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.
Tag: body
Sensible bodies
You used to make me feel like I couldn’t dress myself
Like every piece of clothing lurking in my wardrobe
Wasn’t fit for purpose
You swatted away every pairing I attempted
Frustration etched across your face, thick like butter
And marinating your tone
‘Of course that doesn’t go with that’
‘Gosh you’re useless’
‘Let me do it for you’
Choice escaped me, driving off
In a sedan car, roof open, wind tugging at carefree hair
Because no matter what I chose, you would berate me
Belittle me
Bemuse me
And suggest your idea was better
You made me feel like I couldn’t dress myself
Like every attempt I made was childlike
Like everything I picked when we went shopping
Was five years my junior
The result is a current questioning of everything I buy
From the t shirts to the shoes
To the dresses to the playsuits
I feel incapable of dressing myself
And knowing what looks good
Even when parcels from far-flung places arrive at the door
And I unwrap exasperated, excited
There’s something I’ve ordered that you dislike
And you’ll tell me, naturally
Why keep quiet after all these years
Why stop licking the nettle
Why stop hammering at my self-esteem
I can deal with the bile, the upchuck, the name-calling
Better than I used to
But it still stings like chlorine
And lingers like burnt toast
Gurgling in the pit of my stomach
Until the next parcel arrives.
Minor occasions
I’m sorry I didn’t ask you how you were
As we tumbled down the stairs
Like soldiers in formation
I’m sorry for not tapping on your shoulder
And saying howdy how’s it going
Instead of staying silent
Humming like a torch’s bulb.
You see my hair was sticking to my cheeks
Stuck something silly like a tangled mess of hay
And my face was clogged with sweat
From the day’s struggle and strife
I’d picked at my fringe and prodded it sideways
Toppling over my eggy forehead
In a bid to reduce what I saw in the mirror
A ghost, a thief, a terrifying mirage
That burned holes in my outer shell
And poured its poison through them.
You see I wasn’t in a fit state to speak to you
I didn’t want your first impression to be
A slippery, oily mess of a girl
So I left you to glide down the stairs amid a sea of strangers
While I stayed back, coolly
Deranged and broken.
Hotel buffet blues
At the start of every day
I say
I’m going to be a vegetarian.
But then one sweaty Sunday
A hotel buffet calls,
Rows of striped bacon, fluffy eggs
And spongey sausages which flutter
Down my gullet…
I saunter up for a third helping
Delights piled high on the plate,
A leaning tower of meaty Pisa.
Let’s stuff ourselves to the brim
More so now than we’ve ever done
Because it’s free of course,
Gotta get that dollar’s worth
Even though the bacon fat
Will choke our hearts.
Thirteen glasses of orange juice
And a bucket of coffee later
I’m nauseatingly full.
With a ketchup-stained mouth
And greasy fingers
I swear not to do it again
Hotel buffets are a blessing and a curse
For those with never-ending stomachs.
talking to my pillow. 