Cherry Boy

September 15, 2019

you still ask me why i used to
pin down your arms whenever
we made love –
why i never let you control
the way we moved.
it was because i knew i was
something you did in secret.
the thing that made you flush scarlet whenever
your mother asked you about the cherry
coloured bruises running down your
neck like an aching riverbed.
‘imagine you meet the girl of your dreams
and she sees that?’ she’d say.
see. i knew what i was. of course i did.
and i couldn’t stand it.
i didn’t want it.
so whenever you ask me that question again,
print this answer into your neck too:
i did not want to be your bad habit –
i wanted to be your only habit. ❞

Salma Deera,

For Diane

September 15, 2019

Diane
your buttocks
fill my
hands
while your tongue
greets mine
seeking…

Gone

September 15, 2019

THE last, late guest
To the gate we followed;
Goodbye – and the rest
The night-wind swallowed.

House, garden, street,
Lay tenfold gloomy,
Where accents sweet
Had made music to me.

It was but a feast
With the dark coming on;
She was but a guest –
And now, she is gone.

Henrik Ibsen

Someone to

September 15, 2019

I just want someone to grab my tits and tell me I’m pretty.
Actual words I saw on instagram.
Let’s break that statement down.
Someone to grab my tits
And by that I mean
Someone to love me so much they can’t keep their hands off of me
And by that I mean
Someone to want me or at least tell me that they do
And by that I mean
Someone to make me believe that I am worth a fuck
Even if that is all I am worth.
We break girls down into pretty girls and smart girls as if they are mutually exclusive.
Movies brandish the before and after of makeovers so much we can’t help
Glancing in the mirror and only ever seeing ourselves as a before.
So I will drag myself out of bed
Thirty minutes earlier
So I can paint concealer under my eyes (to hide the purple circles)
And onto my chin (to eliminate that red shine that makes it stick out)
And all over my nose (so I don’t look like rudolf when I scratch it and my sensitive skin acts up)
To coat my blonde lashes with layer after layer of ebony paint (to keep me from looking like a sick victorian child)
I will drag myself out of bed
Ten minutes earlier
To try on one outfit (But not that one, it makes my stomach look huge)
To try on two outfits (But not that one, it makes my breasts look smaller than they already are)
To try on three outfits (But not that one, six people told me it looks slutty)
To try on four outfits (Just throw on a hoodie, but that’s the only time you can wear it this week.)
And sometimes?
Three hours earlier
To cry over that assignment I can’t figure out
And to comb through the pages of my backbreaking book for an answer to a problem I’ll never need
To wonder if maybe gagging myself until bile rises in my throat
Until an empty stomach burns in my nose and the nausea hits me like a punch in the everywhere.
Would be easier than going to school
But no one sees that.
They only see me
Fixing my makeup up in bathroom mirror before lunch
And so they throw words as hard as they can
They aim for my heart, using every colourful hallway adjective they’ve heard
Or maybe the words the voice inside calls them
I’d be lying if I said that these words that didn’t haunt me
and follow me
And effect my every action
But I refuse to let them know that
I refuse to let them drag me down simply because they cannot fly
If I’m going to be an Icarus, fucking that’s a good way to go.
fucking, that’s a way to be remembered.
Even if I’m a cautionary tale, at least I got to see the sun.
If you call me a try hard I will say maybe you’re just not trying hard enough
If you call me high maintenance, I will say that it’s better than looking like you.
But when I express how much this hurts to my friend, he pulls a movie Ron Weasley and says
“Well, it’s kinda right.” and proceeds to make fun of me for doing my best
For those sleepless nights kept awake by the light of my laptop.
For shoving a toothbrush up my throat and hating myself for not being able to go through with it.
For raising my hand when the teacher holds up the tightrope I teetered along.
For trying.
I just want someone to tell me I’m pretty.
I just wish I didn’t need someone to tell me I’m pretty.

Kateasz

Me, myself, and I

September 15, 2019

A helpless sigh evades
Wet lips.
For clammy fingertips
Fondle at my chest,
And my toes curl
As they brush past my stomach.
My lips part. I gasp.

I tremble at the sounds
Of my own dirty voices
And the three naked women
Hidden behind my eyelids
Whose touch I echo.

Ellen Dawson

between your legs

September 15, 2019

Love making so rough, so aggressive you feel your pounding heartbeat between your legs.

stiffening cocks

September 15, 2019

Man or woman it doesn’t matter. His mouth welcomes those stiffening cocks and vulvas in their summer wetness. Mature mums with absent brats seeking ecstasy in this banquet of flesh; their hubbies with hearts bruised by dead loves moan softly at the first touch of sucking lips.

Sunday Morning Socialising

September 15, 2019

I wonder why
I always discover too late
What could have been wonderful