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 –

So passive.

Now, I post both, both different forms of self-portraiture.



I hate the Norrises

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.

My poems follow themes and the themes follow days and moods

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.