.

I'm nine years old and my mother had sighed us both up for a dieting course.

At eighteen I still see how interchangeable fatness and ugliness are to her.

I still have to stop myself from thinking of skipping meals after I ate "too much".

Clinging to the fear of the slippery ***** that serves as my only guard.


I see it in my friends too,
comforted by their opposition for what my mother had embraced like gospal for the helpless fools.



Blood is thicker than water.

I like the hairs on my body.
The short and soft strands that cover my legs, blonde and black and all too
natural.

Removing them leaves my legs red and *****-*****- pickling for days but-

My sister laughs through a wrinkled nose,
My cousin tells stories, horrified, of women like me,
Mother says it's unhygienic and would not let me leave the house like this.


I haven't worn shorts in years.

But my friends' confident '*******' to everyone who isn't them,
who dares control their bodies and shame them into pain or hiding,

makes me feel like one day I might wear them again.



Blood is thicker than water,

I find it hard to talk to people.
The thought of discussing anything more than trivial matters makes my lunges heavy in my chest.

Talking to my parents- a heavy led filling what seem less and less like lungs with every passing second.

Talking to my friends- the heaviness doesn't always go away, but the weight doesn't get harder to bear.


I heard my mother tell a friend how her kids talk to her about everything.

A bitter laugh never tasted so much as the sea.



Blood is thicker than water,

Since I can remember myself, I never wanted kids.
Took me years so unveil why.

The dismissal cut deep when Mother assumed she knew me better than I do, a cruel arrogance for what she must only consider her property.
'You'll change your mind and give me grandchildren'

A payment for my life-
"Interest" she calls it.



Blood is thicker than water,

When I came out to you, dear parents, you once again ignored me

as if I hadn't tortured myself enough,

as if it hadn't taken me years trying to accept myself before you turned your back on me with cruel dismissal.

As if I don't still struggle.


All I have left is to fall back on my friends' support again,

being caught in their loving embrace without ever asking to.



They say you can't choose your family but-

the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.
Warning- references eating disorders.
This is slam poetry and thus sounds better when read out loud (or at least with a passionate inside voice 😂)
Sh Apr 16
If I told you I could love,
Would you finally be happy?
See me grovel at your feet, submit to your delusions of
The perfect world in the palm of your hand.

If I told you I could lust,
Would I satisfy your thirst with my lies?
Sweet drops of honey covered deception, the sting solely in my heart.

Could I live like this, I wonder.
If only I could face the road of rotten land, live in the shadows and the muck of sweet lies,
Of honey covered poison.
Sh Apr 16
I could write ballads of love
Fake as the silicone fillings of the next word,
Beautiful as glistening eyes that never met

But if I forget the words by morning,
Sentences never put to paper, forgotten and forlorn

Would I even care?
Most likely not
Sh Mar 31
Don't ask me for more that I can give,
I can only guess the consequences.

My heart and soul push against my mouth every time you analyze my answers,
sealing it shut with empty humor and nervous glances at the clock.

Your eyes scan me as an intrigued scientist would a lab rat.

Dismissing it as curiosity doesn't make me feel less of an open skull,
brain laid out on a table before your intrusive fingers.

Our languages got fixed up, I said one day.
You believe in unrestrained openness and I believe in boundaries.

A dog and a cat play together in different speeds.

I understand you feel like I'm not giving you enough,
but I don't want to pay for our friendship with every passing thought that crosses my mind, every emotion my heart has ever felt.

Sharing is like giving you blood.
Each drop drains me more and more until my heart is left empty, my vains running dry.

I know they don't exist, but sometimes I can't help but see you as a vampire.

When I say I don't want to talk about it you interpret it as an invitation to probe farther.

Telling you that it's none of your business would only turn you against me and I do not feel like running circles around my apologetic lies.

You said that the cracks you make in me will deepen our friendship, I'm afraid of falling down the endless void they create.

When I told you of the blood and the cracks,
you pitied me and said you'd wait for another moment to search into my psyche.

A venomous snake hiding in a fruitful bush, my privacy is not a level to forcefully unlock.

I appreciate what you have shared with me, I have shared planty with you as well.
Don't weigh them against each other, the percentages are nothing but a false debt.

And after you hear this poem, don't run to me with glistening tears and ask me for more that I can give, I don't owe you my life.
Sh Mar 30
That relatable gay dream of running away,
Wind blowing through what's left of your hair,
the first ties to be cut.

That relatable gay fear, questions you'd rather not asked and that subsequent relatable gay sorrow after the answers.

That relatable gay loneliness, all hollow spaces and devoted secrecy.
Bitten back tongues and hidden colors.

That relatable gay moment of finding love in your friends.
Not the kind that you kiss but the kind you hold dear in the night,
as tears drip from cheeks to shoulders.

That relatable gay plan of holidays with your other gay friends, a real family, the one who would love you no matter what.
Cheers and queers and all too far away.

That relatable gay longing for love-
true love-
Like the kind they never show in fairytales,
Real and supportive, never hidden away or forgotten.

That relatable gay anger,
Boiling from injustice always under the surface,
Waiting to erupt in pointless shouts of grief for a world that was not built for me.

That relatable gay exhaustion, hostile slurs and benignant apathy blending together into a reality of unending fights just to keep on existing.

So when someone asks me what makes you a community I show them all those relatable gay moments of anguish and loss, of solemn support and stolen minutes.

And I tell them of how terrible it is that they are so very relatable,
But how wonderful it is that we could at least live through them together.
This poem has been inspired by my gay friends and my own experiences which really shows-
We're in this together <3
Sh Mar 20
Ego doesn't start a war.

Greed does.

Blood for golden honey, dripping down the lips of rich men finding immortality in money.

Ego may cause a war.
Ego is the lie that the richer-by-the-second men craft so brilliantly
and sell to the masses.

We can understand the blooming bruises of ego, a human emotion to unite us into unspeakable horror.

When we take whatever reason they give us, the blindfold will only come off as the bullet shoots through.

Too late.
Far too late.

A warning for you, my poor worker bees:

Watch for the flow of honey.
Watch for the sting of the queen.
Sh Mar 20
Sometimes,
all that's left of a friend is the wallet they bought you for your birthday, in the bittersweet smile that appears on your face when you remember that moment.

Sometimes,
they are only in the stories you tell. Their name escapes your lips before you even realize they were there.

Sometimes,
they are in the little moments of regret.
The dull pain between so very few heartbeats before they're gone again.

Sometimes,
they are in shelves of shops,
in "they would like it" thoughts before you realize you can't even remember the last time you've met.

Sometimes,
they are in the moments when you can.

But now they only exist in old photobooks, in fading memories.

In dreams, their faces side by side complete strangers.

They are everywhere.

But really, they are nowhere.
The friends we lost along the way are not always gone.
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