I Think My Printer Hates Revolutionaries

I tried to join

The Revolution

But my printer refused

To co-operate

And print

The damn posters.


When I’m Ill

Although I like to put on a brave face for everyone,

Nothing feels better when I’m ill

Than letting my tears wash away the germs

And having my mother stroke my long dank hair.

Why Rape Jokes Are Never Funny

When a Rapist
A Rape Joke
He hears the laughter
As a sign of encouragement
And support

When a Rape Victim
A Rape Joke
They hear the laughter
As a sign that no one will ever
Take them seriously

A Young Girl Is Asked “What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up?”. She Replies “An Astronaut”.

How can you expect me to believe in myself, and aim for the stars, if no one will provide me the rocket?

“Build your own damn rocket”

But a rocket needs fuel, and that’s far more difficult to learn how to make than the adventure vessel itself.

“So buy some”

There’s no way I can buy my own fuel; the sellers do not seem to accept hopes and dreams as a form of currency.

“Then ask for a loan”

Some help you mean? I did ask for help. I’m always asking for help. I guess no one has heard the message yet.

“Shout it a bit louder”

People don’t like to listen when you shout. And just one voice shouting isn’t loud enough. I need everyone shouting with me, peacefully fighting so that I can get to where I need to go.

So that I, too, can reach for the stars.

On Dressing Appropriately

“Surely you’re not going out in that?”
My mother demanded,
Interrogating me under the dim bathroom light.
“It’s far too suggestive”.

For those of you wondering,
Not that it’s any of your business,
I was simply wearing my own clothes
And the only thing they suggested was that
I had recently taken a trip to H&M.

So I replied to my mother
“Perhaps instead of teaching girls
To dress appropriately, we should
Teach boys to keep their hands to themselves”.

I dress the way I dress
For myself,
Not for them.
Never for them.

Please, Listen To What I Have To Say

I don’t quite remember when I lost my voice
Or even why I lost it at all,
Although I do have my suspicions.

Thinking back, it’s not like I was encouraged much to speak up.
I was always the girl with an answer in class
With the power to annoy everybody else just by raising my hand.
“Nerd” they taunted, or “teacher’s pet”.
My peers taught me that it is undesirable to be clever.
My teacher said that I should give someone else a chance,
Implying that I should only speak up when everybody else is comfortable with it.
They all clipped my wings and stopped me from flying,
Cut up my cape and turned it into a blanket.
I’m sure it was an accident though;
Their hands must have slipped with the scissors.

Most children learn how to talk from their parents
But mine also taught me how not to talk,
Or specifically, when not to talk.
They told me I could swoop in with a verbal diamond,
But only when their attention wasn’t elsewhere;
On their phone screens, for example.
I found myself whispering my words,
Scared that they wouldn’t hear me,
Or even scared that they would.
“Did you hear what I said?”
My voice, cracking as my throat suffers it’s own form of earthquake
And caves in on itself.

So that’s why I no longer raise my hand in class
And why I no longer speak at home.
I even find my ‘friends’,
Especially of the male variety,
Are used to talking over me
As if my voice is less important than their own voices
Which are just somehow naturally megaphoned.
Sometimes it’s as if I’m not even talking at all.

But I swear my voice is important.
I, at least, find myself interesting.

I must be mute.
That’s the only explanation.
Because why else would someone choose not to listen to what a brilliantly intelligent young woman has to say?

You tell me.

Three-By-Three Just Isn’t The Same

Since the very beginning of time
The animals have gone two-by-two ¬†–
But what would happen, brother mine,
If a third appeared between me and you?

Would bears one and two be pushed aside,
Both fall into the watery depths?
Or would both bears, blood bound, allied,
Instead opt to dive with no chance of breath?

It has been said that bear number three
Is foremost enough to rid our prints from the sand.
So, dear reader, my brother and me
Restlessly sink to the bottom, hand in hand.

We wait overwrought to be rescued from there,
Our cavernous pockets filled with fears like rocks.
The ascendents are immersed in this new bear
So we lay forgotten, subdued by the clocks.

Mother’s Bed

When I was 2 your bed was a challenge,
You being the prize to be won at the end.
I would climb my own Everest when you called my name;
My chubby arms waving, reaching up to the sky.
Once I had finally reached the summit, you would draw me close and hold me like a life jacket.

When I was 9 yours was my sickbed,
And I loved how warm your heart made the sheets
And how they smelt of your natural perfume.
Until of course that was masked by my vomit.
Once I was better, I would wish I were ill again so that I could stay tucked in just a while longer.

When I was 15 your bed became a sanctuary for one,
The unerring place for your self-prescribed bed rest.
I tried to crawl in as I had done before
But the sheets had transformed to ice and the pillows stuffed with nails.
Your bed seemed more prodigious since you had become so small.

When I was 18 another took his place in your bed
And whilst I longed to be close to you again,
I did not wish to lie between two strangers.
So instead I found comfort in my own bed,
Sonething that all must ultimately learn to do.

Family: A Battlefield

I am simply Switzerland, neutral

Trying like Pha√ęthon to keep the peace.

The enemies shoot their grievance guns,

The bullets stinking of vicious expressions,

But the red shots lose their way

And damage me instead.

Dear Old Dad

Dear old Dad,
Where did you go?
You said you had to leave.
My tears ran rapid,
Coloured wolf’s bane blue,
But you neglected to notice.
You honoured me with
Your gracious ‘good’ bye,
A privilege you did not bestow to all.
With your hastily packed bag,
Like a burlap sack,
Containing everything you wanted with you.
I wish you had packed me in that sack,
Chosen me over the toothbrush and socks,
But alas, you left me behind with the furniture.
The moment the door closed,
And the chapter closed,
Runs like an insidious carousel in my mind.
Do you think of it like I do?
Or are you still too preoccupied
To heed what you did.
You broke me
And your words of remorse aren’t the stitches
You believe them to be.
So my open wounds still bleed,
The cut still leaks,
And yet you, dear old Dad,
You instead flaunt my replacement.