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.
Formless and afraid, but not really bothered
I flop onto pages and just write in the colours that come to mind.
on brilliant skin,
Brilliant mind beneath,
Fizzing with electric ambition –
And on the train it was chockablock,
And as the beat dropped –
Through the white wires,
The brilliant mind froze into liquid terror
At the touch of a fist too hard and too unexpected for retaliation or defence, or a dodge.
And so the brilliant mind became unbrilliant – slodge.
The body is the conduit for high feelings,
This mush in my skull lets me rise above the 5’8″ of my stature.
The brain’s a wet flannel dropped from height into bony prison.
The light shines in/out from prisms.