Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Internalised Misogyny Is A Sickness/I Am, In Fact, Like The Other Girls

I am,

in fact,

like the other girls.

Sick of being sent into battle against the other girls,

sick of being taught to hate the other girls,

sick of the deep sickness of internalised misogyny,

that makes its way deep under your skin,

painting hatred through the veins,

until you are poisoned.

Grasping at your throat,

breathless,

friendless,

alone in the dark,

surrounded by the realisation that this war had no meaning,

because your enemy was a mirror,

or a magazine,

that picked out your flaws,

to sell you a dream that could never come true.

Your enemy was a world that tells girls what to do,

how to speak,

how to dress.

“Be meek, little girls” the world says,

while stabbing us in the back because we’re too plain,

because we’re too ashamed to speak up for ourselves.

They want us meek,

but loud.

Respectable,

but they never really clarify what that means,

because it changes from girl to girl,

and order to order,

and I’m starting to think it means nothing it all.

I am,

in fact,

just like the other girls.

I am sick of being told that there is something wrong with the other girls.

I don’t even think that there are “other girls”.

I think we are all just girls,

powerful and so full of potential,

that it sends lightning to the spineless,

so they desperately fight to control us,

keeping us locked in the dark,

fighting amongst ourselves.

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.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Chain Smoking

It wasn’t ever personal,
until you were the only person I could think of,
unintentional,
so impractical,
I began speaking in clichés and dreamy drooling.
My eyes carved out,
spinning wildly on the staff room table,
as I placed marble hearts,
where they used to reside.

I had a lovely time,
watching you chain smoke,
to forget your overbearing mother,
and your darling dipsomania,
smoke snaking around your angel eyes,
so sad,
but so sexy
to this one track girl,
who knows you’re hurting,
but only knows one way,
to make it better.

pexels-photo-715995

Let me kiss you better,
singing I’ll Only Miss Her When I Think Of Her,
leaning out the window,
just to choke on air,
because I forget to breathe,
when we are close.

The day runs down my throat,
and I am still,
marble heart eyes closed,
on the window sill,
and suddenly,
your arms close around my waist,
damn you, innocently nuzzling into my neck,
and I am so,
so,
so breathless.


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Movies, Personal, Writing

New Video: I Want To Be Joan Crawford

Hola amigos,

Today, I have another new video, based on my poem “I Want To Be Joan Crawford” from my new book.

I hope you enjoy it!

Besos,

J x


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Women

The bitter bite of being underestimated,

again,

as if I am not sewn together,

from the ones

the world tried to tear apart.

pexels-photo-556658

Today,

I am not the girl I was.

I am patched up,

with pieces,

a collage of Queens.

Their bones are fused,

with my refusal to be silent,

we are together,

awake,

unlocked,

all over the world.

We graffiti the streets,

with pictures of promise,

daring to be the women we needed.

pexels-photo-556665

They told my Grandma,

“Find a nice man,

have a baby,

get a new kitchen,

if you behave yourself.”

They told my Grandma to change herself.

She changed the world,

instead.

So will I.

pexels-photo-205000


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