Staying up til almost four in the morning doing essays and memorizing stuff for a mini speech, getting to class exhausted and sick to realize you memorized the wrong thing ;)) FUCK.
Dear employers, I will have to take the day off today because:
☐ It’s December and the streets are papier-mached with wet bronze leaves and it’s so dark outside that the cars have their headlights on at 3pm
☐ I have recently been through a breakup, or I have been through a breakup at any time in my life really, and I woke up today with the absolute conviction that I will never be loved again
☐ A dog looked at me
☐ I got a text from someone for whom I feel a mix of concern and frustration and recognition and longing that is both more and less than romance
☐ Someone made a joke about dead pets meeting you in heaven
☐ Daylight savings time
☐ I passed a knot of flowers that were so bright they glowed through the dim grey water of the day and when was anything in my life last that luminous?
☐ Girls are too pretty
☐ For the first time I genuinely comprehend that there is not enough time to have all the lives I wanted
☐ I accidentally listened to Leonard Cohen
I fucking love my cat. He’s seriously like a therapy cat. And I don’t know what I would do if I lost him.
When I was fourteen,
A girl in my class told me she would run
Four kilometres around the park
Round and round and round
Day after day after day
I asked why, and she said
‘Boys like fit girls’.
I’m still not sure if she was misusing
A British colloquialism, or if
She was already running in circles
To get a boy’s attention.
When I was fifteen,
A boy told me I was pretty
Somewhere in between a cigarette and a shot.
And somewhere between a shot and a song
He kissed me.
The taste of tobacco
Still lined his lips.
His hair reminded me of the dank mop
That was still in the garden corner.
His eyes left no impact
His smile had no pull
But I was fifteen
And somewhere between a shot and a song
When I was sixteen,
I believed my body was written in braille
And the only way a boy could know me
Was by running his fingers along the shield
Of skin and scars I had created around myself.
That the only way to know my stories
Was to feel the between the cavities around my limbs,
To explore the bumps along the back of my teeth
And the only way to leave an impact
Were the fingerprints left over the small of my back,
Or the soft blue of the bruises
Impressed on the insides of a wrist
And I have some questions.
Why am I uncomfortable saying no?
Why is it my duty to say yes
And requite the flirting
Thrown at me by drunken heads under backwards caps?
But have ‘no’ thrown in my face
And the lady in the dress shop.
‘No, we don’t stock your size.’
I’m a size 12 on a ‘bad’ day.
How can the layers of cloth
That enclose my hips and shoulders
Shout any answer louder than the one
Yelling ‘no’ from my mouth?
Why is my body seen as my resume?
It will not tell you my successes
Or all the anecdotes
That would make my eyes light up
And my cheeks dimple.
It will not tell you about that time
When it was 2 am and I was sad
And I spiked my cookie dough with my parents’ gin.
Or my first a plus
Or my first fail
Or the time I cut my fringe,
A jagged line of baby hair
Unnoticed for days under my straw hat.
Why are the stretch marks that etch my skin
Seen not as a map of my growth
But rather the scars of my gender?
Why is my ambition seen as feminism,
But a man’s seen as strength?
Why are we told to banish blemishes,
Rub out wrinkles
Forget the folds in our skin
That wrap us like the gifts I know we are?
Why are we told to drop a dress size,
Create a waist
Erase the age from our eyes-
Why do we need to disappear to make room for the men in our lives?
The highest paid man in the world
Was paid 378 million dollars
In a single year
But the highest paid woman?
A million a day versus a million a week.
Don’t tell me that we’re equal.
I’m not asking for a free trip
In a rocket ship
I don’t need an elevator
Or a jet pack
Or a mob of men to lift me to the top.
I’m not unwilling to climb the same
Ladder of success as the men before me.
All I’m asking is for you to stop putting
Oil on the rungs.
'Oil', Imogen Whittaker
one of the first poems I’ve ever written :S
Gandhi didn’t say this. Martin Luther King Jr didn’t say this. Jesus Christ didn’t say this. MOTHERFUCKING MEWTWO SAID THIS ENLIGHTENING SHIT RIGHT HERE
i find it really angering that abusive friendships aren’t addressed as much as abusive relationships. they’re both very much alike, horrible, and do a great deal of damage. its hard to talk to someone about leaving an abusive friend and feel like you’re being taken seriously