A little selection of some of the poetic efforts of three of our members…
I by Xenia Lily
I as in myself, is not a beacon of anything. No matter which boys pray to me and call me a goddess.
I as in myself am no muse or painting or piece of art. I am not an object.
I was what I made of myself. But I stopped making things long ago. My tools rusted and broke and the screws went loose in my clockwork.
I am made of everyone else’s mistakes. I’m the mutual canvas. I am splattered with the dirty paintbrushes of someone else’s body. The play toy to be pushed around from boy to boy being told that given the chance I was offered to them by a different man they’d show me how to respect a woman. Like the whore I was.
I, am a time bomb. I tick tick tick tick tick tick slowly. Racing occasionally to trigger myself into false hope of self detonation but slows and slows tick tick tick. I slice away layers of gunpowder from my skin like you’d carve a slab of meat that has been sitting there far too long.
I am your parasite. I am the disease that plagues you. I am the lungs that fail you. I am the bacteria that kills you.
I am a time bomb.
Tick tick tick tick tick
I can’t damage something so special as yourself. I am an internal explosion. The Big Bang inside a human. I shan’t lull you into my gravity. I won’t cover you in fragments of my person and my problems.
I. I. I. I. I. Time bomb. I. I. I. Time bomb.
Tick tick tick.
Fenced off Flowers by Holly Attwell
The flowers that I saw fenced off on a bench
Brunette by Danielle Jade Oldham
(Using a poetic form created by Sam Moulten)
Brunette-beauty, baking on the beach
in a bathing suit of buttery yellow.
Strawberry ice-creams melts on bronzed skin.
Strawberry-scented angels giggle as they paddle,
with the sun kissing highlights of gold into brunette,
skin twinkling till it almost hurts to look,
skin sprinkled with sand like sugar on a strawberry.
Winking eyes meet over solid, bare shoulders –
brunette-beauty and her blonde, summer-time boy.
Water-deep legs almost brush, skin-to-skin,
brunette nymphs with sun-bitten lips,
yet still inviting, almost scented with strawberry.
Faint Light by Xenia Lily
It’s six thirty am. I am lying in my bed, big shirt, underwear and the sunrise streaking my sky awake and I see on my right thigh, the faint light kissing my self harm scars. Only a few are visible enough for others to notice, it’s the tip of the iceberg, only 20% of it visible on the surface, the rest lay white against my ivory baked skin, I see them like a map of an Underground Railroad track on my flesh. The only shame I hold for them is that for this world, it is not enough to cut so they don’t scar visibly, this soil we walk on breeds humans to preach that the depth of your self loathing should match the depth of your scars that you carve into your flesh. We are taught that a psychical disability is worth more than an internal one. Because we congratulate cancer survivors and war veterans but what about those climbing those mountains in their mind? Fighting day after day, losing themselves to destruction at their own hands. anxiety is terrible, you could be having an attack and no one would even know because it’s an inward thing. it feels like you’re malfunctioning and you can’t process your own thoughts. you get a knot in your stomach and you can’t take a full breath but outwardly you can literally just sit there and look completely normal as long as no one tries to speak to you. We cannot see it, so we pretend it isn’t there. We over romanticise the self inflicted wounds because beauty is pain and if we can cut the ugly out of our skin we can finally be accepted. But the truth is they find ugly everywhere. Ugly is a perspective and once you cut all the ugly out of your veins, let them leak vermilion drops of grotesque, derelict and repugnant liqueur, people measure your cuts and say you don’t hate yourself deep enough, you don’t want to die hard enough, you are attention seeking and weak. You shall feel truly ugly. But no more good god no more will I worry about how deep they are measuring my self hatred, counting up the scars to see if they are good enough, I won’t put my mental health on a pedestal. I will climb my mountains, streak my own sky awake with throwing my knives into the fires from which my destruction emitted from. I won’t measure myself up to anything. Let alone, be allowed to get measured myself on the standards of a biased society. We are all suffering. We are all victors. We are all surviving.
Survivor by Xenia Lily
“She holds herself together in all the wrong ways.” This is my favourite description of myself. She is Greek and lives in Greece and is beautiful. She was my ex boyfriends, ex girlfriend. They stayed friends and I knew her briefly.
I used to get jealous so once I looked at his Facebook messages to her and they discussed me. She said I held myself together in all the wrong ways. See, the sad thing is. She knew me before my life started to crumble. She knew me before I knew the storm was coming. She knew me so well, she could see that I was struggling before I knew it myself. She could see me failing before I knew I could even flatline. She saw me. Before I could see myself.
She holds herself together in all the wrong ways.
It’s the most accurate description of me. Because even though I am failing. I am holding myself together. It may be wrong but at least I am not collapsing. I am broken China, but I am gluing myself together. It may be with PVA but at least I’m trying to mend myself. I am trying. I am holding myself together. It may be in all the wrong ways. But at least I am trying. I am not giving up. I am a survivor. I hold myself together in all the wrong ways. But they work for me.