Blow up

As a fourteen year old, I remember,

fighting horribly with my fellow girls.

Our worlds fractured in the confined space of high school classes,

and once I was so sad I ran out of class,

embarrassed by the simple fact that

they had the power

to make me

cry.

a

One time I crouched behind the buildings, near the back of the school

and cried to myself, until my friend found me

and my puffy snotty face.

a

We spoke for a while about why I hate so-and-so and, near the end,

I remember saying:

“I hate this,”.

yellow

yesterday i walked around our studio,

put one post-it in everyone’s space,

telling them something that i liked about them.

it was meant to be anonymous, but a girl found out who it was,

and told everyone who asked that i did it.

it doesn’t make me angry,

or stop me from feeling happy about what i did,

a

a

a

a

but you know.
it just changes things.

Aaaaaarrrgh

Browsing through old poetry can only end in misery and head shaking! I shouldn’t have done that.

Accustomed

I’ve become so used to my face,

so used

to the marks and

discolourations,

That I can put on make up without

looking at my own reflection,

staring back,

reminding me,

of the things

I never liked

about myself.

Tell me something

I made a form that you can write in! It is a lot like Rachels. I would really like it if you could fill it out. Your thoughts are interesting. Tell me something (anything)!