When you suggested meeting again
the next day
I thought to myself
‘OK I’ve hit the jackpot
he’s keen to see me again
so I must have wowed’
Didn’t stop to think
‘did he wow me?’
Texts like dopamine
Living for these horny Monday nights beneath the moonlight
going from Mazzy Star to Supertramp and Aerosmith in between
writing down my feelings, letting them spill out onto the page
as neighbours eat ramen and melt minds with screens.
Lava lamp doused in hot pink, room bursting with colour
and trinkets glowing in their places.
Your messages trickle in and send beeps to my brain
(and something else to my pants).
Dinner with friends and heartbreak.
She has suction-cupped herself
to this balding commitment phobe
words tangled like spaghetti
smacking against her mouth
as we bow our heads over Bao Buns
in Borough.
A feast punctuated by a clamour of solidarity
as we bite into lumpy discs of fried chicken
and ferocious nods, laughs in odd numbers
the desperation of dating
and the deafening roar of ‘he’s not worth it’.
Shady dreams
Dancing with the idea I might like
That tousled fro
Those 121s that drip with laughter
And those pre-sleep minutes doused in the hot flames of a fantasy.
Distressed by the thought
Of upsetting you
Of playing second fiddle
To another
Of watching you sidle up, delicate hand outstretched
Helpful words cascading from your tongue.
Playing with the idea of biting your earlobes
Jaded, sepia hours spent in an apartment
You cooking, innocent
Turning dangerous, unable to bear the air ablaze with passion.
Crooked arms and tangled feet and bodies slapped together like ham onto bread
Wet from the heat, hot wafts of wheat.
Smile sticky with sweetness
And good intentions
That curtsy before me in every catch up.
Self optimisation
I optimise myself at every turn and every moment
Wondering often if this is really a normal way to be…
To occupy a hyper aware, hyper sensitive state of being
Where the only concern in this ephemeral life
Is what people think of you.
The only fearsome, fret-worthy foe
Is how I’m perceived by anybody I cross paths with.
I feel desperate for vacancies under Beauty’s wing to open up
I tell her i’ll mold to anything you want me to be
Just make me the kind of pretty that’s universally acknowledged.
That’s impossible, she replies
And I don’t even dispute it, because I know it to be true
Yet I pound my fists against the wall and stomp my feet
Then why hasn’t my brain got the memo, I cry
Tears crawling down my cheeks like two Olympic sprinters
And I’m screaming now because how has one part of my chemical makeup
Not got the memo
While the rest is quick to accept.
I know nothing good can come of this conversation
Yet I still end up inviting Beauty into a meeting room every other day
To plead and beg for the impossible.
She charges me for her time and I leave with a bill the size of a jumbo jet
It gets paid in instalments
Which means I never reach the point of being debt free
Because this loop goes on forever.
The cabaret of body dysmorphia
I spend all day twisting and contorting my features
To feel like an ounce of a human
Worthy of love, worthy of life.
I spend every minute feeling compelled to look my best
To every passerby
They could have a face like a foot
And yet I’d still seek to impress
Like a peacock riddled with cancerous boils who flashes her feathers
To hide the putrid, pus-caked skin
Clinging to her underbelly.
Every action is shackled to Beauty
Every head tilt, smile, stroll or expression
Doused in a sickly sweet, eager to please haze
Of self optimisation.
Poolside panting.
As I sit here, gaze flickering,
From pool to people, beautifully blond beaus
Pushing prams around tiles soaked in cloud, not sun,
(Because it’s November so go figure)
The pangs of loneliness surface
But then promptly retreat, like smiling Pennywises
Dipping back into a drainy kingdom
Little tantrums
The heat brings with it a sartorial guessing game,
a tricky type of trivia that sits itself down on my synapses
and squashes my brain.
Playing dress up in the evenings to help stave off ill-feeling the next morning.
Planning is my greatest ally – but even then it’s not always foolproof.
One reflection glimpse sends the sufferer into a spiral
crooked, wonky, wrong parting, poor posture
a cauldron of chaos and fiery fear
dirt-ridden disarray, shame at looking a certain way
and clothes that don’t hug but rather stifle my body
clinging like skin but foreign, alien
ill-fitting except on the rarest occasions.
In summer it’s strip off time, fewer opportunities for disguise
because legs come out, shoulders bear the air upon them,
shorts cradle thighs.
Finding some thing that doesn’t light the match of disordered thinking
is near impossible. And so there’s struggle and copious online orders
to soothe and improve but it never lasts
because trick mirrors are everywhere
and my mind remains in sabotage mode.
Latte lust
How bad is coffee
how bad is it for my bones and brain
does it sharpen or dull
strengthen or weaken
will you make me shake or seize up
blunt my senses
or help them breathe better?
The fact that I take sugar surely shortens my life span
a pollution of the soul
a voluntary poisoning
all in the seeking of sweetness.
My teeth cry out
clamouring for a well deserved respite
from this sickly invasion.
Yet I can’t seem to cease sprinkling this toxic taste bud tingling torture
over all my drinks
and I sometimes wonder
whether I should have never started drinking coffee
as it does me no good.
Relatability #1: entering the week with all these grandiose ideas about how productive you’ll be but then never following through on any of them.
I follow all the self improvement sub-reddits. The ones that make you gasp and ‘gosh’ at all these humans around the world who wake up at 5am, go for a run, do some yoga and contribute more to the world before their Cheerios than you do in a full day.
Yes, I’ll say, this is my week. This is when I’ll finally write a poem every day, meditate for an hour, and work out every other day. I’ll get up and go for a jog just as dawn creeps in, and I’ll then whip up something green and nutritious in my Nutribullet before journalling like I’m fucking Ernest Hemingway.
I’ll sit at my desk and tap away at emails, words cascading down my fingers like children on water slides. I’ll break for lunch and not feel guilty about fucking off for half an hour to eat some beans on toast and maybe watch The Office. I’ll log back on and do my work and boss that meeting I’ve been so terrified about for weeks (the one where I’ll have to speak and sell our services with a honey-laced voice that only grows so sickly sweet when speaking to clients).
I’ll log off at 5.30pm and not feel guilty about not staying online for another three hours like that other girl, her icon a stubborn Shrek shade of green. It’s like a fucking challenge to find out who can stay online the longest, and who’s the most dedicated to this really-not-so-important-in-the-grand-scheme-of-things job. But instead I’ll shut the lid and forget about all the nothingness, and I’ll banish tomorrow’s meeting and next week’s presentation and the following month’s review from my brain as though they were cat hairs that met their end at the hands of a lint roller.
I’ll turn to YouTube for a workout that gives me electric thighs, Barbie doll arms and calves as juicy as hamburgers within a matter of weeks. I’ll see the poundage drop like Deliveroo groceries on a pandemic doorstep and I’ll finally feel chiseled and strong. Then I’ll take myself off for a shower and get in while the water’s running cold (I’ll do this three times a week to boost my immune system and tell everyone I know about it so they’re aware of how incredibly awesome I am).
I’ll apply skincare products as part of a rigorous routine to make my face porelessly porcelain. I’ll coat my hair with a masque that makes it smell like the inside of Victoria’s Secret or the Playboy Mansion. I’ll then read five thousand pages of a book, shunning Netflix for Sylvia Plath because I can learn much more through books than I can from Michael Scott obviously.
In fact, I grow so ambivalent towards Netflix that I cancel my subscription altogether. I sign out and tell my stepdad ‘no, I won’t be leeching off your account anymore’ and I bid adieu to Pam and Jim and all the others.
I’ll read a thousand books in a year. I’ll start studying beginners’ Arabic and take the GCSE in Russian I’ve been considering for a while. I’ll speak to pen-pals in unusual corners of the world and once I’m proficient in Russian and Arabic, I’ll apply to MI5 and become the next James Bond.
Oh the things I could do, if I could just get off my sodding arse.
Talking to my pillow. 