"But why don't we have straight pride?"
"I don't mind them really, I'd just rather they didn't shove it down my throat".
"Did you see those lesbians holding hands?"
"Do you have a boyfriend?"

These moments are usually filled with silence. The room is suddenly so quiet, that I can almost hear my fear in the key holes, tucked away inside draws, behind laws, In the space between us.

I sit there and I swallow my pride. I swallow the thoughts of years of coming to terms with who I was and kissing boys to try and feel the way I was supposed to. I swallow walking down streets and staring at strangers, trying to figure out who I found the most attractive. I swallow every time I used to think to myself "It's not real. I'm making it all up. I'm not gay". I swallow the first time I said it out loud. I swallow the first time I was proud. I swallow the way I traced her freckles softly in the sunlight. I swallow the fights with my father and the tears behind closed doors. I swallow the stares in public and the glares and hushed whispers that stayed with me for days. I swallow every time someone would say "but you don't look gay". I swallow being told I can't take a joke. I swallow teachers talking about "homosexuals" as if there were none sitting in the room before them. I swallow being myself. I swallow the very essence of who I am. I swallow loving who I am. I swallow reclaiming the word lesbian, the word that used to sound like a slur. Like a ***** piece of language that only lived in **** videos and his wastepaper bin. I swallow falling in love with women. I swallow each time I stared at my body, and didn't recognise myself. I swallow all the shame in the world. I swallow my pride.

But then fifty voices are swallowed. One hundred loving hands. Two thousand threckles. 20 different countries. 1 million breaths. Fifty hearts whose beats echoed in pride.

And suddenly, I stop swallowing, and start living. For they can take our lives, but they will not take our pride.

in front of the mirror, she stands and sees them on the wall, tipping along the dust
she presses coffee and rinses dishes under hot, soapy water, her eyes on that wall
then out the window
the sun winks high and the glass talks in telltale signals left by sunken reveries

she falls into slumber so deep and intuitive webbing takes over all ahead
the old Singer in the corner sits silent and awaits its timely command
then, she wakes to find all the silent trappings of caterpillar's welcome
and deep in the forest of her serene thoughts, she taps into worlds half lost to Man
too little to expect in the moonlit attic of North verdant wedged into half a heart

she lowered all the burnt offerings into the soil and gave up one prayer after the other
pulling loose the pieces into the loom, turn the wheel and spin a cloak out of suffering
all night and all the next day, the spinning proves to be substantial
and it grows

the cloak is done, it's so beautiful
and on the wall, there it shows the promise of tomorrow
she eyes that missive dumped in the wastepaper basket

so many squares overlap in the rainbowed light; the shadows play rapier games on the wall
and the night lands refreshing on spicey green and greets the walker
hurtling somnabulist takes a dip into cast reflection of unexpected calls
and on the wings of nocturnal takings, she travels yet further

Paper, it even sounds cool
Remember Paper Mache at school
Paper is a versatile beast
Paper can be folded and creased

Paper can hold your chips and cod
Paper holds the words of your god
Litmus paper turns a different hue
Paper you use when in the loo

Newspaper to get all your lies
Paper comes in many a disguise
Paper anniversary first year gone
Blank paper ready to write on

Sand paper’s rough but smooths things out
Paper cuts, paper tickets from a tout
Paperless office never to be
Remember paper comes from a tree

Rice paper, sugar paper, paper that’s embossed
Printer paper, blotting paper will absorb the cost
Carbon paper, gold leaf paper, cotton papers too
Origami, baking paper just to name a few

Paper for your love letters, notes to her indoors
Old discarded wallpaper to line your chest of drawers
Paper table cloth and napkins, paper plates and cups
Paper when your computer fails you, just for your back ups

Paper planes, Christmas decs, sticky labels to remind
Envelopes and stamps, paper roller blinds
Wrapping paper for presents, to make someone’s day
Fivers, tens and fifties, to help you pay your way

Paper mills keep turning, magazines and books
Paper muffin cups for bakers and for cooks
Paper bags to shop with, bunting to celebrate
Fancy tissue paper, paper to laminate

Paper for all of mankind, paper pocket diaries
Paper trails and shredders, papers for your enquiries
Paper in the wastepaper bin, paper piles so high
There’s nothing like a piece of paper 1,2 or 3 ply

I
am the crumpled up
rough draft girl
in the wastepaper basket
corner of my mind

she is the file
I deleted
after too many red lines
changed her meaning

this is not my final draft
I will throw myself away
again soon

CONSTRUCTING THE PERFECT SENTENCE

The sentence looked at me
in despair

as if I'd made it wear
both dependent and independent clauses

and yet another
parenthical in its hair.

It felt foolish as in
very very very.

"All the other sentences
will laugh at me!"

"Go on...!" I said
bullying it.

It looked at me
as if to plead

"Can we stop(ow)now
...please?"

Then tacking on a tacky
"...pretty pretty please!"

But I hadn't(gasp)yet
run out of mental breath.

I hadn't even realised that
the sentence was no longer

following me and indeed
had fallen asleep curled up

on( oh no not )
yet another ****** semi-colon.

When I came to
my senses or

what there was left
of them. . .

I grabbed it by the scruff
of the page in a rage

&: stopped
un-squashed its A4

constructing a crude
paper aeroplane

that flew ( oh how )
it flew

into the blue
plain wastepaper bin.

At last the sentence had found
a home

in the last line
of this ****** %*!! poem.

ORIGAMI TIGER -  PAPER AIRPLANE

the lost poem
free to be itself
without human interference

the finished poem
remembers when
it was only a sudden inspiration

the new poem
young as a feverish
scribble

the old poem
bored
in the forgotten book

in the wastepaper bin
the unfinished poem
finishes itself

the failed poem
its life in shreds
scattered upon the floor

the poem on p.34
falls in love with
the poem on p.35

the book closes
alone at last
p.34 kisses p.35

in the wastepaper bin
the unfinished poem
finishes itself

the failed poem
its life in shreds
scattered upon the floor

the failed poem
takes wing
transformed into a paper airplane

the failed poem
becomes
an origami tiger