I don't call people 'temporary'.
I prefer to call them guests.
Guests are people who come into your house
But don't make it their home.
You can try to persuade them to.
You can even try and beg them to.
But they prefer their own place,
they're not particularly fond of your decor.
She could talk endlessly about
the way her gut the way her whole abdomen
pulses for just a few days each month
agonisingly cruelly internally she bleeds
she bleeds she bleeds she bleeds
She’ll write an article about a girl she knew
who stuffed toilet paper from the college bathroom
into her underwear because and she’ll quote
“it’s better than nothing” she eats one meal a day
at home and that is it
She’ll do a speech about how the
contraceptive pill can do psychological damage
she’ll mention the time her best friend
asked if Cilest is meant to make you
want to **** yourself
“At least her boyfriend is happy” she’ll say and
the audience will laugh as if it is a joke.
She’ll ask her manager if she can go
home because her *** is giving her
blurred vision and she is struggling to stand and
he’ll ask why this month is any
different to the others
She’ll ask you if you think it’s
fair that shedding lining costs money that
contraception costs sanity that pain is
only valid if you’re dying and
you’ll tell her to stop being gross and
she’ll say Only when you start listening.
You will never be the thing that hurt you
If nobody has told you yet:
You are brave for doing what you did.
Everybody knows it.
I just thought it was about time you knew it too.
She said my eyes were like stars that day
We'd been kissed by a flurry of leaves -
Autumn in the forest.
She said my mouth was so wide
I could've caught flies in it.
"Isn't the forest beautiful?"
She'd asked on gentle breath.
"Yeah," I said,
"I ******* love trees."
I wrote this poem after a few drinks. It’s absolutely awful and far too flowery even by my standards, but my poetry lecturer said it’s a humorously subversive and ironic piece. Maybe I should drink more often.
You remember my name.
You remember how it sounds when spoken aloud.
You remember how it looks when written in black ink.
You remember the face that goes with it.
I remember nothing of you.
No name, no sound, no face.
Some would call it a tragedy.
But I call it freedom.
I am here
Expelled at last from that warm darkness
Fluid replaced with air
Crying out so that the nurse knows,
So that the world knows,
That I have arrived.
I look up and see a Goddess
A true beauty with loose ringlets
And glimmering skin
But sacred tears are falling
From her golden eyes
A deity like her deserves jewels
I am just a tiny speck of dust
Floating around her palace
I am not what she asked for
I want to apologise
But all I can do is wail
I am sorry, dear Goddess
She looks down at me
And she smiles
And in that moment I’ve been blessed.