16 year old me would never have posted a selfie, never mind a poem.
She would never have dreamt of having such confidence.
She would have waited ’til someone else posted a picture of her that was passable and used that for her profile –
Now, I post both, both different forms of self-portraiture.
This is what I have made – and it made little difference.
This is what I have made – little difference.
This is what I have made.
This is what I have.
The genie flew out of the pickle jar,
Looking like a briny after-birth,
He slipped down white tiles.
The Norrises sicken me.
The dad combs his hair back without swagger, smug.
Prim and proper- a proper pervert underneath.
He talks on the phone without hands, obnoxious. His mouth a cavern of acrid attitude.
He thinks he deserves more life than Joe, or Linda who works on the tills.
I flew inside the house once, let my geometric legs land on the wallpaper, spied him through my kaleidoscope eye.
He eats flies for breakfast, in a bowl, and he cups his balls under the table.
The kid’s got no chance – he’s gonna grow up to be a right little fly-eating prick.
Last night I yearned,
This night I loved – that love was directed at myself and sprung from feeling a little vulnerable and finally being able to have a hot bath after weeks of cold water.
I wrote 18 poems on the first night,
I wrote about 4 just now.
Because I feel the love for myself tonight, I’m letting myself sleep 14 poems early.