Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

To Men Who Catcall

A man with no manners called me rude,

after shouting something about my boobs,

and being wounded by the sharp edges of my sweary response.

I assume he’ll heal,

from being told to fuck off,

but my body is full of scars,

spoken onto my skin,

by men,

who don’t know how to keep their hands,

or their thoughts to themselves.

I haven’t been human,

for a very long time.

Humiliated,

hurt,

dehumanised,

so,

for the very first time,

after decades of delicately dashing away,

in the hopes I wouldn’t be followed,

fucked against my will,

by a man who makes clear he has no concern for consent,

I told him to fuck off.

Ever since I was ten,

and probably before,

in the bank of bad experiences my mind tries to protect me from,

I always tried to escape,

thinking my life was enough.

but this time,

I decided that life without dignity was not a life at all,

so I told him to fuck off,

and I watched him crumble under the weight of his ego,

knowing that I was a warrior,

and he was the first victim of my spoken sword.

Perhaps,

if he didn’t want to be sworn at,

he shouldn’t have been speaking so provocatively,

or wearing a smug smile,

that made me think he was up for being sworn at.

Perhaps,

if he didn’t want to be sworn at,

he shouldn’t have been out,

all by himself,

with nobody to protect him,

perhaps,

he should learn self defence,

to keep himself safe,

from girls who take no shit.

Posted in Blog

Athena

I had mainly been the plaything of straight men,

so when she asked me what I liked to do,

I stared,

blankly,

and impolitely,

into her eyes,

and their associated heaven,

until she broke the silence with a simple sigh.

She took my hand,

tracing teaching onto it,

leaving me breathless and emotional,

on top of the soft duvet,

that I spent years trying to recreate,

but could never quite capture,

because it reminds me of how she held me,

afterwards,

that’s the feeling I really want back,

but I know I’ll never have it,

stuck in the habit of missing things that will always elude me.

She asked me why I cried so much,

I told her I was just happy to be with her.

I never told a lie when I was with her,

but I’ve never learned to be honest with anybody else.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Thoughts On Writing, Writing

An Open Letter To Male Poets

Hello clever man,

who towers, only in height,

and has the same syndrome as boys who buy big cars.

There’s something you should know.

I’ll say it slow,

so I don’t get overwhelmed,

because you know we women are not complex,

so quiet,

so one dimensional,

(feel free to mention all the books you’ve read,

that you’d like to recommend to me,

because I can assure you,

I am dying to hear all about it)

Volume isn’t a talent.

I’m sorry.

Would you like me to be louder?

VOLUME

ISN’T

A

TALENT

PERIOD.

(Period. Just in case the rumours are true, and you’ll faint in fury at the very mention of the monthly menstrual magic.)

Volume isn’t a talent,

but you manspread over women,

boring and berating,

mansplaining,

as if yours is the only brain that ever worked.

For God’s sake,

if this doesn’t resonate,

don’t email me,

don’t leave me a long,

drawn out comment that won’t make it past my spam filter,

because I don’t care to hear some “nOt AlL mAlE pOeTs!!1!” mess,

when it’s enough,

that I,

and others have echoed these thoughts.

Nobody asked,

but you’re always the loudest answer,

to a question that doesn’t exist,

pretending not to understand why people are sick of the sound of your droll drones,

about how you’re saying things,

within things,

and some people just don’t understand

that your poetry is so complex

so profound

and somehow, can always be mansplained on top of ours.

You’re not a misogynist,

you’re just cleverer than us,

right?

RIGHT?

(Wrong, but that really goes without saying)

Volume is not a talent,

but it’s all you have to give,

which is adorable.

You’re so adorable,

I whisper, down to your bridge,

where three goats,

who fell for your shit,

roll their eyes,

for the hundredth time,

writing an escape plan,

on the back of yet another stanza you wrote,

about how you’re so complex,

in a way that nobody else has ever been,

and nobody else can understand.

I’ve seen identical verses,

from identical dudebros,

all over social media,

but I wouldn’t want to give you a complex,

so I smile,

and I say,

you’re so complex,

I don’t understand you,

I’ve never met anyone like you,

and for a few minutes,

you are in my deadlights,

mouth open,

ego edging out,

and I smile,

watching the goats make a break for it,

behind your back.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Old Women

My grandma told me once,

that when you’re an old woman,

you become invisible.

Wandering the world,

unseen,

unheard,

unnoticed.

I’m surprised WASPI women didn’t turn to crime,

to create new pensions for themselves,

under their invisibility cloaks.

The trouble is,

the definition of an “old woman”,

changes all the time,

because there are so many checkpoints,

in a chick’s life,

where she can go from baby to barren in the blink of an eye.

Once it was seventy,

now it appears to be thirty five.

Care homes scare me,

beautiful in brochures,

but a prison,

for people who still have plans,

dreams,

emotions,

(and, sex drives, so I’m told),

so full of women,

who faded from view,

because people decided to stop looking.

Sometimes,

I think I might be old.

I’ve been alive,

for what feels like a long time,

I wonder how much time I have left,

before my face fades from the world’s eyes,

and I am just screaming into the void,

“I AM ACTUALLY STILL HERE.”

I think,

as quietly as I can,

in case I am faded out before my time,

made invisible,

for being inconvenient,

that older women are ignored,

because they see the world for what it is,

and could destroy it,

with fierce,

feminist fingertips,

that frighten the patriarchal path,

we’ve all been ordered to walk.