This is the first thing that comes to mind:
that time when an “important” someone said I wasn’t pretty in not so many words.
This is the second thing that comes to mind:
the things I write are, so often, a sapping showcase of my vulnerability.
This the the third thing that comes to mind:
my poor little dead bird in the soil.
This is the forth:
I cried so much over that dead bird, harder than I’ve cried in years, so hard that I hurt my throat, that my mother said she hasn’t heard me cry that hard since the first time my heart was broken when I was 18 and still a girl.
From down here, so low,
I see the sun’s eye
like a marble
and I wish
it would drop down –
and turn this tube to a shooting beam
and burn me up in laser light –
perhaps it might.
tongue in my mouth that isn’t mine, speak me there with unworded love,
say what you think of me silent, with your lips pressed on my body
say what you think of me, with your mouth full of my flesh
My mum gave birth to brothers and I found my sisters myself.
We know little of your character.
When we hear your name we think tits and red hair and red lips like pillows.
Shiny coke can brilliance of your dress and the S shape that lies beneath.
Purple lids frame cartoon eyes and cartoon person looks out to see nothing and strains to portray your cartoon womanhood.
I hear the creak of heaven feathers sprouting from a human back.
Formless and afraid, but not really bothered
I flop onto pages and just write in the colours that come to mind.
Inside of mouth silks in fluid slow motion