Poetry
poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence ~ Audre Lorde
Breaded Chicken Fillet with Egg Recipe
Trigger warnings: implied eating disorder, body shaming
—
One: boneless chicken breast–spineless as you are. You laugh at the shadow of my reflection and yet you loathe yours; you simply cannot bear the sight of your own face dawning upon you. How does it feel to be wretchedly cruel, to the world and to yourself? Two: marinate Italian style. Ride the yacht you cannot afford and come home to your two-storey apartment paid with dirty money. Speak a language you cannot fathom. Call me when you need me, between the lines of “what does it all mean?”; let me ask you the same: how did you mean it all? Ridicule me, please, for not believing in a god that let your most beloved pass as though their existence were disposable. How can you live with it all, carrying the weight of your words like twisting a dull knife pierced into my wound? I make it all about me, don’t I? (I do, I do, I do) If I make this about you, will you forgive me for my untamed wit they all keep chasing me for? Three: eggs. The first crack in the shell is in the image of you crumbling beneath the lightest of pressure. The unfamiliar has always been daunting, hasn’t it? I wonder if you think of me now, between the lines of the poem you so desperately try to comprehend, yet it remains unbeknownst to you. Where has your brain gone amidst all the facade that is your beauty? Does it hide beneath all your grandeur? Four: garlic. Freshly minced to perfection. You do have an eye for it, don’t you? Every crevice of my existence is a sin for yours. All that I am was a pitiful cry for help; the girl meant to be at the back of the photograph—were their preening eyes enough to make a saint out of you? Serve on a sizzling plate. Hot and scorching and burning through your bones. It was debilitating to be known by you. The love I know of now at the touch of my fingertips is a far cry from the grasp of your cold hands. Let me devour what I deserve for it is all mine—none of the food in your mouth is ever worth digesting. I am sorry for choking you with a love you never deserved. I have learned my lesson to not swallow things I cannot fit in the roof of my mouth. All of it now is teeth and gums–a vision you would surely die for. Wallow in the limelight of my glory, would you? The pleasure is all mine.
Happiness Hurts
They say happiness feels like the warmth of daylight seeping in through your skin. Embracing your bones, and turning your heart into a mushy puddle of delight.
They say happiness is yellow.
Bubbly and bright.
They say happiness smells like cookies and cupcakes, and a plethora of flowers blooming between the butterflies in your stomach.
They say happiness is the laughter and smiles you share with your loved ones.
Lingering. Heartwarming.
If so…
Then I never knew this thing called happiness at all.
To me, happiness felt like a dream trapped in a distant screen.
Like the reflection of the moon upon the still water surface.
Visible.
Impossible to touch.
Like scraping a rock with your nails desperate to feel.
Close.
Impossible to accomplish.
You will only be left with blood and mangled fingers.
You will only be left with an aching heart and a hollow chest.
How wretched.
It was merely another thing outside my grasp.
Exist to tempt.
Impossible to get.
by MG
Doll House
Did you enjoy sitting around with empty cups of teas and dolls and friends only you can see?
To be someone you're not.
A princess, perhaps.
Hosting tea parties.
A sovereign over the imaginary.
Playing with puppets.
Our will is their will.
More sugar, more tea.
The party isn't over until I say it's over.
Smile, smile.
Be grateful.
You enjoy this as much as I.
Even when you do not.
How many of you realise you're the puppet now?
Do you enjoy sitting around with empty cups of dreams and promises and friends only benefits hold near?
To be someone you're not.
A commoner, perhaps.
Working towards a goal.
A glorified slave of the unseen.
Playing with your life.
Their will is your will.
More trials, more suffering.
The play isn't over until they say it's over.
Smile, smile.
Be grateful.
We enjoy this as much as they.
Even when we do not.
How many of us realise we're just dolls in a house?
Shh…
silent.
We’re not supposed to see beyond the stage.
Do not question.
Do not seek.
Smile, smile.
My dear.
by MG
The Things We Bury
Hold it!
Bury it deep inside the earth at the back of your house.
The ground will welcome it, wrap it in its moist embrace,
in soil made wet by the rain.
Work quickly!
They are only out for a moment, you may use your hands if you want,
When you are done, retreat from the sunlight.
No!
Don’t turn your back to it…back away, nimble.
You may breathe once you reach safety.
Now my Dear, you are clean.
peppermint
melancholy lingers
like the itch that oppresses dry skin.
christmas spirit is the air,
so there’s no time for frowns and despair,
only smiles and jolly tones,
exhibits throughout the year that are rare.
yet, i can’t help but feel sad,
drown in the lingering melancholy.
for someone like me,
i guess it’s inevitable, really.
i suck on one of those peppermint mints,
while everyone else has fun,
the little aftertaste burns a cut that’s on my gum.
i whimper,
and the melancholy i feel deepens.
sadness is inevitable during the holidays, i told you.
by M.S. Blues
Dear Mom
Dear Mom, They keep me safe here It’s not worth knowing that They’ve chopped my hair I look like a boy, now But My flesh is fragile, still At night
Dear Mom,
They keep me safe here
It’s not worth knowing that
They’ve chopped my hair
I look like a boy, now
But
My flesh is fragile, still
At night
The cold water freezes my nerves
Do I have a choice of not washing their dishes?
Had not my bruises remained raw,
I’d have waited to write
Their ointments are
Guarded by grandeur
Even when my blood
Shrieks out of my skin
Even after all,
They keep me safe here
She is gone now
The sight of flour on skin, age spots form an archipelago across your arms. a clutter of dusty pictures and rosaries under your bed.
The sight
of flour on skin,
age spots
form an archipelago
across your arms.
a clutter
of dusty
pictures and
rosaries
under your bed.
Life, you’d sometimes think, hadn’t been that good to me.
Girdles that
squeezed
your fibroid
infested womb—
An old hallowed out
home to five
Barricaded
Against
Life.
You comb
your unruly
hair back;
look uncomfortable.
The look is not you.
I love it when you just
Let it be—
rather than tame it
And look like a scared
Old lady
Instead of the courageous
Heroine that you are.
You still store things
Away
In overflowing drawers
And cupboards
Afraid that one day
You will need
Something
& it will not be there:
What trauma
Gave birth to that?
You say,
I feel your mother
Is doing something
To me—
Like I can’t put my
Fingers on it –
Your hands, exasperated go up in the air
Only to slowly come down
And rest, at your side
Powerless.
We loved each other once.
The nights
I fell asleep
under the
symphony
of your snores:
Uncountable.
Sleeping,
side by side
A woman, and her grandchild.
You say,
Pointing to
A brand new
Press, you say,
Look at that
What my
daughter
Buy for me—
You know what she say?
She say,
when you die
I’m taking it back.
What kind of thing
Is that to say? And you
Schweups at the
callousness of your
Child.
You’ve got:
Two kitchens,
a Toilet
without a door,
social security
checks
deposited
In
Brooklyn.
We walk
down the street
and you smile at
a stranger,
and giggle like
a child...
But wait nah,
you say, stopping,
in a daze. I
thought that was
Nen-nen, but
nen-nen
die long
time now...
What is happening to me, you ask?
& no matter how
hard I try,
I can not answer:
Alzheimers.
“we’re not alone”
4.10.22
[ i experience ]
a restless synesthesia of sensations
my soul its own dimension
of loosely woven associations
And
nuance
sometimes i think i pay a little too much attention
my jaw perpetually clenched
strained by the daily omission
of ineffable prose
so today i embrace my sensitive observations
indulging in the union of all things
i notice what’s not necessarily there
i talk around and not through
i challenge claims of irrelevance
and forever hold
that “far-fetched” is a cowards favorite word
because yesterday i felt seafoam green
And
this room smells like winter
And
my skin squirms like earthworms
when i see bumpy trees
and that’s the only way i know how to put it
my love language is longform
i let my teeth tear away at the succulent flesh of a cherry
and savor it as i would a lover
picking their brain before reaching their core
the juice dripping down my lips as it fountains from their hips
a delicious mess
i don’t just take note
i see the universe in you
i think in words
i speak in pictures
i feel sounds like textures rippling through my veins
i walk backwards and run forwards
And
i am never satisfied
i am the consequence of an infatuation
prolonged
by a silver tongue
and resulting miscommunications
so it is in my nature not to be straightforward
pheromones released and a love drunk mistake
bore me:
a curse from the cosmos
an /enigma/
to the masses ;
[ [ a living, breathing retrograde
] ]
- A.
Midnight Morsel
Picking off the strawberries
From the chocolate cake
Eat them individually
Chewing up small bits of health
Throughout the entire week
The water jugs judge me
Sitting in the dark
When the light switch
Stands next to me
An arm’s reach away
Next to the jug
My body longs for water
Dragging my finger across
The rim of frosting
Rectangular slice
Licking my fingertip
Taking a deep breath
For the rich sweetness
Before closing the box for the night
Alone and Free.
Do not pay me any mind.
Do not be kind to me.
Do not ask about me.
Do not talk to me.
Just leave me alone, why don't you?
Alone and free.
I do not need your attention.
For it always comes with a price.
And I'd rather starve, be lonely, and sad.
Please.
Just Leave.
Do not force me to pay for something I never bought.
Please.
Just leave.
Do not act like you've done something great.
When all you do is rob,
and rob,
and rob.
by MG
Letter to My Body
As I press my pen to the page—
Do I state my truth in shrewd elegance
or does one
Simply scribble their deranged
Thoughts until the blank paper
Transforms into an otherworldly colour?
Otherworldly.
Such a word graces the page boldly.
As I peer into the mirror,
It is what I see
when I place judgment
upon my shape.
I find it peculiar.
Unlike anything on earth.
Undesirable.
I’m not plump in the right places.
Not the body one would see
On the cover of a magazine.
Not the girl everyone longs to be.
Unless she is between worlds
Of slim and thick.
I’ve prayed by the bedside.
Hoping someday,
I would not be overlooked
But perhaps treasured in a gallery.
The ideal piece of art
Gawked at thoughtlessly
To be admired by all.
Studied for centuries
As the highest regard of beauty.
If this mirror were a book
It would tell you in sheer honesty—
I am mismatched.
They forgotten to create
A category for me.
If I smash the glass in a fit of rage
Does my blood reject my point of view
To spell the word beautiful?
Because what would moving
my body into a box do for me
If it only suffocated to exist as I am?
Memory Among Flowers
I still see those wildflowers
With stippled white powdered petals
On nimble stems branching off the stalk
They stand tall, resting under my chin
In that large field with the ombre sunset
Layered behind blooming stems
My mother scooped me up in her arms
Before taking me back home
Leaving behind the wildflowers
I was only two years old yet
I can see them clear as day
I still see those young dandelions
With their strands of yellow that have yet
To turn into seedful fluff blown across spring air
I used to give these flowers to my teachers
Who scolded me for giving them weeds
I did not know any better
I still thought they were beautiful
I was only six years old yet
I can see them clear as day
I still see those little daisies
With their pollen deep centers
The same flowers my best friend used
To decorate my braids of hair
During recesses in spring
She was moving to a new school
One where her mother found a job
I still have one of her hair clips
That she gave on the last day of school
I wish I could give it back to her
I wonder if she would recognize me
Without daisies in my braids
I was only nine years old yet
I can see them clear as day
I still see those lush blue bonnets
With their crowded velvet petals
That grew in the field close to my house
Where girls from the local high school
Doll up for prom pictures in the field
With a new beginning nearby
Her parents can’t help but wonder
Where all the time went when they see
Their daughter is a woman now
Posing perfectly amongst the blue bonnets
I was only eighteen years old yet
I can see them clear as day
I still see that pink perennial
With its vibrant blooming petals
That my best friend gave to me
Before I graduated college
From the garden near the science building
We walked past the graduation court
Knowing what was about to come next
The last time we saw each other
Dressed in our black gowns and covered
In colored cords and stoles
The pink perennials never left
I was only twenty-two years old yet
I can see them clear as day
I only wish my memory of yesterday
Remained so clear
My Beloved, My Enemy.
Run.
To the ends of Earth, darling.
To the lands of the dead.
To the heavens or anywhere beyond the hereafter.
But,
not you,
not me,
can ever escape ourselves.
We are but our own worst enemies.
Lurking in the dark.
Exist but not.
Unseen but felt.
Never spoke but heard.
Kind yet cruel.
Oh my lover and my killer.
My salvation and my demise.
My best supporter, friend, and hater.
You are talented, they say.
But you are not, the little voice says.
You are beautiful, they say.
But you are not, the little voice says.
Who to believe?
Those who never understand us, or the one who always stays with us?
Those who only saw our facade, or the one who saw our wretched face?
Tame them and win, darling.
It's always the little voice over the voices of others.
Morph them, darling.
Control them.
Befriend them.
Cause they are you and you can get them to believe in you more than yourself ever would.
Cause they are your biggest supporter and one who would always be there even if no one else could.
Your beloved,
or your enemy.
The right to decide has always been yours to make.
by MG
THE POWER OF NOW
I wake up in the
morning My thoughts
wonder
in space and time
I look outside, grey skies, thunders
and rain may show up in a
minute. What is time?
Time is an illusion, it is relative and cyclical. It is
neither a succession of numbers on a digital watch or
clock hands moving across the clock face.
I touch my face, to make sure I'm still here,
present.
I think about what's relevant
And what's not...
Declutter my mind, my room and my
life. There is no reason to live in the past or be
anxious about the future, because the only
moment we are in control of is the now, this very
moment.
I am content
Of what I have achieved so far, but I know I
can do more... Content is not enough:
happiness and peace are my life goals and
they both can be found inside us. The inner
work is long and tortuous but an essential and
virtuous
necessary and extraordinary
beautiful thing to do. For me, for you, for
us. Sometimes I feel lost
Lost in my thoughts,
that's why I keep losing my phone...
Difficulties in communicating, but mostly in
staying present, thinking of plans, worrying
about what other people are doing, saying,
displaying.
I feel disconnected, without my phone. It is
everything for me, something that allows me
to stay in touch with my loved ones, to express
myself, to feel less lonely. Trying to find the
answers I have been
searching for in that little but powerful
device.
Technology is a phenomenal invention, but
if it is not used properly divides us, controls us
and drains us.
Injecting ideas, words and thoughts that
are not ours.
Social media can be toxic.
Make sure you're a good person in real
life, first,
which is outside this quick click hypnotic,
chaotic, electronic device.
Don't let your ego take the driver's
seat. I beg you, listen to my advice: put
your phones away sometimes and be here
now, in this moment
and try to realise
that this world can be a paradise
If we connect to each other and create From
the tools we already have inside
All of the gifts we've been told to hide
To work for someone instead of working on
ourselves
Our dreams on the shelves
Full of dust
Let's take them back and start fresh
Before our souls die and what's left Is
just flesh.
by Federica
LIFE OF THE PARTY
You danced all night,
Avoiding the echoes of their words,
So you didn’t have to talk to them,
You loved it, alright,
To forget the fright of your life.
One day you wake up,
Withered, water-less, without any makeup,
And there’s no one to make up for what they did,
You blame yourself as you insist
that it wasn’t your fault,
They locked you in the vault.
In the maze of the sound waves, you lose yourself,
The light in the eclipse has come,
And it feels like spring has just begun,
You’re reborn,
A new woman?
Suddenly you’re the little girl at the party,
Looking around,
Eyes darting,
Mouth filled with sand you danced to the sound
Of psychedelic bubbles you didn’t want to burst.
And the crows look on above the corpse,
But they can’t see the open coffin that you have walked out of,
Out into the glitterball of life,
Where you dazzle and they frazzle,
Can’t bear to see the flaming candle.
The blazing candle,
And they wait for it to flicker,
But it never dimmers.
The pencils of their fingers reach for the warmth,
Whilst the rubbery words try to erase the yolk,
The wax drips down into my eyes,
Milky white droplet lies,
Fitting when we were in Bath,
But they cool eventually from the
altitude of the pedestal you placed me on,
The hill you insisted we walked on.
Like the Madonna,
I knew you were gonna lead to something magnificently terrible,
Or terribly magnificent,
The rose and the serpent,
Twisting around my ankle and up the hills of my thighs,
You found secrecy in the coves of the candlelight,
When you turned off the lights,
And I lay there in doomingly apprehensive stage fright,
The little girl at the party,
Looking around,
Eyes always darting,
Mouth filled with sand I danced to the sound
Of psychedelic bubbles I wished would burst.
by Pippa Hill
Every day Hero
Free coffee and pastry
It seems easy,
Instead you need to wake up before the
sunrise, your eyes sore
still half closed
to get to work on time.
Barista, hostess, waitress, receptionist, retail.
Jobs someone would pay for
Made you feel like you
failed. Why?
Because you spent decades on books
trying to be well educated.
You know you were wasting your potential
Every day was the same but slightly
different. It was an essential
experience for your growth.
Survival mode.
Impotence
When you see the rich getting richer
And the poor getting poorer, but being
wealthy isn't a crime or a shame
if it is done ethically.
The problem is that there is too much
disparity, therefore you feel guilty
when you see
homeless people in the street
and you can't help them.
If you're sensitive it's both a
blessing and a curse
You end up being everyone's nurse until
You're exhausted
And since you're always the one who
helps others
there is no one now to help you
Especially if you don't ask for it.
You're stronger than you think
However don't let your ship sink
because of your pride
Don't hide your weaknesses and
vulnerability
A woman can be strong but also delicate.
Handle with care
When she has spare time it is always used
to work on something, fix and tidy up. She
needs people she can trust Even if everyone
keeps saying don't trust
us.
What kind of advice
is this?
What happened to humanity
now that we use any sort of device
forgetting how to really connect in real life
with continuously scrolling through Instagram
or e-mails? Chasing the status. We are slaves
of the system.
A modern type,
but most of us ain't really
free. Jumping on and off the
train
in this constant rat race
catching a flight early I'm the morning
still need to pack
broke as fuck
You feel all the emotions at once
but you still take the chance to write
bars out of your own scars.
How brave is that?
You're a hero and I also mean your own hero.
You were there for yourself even After those
feelings of restlessness picked up the
pieces and put them back. You still help
others whenever you can There will always
be someone who criticises you or says it isn't
enough but... You are enough.
Please remove every doubt
from your consciousness.
Embrace your greatness because
You are a superhero.
You made it after witnessing
The dark night of the soul.
That is called awakening. It is
called purpose.
by Federica
The Utopian Truth
Utopia is rest.
Without the fear
of becoming subservient
Looming above like a curse
Rewinding history.
It was what the older generations
Have strived for.
In many variants of pain.
It always began as a journey through
The dreaded swamps–
Thick and waist deep.
Forests swallowing the lost into obscurity.
A moment through shallow waters
or clear pathways were scarce.
While the destructive world aimed
their vile glares.
After all the nightmarish turmoil
Sinking in their skin.
All our ancestors pleaded for was rest.
To gaze upon the land in pride.
To absorb what was deserved.
Lay underneath trees bared in ripened fruit.
Sleep afternoons away without the jolt of expectation.
Spend the waking days surrounded by family.
Every day will become a celebration of life.
No more hungering for bluer eyes
or accepting life sentences to drag
culture through a genocide
But dancing under sprinkled joy.
Utopia is free.
Without the weight
Of judgment becoming a prison
Feeding into reality.
Without fighting till the afterlife
calls their name.
Afternoon delights.
I can have as many as i want if i’m good.
I smile at him sweetly as anyone would.
It’s only one a day, and i’ll burn the rest,
Every new touch lingers on the flesh.
I crave something new and sweet, I deserve a little treat.
Each strange face a cute meet and a foreign bed to sleep.
Delicious on my lips until it spoils my insides,
I always leave the remnants on my bedside,
So the next time I deprive myself i don’t forget
How to replace hunger with regret and a warm bed.
But i’m prettier between bedsheets than the confectionary isle,
And I promise not to do either for a long while.
(You can see where i’m going with this)
A hershey or a kiss? Both only moments of momentary bliss
That clings to my mouth and I suck in its foul taste.
It sinks to my stomach. He brings sweet treats to my place.
by Hannah