and now I know you were never a man,
you always will be something much less than that.
with the devils heart in your chest; a black hole.
Your tongue is a roaring fire. Reminding me that you are in control.
With snakes for arms,
Gripping my throat;
Unable to breathe,
Unable to speak.
You are a parasite.
One that seems to always come back,
No matter how many times
I say 'No.'

An open letter to teachers
I love learning
You make think that’s odd considering the blank look I have on my face every lesson
But it’s true
However when you put me in a room of thirty other kids I don’t get along with
Or don’t like learning too
It kinda kills the mood
Whilst learning definitions is important and I understand
You’ll forgive me for looking out of the window for a few minutes before tuning back in
You’re just as bored as me I know
But of course you’ll never let it show
After all
Your class is the most important of them all
Thirty minutes of homework a night at least
I study 6 other subjects
Each of them requiring at least thirty minutes too
That’s three and a half hours of work a night
Plus eight hours of school
That’s a twelve hour work day
So you’ll forgive me for yawning in your class
Afterall I stayed up til 12am the night before doing the work you set me
No of course not
How dare I yawn in your lesson?
That’s right it is incredibly rude
It is my fault I stayed up so late the night before
Doing work that you set me
How dare I?
I apologise

I love learning
But I don’t like sitting in a room of 150 other kids doing an exam
Spending three nights before fitting into my head all that I could cram
So I could have you stand over me and watch me as I write
Or the giant dreaded clock counting down from 100 to 0
Each minute going faster as I struggle to calculate how many times 0 goes into 100
Asking a question that can’t be answered
“You won’t be able to ask questions in real life”
That’s odd because my work place embraces asking questions
On the bottom of every sheet saying ‘ask the manager if you don’t know how to do these jobs’
But that’s not the real world
Part time work is not the real world
Flipping burgers at Maccas is not the real world
But it seems pretty real to me

I love learning
When I was 8 loved to do maths
Triangles and squares and circles it all came naturally
Then you started implying that maths was a boy’s area
That only boys do well and boys can succeed
I lost that love
Took a left turn at maths and English lane
Whether that was the best or worst choice I’ve ever made I’m here now
A poet who can count to 100 in threes languages but can’t make sense of the letter x
What’s it doing there?
Isn’t maths just numbers?
Are English and maths crossing over?
No
X and represents everything and 1 all at once
Just like how the conch symbolises law and order?
No
It’s just a number
A number that needs to be worked out
Ten lines at least to work out x
A million different solutions and trial and error will not be one
It’s the cheat’s way out
The girl’s way out

I love learning
My maths teacher taught me to love maths again
My English teacher taught me English was not just a constellation
My drama teacher taught me drama is so much more than the stage
But maybe this is all too late
Because when I’ve spent my life waiting to fall in love with maths again
My love for maths was lost
My love for learning was lost
My drive is lost
I love learning
But not as much as I used to

you call her a ****,
you call her a *****,
you tear her skin into tiny shreds
and then beg for more,
your masculinity is fuelled by the sexuality you stripped her of.
she has no right to be liberated in your eyes,
but your eyes also want to see what is in between her thighs,
your respect for her body only exists as long as she is your possession.

a woman is to you what a table is to a person;
something to use,
sometimes a burden.
a woman can't be outspoken without being a *****,
but if she's quiet you treat her like ****,
you tell us to fight for what we believe in,
but when we do you tell us we're complaining,
(maybe you think I'm complaining)
while you're thinking about that
please mind the wage gap,
yes the wage gap MORE THINGS TO COMPLAIN ABOUT!
I get 75 pence for every pound a man makes,
maybe I'm making mistakes?
no, no I am not.
perhaps some people have forgot
that someone's *** doesn't make them under qualified,
I think your brain is nonaligned,  
because right now in two thousand and sixteen a woman should be respected even if she isn't the ******* queen.

I hope you can see what struggles women endure,
we may as well go back years and years and knit at home while you go to war.

I'll just be over here cleaning the entire house,
oh and while I'm at it I'll clean that glass ceiling while waiting for my husband and feeding my offspring
because that's all a woman does right?
cook clean and nurture, and give yourself to your husband at night
God forbid you swing the other way!
single, or worse...
no kids and gay!

women have to fit into perfect cookie cutters.
that, and a size 6
but not too skinny though, men aren't nutters!
big *****, big *** and a small waist
your extra few inches of skin can be erased with diet pills, exercise plans and corsets!
if not, you can choose the forfeit,
of society telling you that you can achieve your dream beach body,
to catch the attention of somebody
preferably a man who can be the bread winner,
while we can stay at home, look after his kids and cook his dinner.

I'll stop complaining now and go back to concealing my blemishes and under eye bags,
while you talk to your friend about how we are still just slags.

~T.T

My **** is today
I got a low score
My sweet is today
I got to wake up.

I feel like a zombie today
My mind drifting to somewhere else
Yet my body is sitting in class about earthquakes
And a teacher with a face-palming pronunciation and grammar.

"Percent..." I heard her say once.
But it went percient instead.

I feel like sleeping today
Not the usual snoring kind.
That one with a total blackout
where no one can wake me but me.

My sweet is today
I get to write poems again
A slam at most
Now give me the mic (1, 2, 3, 4...)

My **** was yesterday
I was watching a slam with a friend
Not live, though
And someone called me weird.

I feel like an idiot today
Walking these halls
and wasting this ink

But (I hope) Colleen Hoover doesn't mind
I borrowed her version
of **** and sweet

-090915

I'm writing you a note
just because
because I'm feeling like
I have to
feeling like I'm
helpless here
and without your rough
forceful touch
I'm angry and aching
craving my bittersweet
agonies
wickedness creeping up
from the black hole
that hides behind
my human skin
please
pathetic and weak
though I likely seem
I'm willing to beg
down on my knees
grated concrete
scraping against my flesh
scratched and bloodied
and I'm pleading
make your palms, your
fingertips, piercing stings
hold me down
**** me and take any
notions of my possessing
power far away
make me see how
I'm nothing, just
worthless and infuriating
and you, so much like a god
why yes, you're the god
god of everything
so break me down
and rip me
limb from limb
and seam by seam
for I am merely a
servant girl
and you've the part
of the cruel king
come to me now
please come
come and punish me
I am nothing, lost
perplexed thoroughly
without you to bring me
to life
for I only become truly alive
in moments of raw abuse
so won't you come now
please
you strong, glorious man
and help me live awhile
inside the blood and bruises
that'll be left by
your pounding, ******
hands
you're exactly the one
I want to deliver
deserved consequences for
my countless sins
a beating into submission
my soul
for a little while, at least
alert and cleansed
pleasure me by flooding me
in an ocean of  hurt
every wave some new sort
of pain
your lessons are the single
part of my existence
I long for so desperately
most passionately crave
I'm begging, come
now please
remember me, helpless here
and share the beauty
only your own source
your inner darkness can so
easily create

The, Oh I just can’t stand this pain
The, I will never get him out of my head
The, Why me, why me
The, this is my fault
The, I’m forever ****** up now
The, I hate you so much
The, don’t touch me
The, I jump at the sound of leaves
The, I head footsteps coming to my door
The, How did I manage to get into this
The, Every movement you make will  cause me to flinch
The, Don’t give me metaphors to heal my heart
The, Don’t touch me
The, I said don’t touch me
The, A hug is touching me so please stop
The, your walking to close behind me
The, this is my fault
The, If I smell him I will burst into tears
The, every face in a dark room is his
The, Why do I still think its my fault
The, If you grab my shoulder I might start crying
The, No I don’t want to talk about it
The, I don’t have to tell you if I don’t want to
The, please stop asking me
The, Yes I knew Him
The, no, you don’t have to be walking home alone in a dark ally for this to happen
The, I said no
The, he didn’t listen
The, why wouldn’t he listen
The, I still think its my fault
The, No man can ever heal me
The, Yes there are good men out there, but I don’t want you  to “heal me”
The, no, not every poem I write is inspired by him
The, no I don’t hate ***
The, no I don’t hate me
The, Your touching me again
The, No I will not talk about this
The, It’s not my fault poem

We sit in a circle after
In my living room
I am talking
How my ex who
I can not help but
love
was ***** during this last Halloween
How another girl
who met another night
was corned
One kept watch
blocked off the section of the house
She was ***** by a window
She could look out
See the other partiers
Why was this happening
I cry
I tell them how
I feel helpless
I cannot protect the women I love
While I’m talking about this
He is handling his ****
with sick pleasure
right ******* next to me
I don’t know it
but he is
thinking about
the girl
last night
and
the ones before
their screams and their blood
how he had gotten away with all five
It had happened to the victims before
they say reporting
Does
Not
Mean
****
I don’t know it
but he is thinking of his next victim
My mom