Every time I see
The sky light up
In those seven colours,
I am reminded of
My pride. Of who I am.

Witch? *****, who are you?
Locked on an island, alone.
Roasting pork, witch. *****.

I love you feet, you let me dance
And run and skip and climb,
I love you legs, calves and thighs that walk me
From where I am to where I want to be,
I love you hips and waist, covered in purple and silver
Marks from growth, striped with change.

I love you tummy pouch, keeping my organs safe
And warm,
I love you ****** and ovaries and ****** and ****** and
All the other parts down there,
You gals are pretty cool even though you cause me pain,
But pleasure comes with pain right?

I love you spine, for keeping me upright and straight,
Even though I’m really not,
I love you ribs, you keep my heart safe in her cage
And my lungs protected while they keep me breathing and alive.

I love you arms, that allow me to hug my loved ones, hold things
And lift myself up,
I love you hands, that let the words flow out of me and
Onto a blank screen or a pure sheet of paper.

I love you brain, you think the most beautiful things
Even though you’re a little broken,
I love you face, eyes to watch sunsets, ears to listen
To music, nose to smell freshly baked bread and the
Crackling fire, cheeks to ache after laughing too hard,
Mouth to smile and form words and kiss and taste.

I love you muscles, I love you ligaments,
I love you bones, I love you cartilage,
I love you nerves, I love you organs,
I love you skin,
I love you fat,
I love you body, my home.

“Look at the state of you.”

Mum joins me in the bathroom,
Lays down next to me
And holds my hand.

I cry,
Unable to move.
My insides clenching,
churning,
cramping,
eating away at itself.
Blood dripping down my leg,
The sign of womanhood
Apparently.


Would it be too big headed
To compare my
Monthly pain with the state
Of the planet
Or the governments
Of various countries?
I could be so egotistical
That I say that we’re all
Laying next to a screaming
Figure, laying on a bathroom floor.

I won’t be a ***** about it,
So I’ll just imply it.

Lesbian.

From being a young child,
It’s been a word you don’t utter in public.
It’s a taboo.
A word that defines you as different.

So when i figured out I liked girls

(and only girls)

I called myself anything but

that

word.

Gay, lesbean, wlw, girls who like girls

Anything but that ***** word that no one said.

But in actual fact, I am growing to love it.
The women of history using it as an act of rebellion,
To show their difference from the rest.

The L in LGBT+
That’s me.

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Want to know a secret?
I’ll give you a clue.

The grass is green,
My cheeks are pink,
I’ve spent weeks of my life,
Spilling this ink.

This cat is grey
And the sun is yellow,
The thirty poems I wrote about you
Are not all too mellow.

Violets are blue
And roses are red,
When you left me
I wished I was dead.

How long ago does something have
To be, to be considered
Nostalgia worthy?

I miss friends I have lost contact with,
Relationships that fizzled out.
But if they were only weeks ago,
Do they count?

Or is nostalgia reserved for events
Of years gone by?
Being homesick for something
Long left behind.

Wistful, yearning, sentimental.
Seeing something through
Rose tinted glasses.
Only seeing the good,
And not the reason you left it behind.