A writing portfolio
A note on my bedside table, my phone blinking with a text,
a clump of suspicious herbs I have to brush under my bed hurriedly and
a vague sense of horror:
Clues to how the scratches on my hands and the bruise on my shoulder came about
from a night
I can’t
even
recall.
when does being the only
sober
person at a ‘friends’ 17th,
turn from partying
to
babysitting?
When did I become so inadequate?
At what point did the thin thighs, concave stomachs
and bulging lips of flawless movie stars and models infect my mind,
and tell me that I was never gorgeous enough?
When did my weight become more important than my wit and personality?
I know the beauty industry operates on telling people,
“If you don’t have this, you won’t be happy,”
but when did it become
so brutal, so merciless?
I want a beauty revolution, but it’ll never happen,
because my beauty revolution would never make any profit.
I want my proverbial sisters to love themselves,
but it’s already nearly impossible.
I feel lonely,
looking at my red lipstick,
knowing that you could take the place of the bright pigment on my mouth;
If I had said the right things.
“it’s a good thing,
that you haven’t written a book. haven’t published anything, ever,
‘cos that would mean you weren’t doing it ‘cos you
liked it
anymore. i need to kidnap you so you can never get anywhere, with this,
because i like it, like this,”
Feet wobbled on the side of the road as I watched your
dusty ride leave, and I just
managed a baby, baby, baby, don’t
while the sun hid its head
mourning morning.
