Unexpected Booty Call

I can hear what you're doing 

in the background

heavy breathing

while we're on the phone

I am trying to tell you how my day went

You are breathing

like you're running

but you're so still

except your right hand

that tells me

so clearly

that you aren't listening

Moon

I met the moon last night.

We talked about you.

She said you were going to break my heart.

I said you already had.

She said she tried to tell me

but all I could see was your eyes

instead of warning signs.

RIP

Rest in peace

with your red heart

finally healed

finally safe

from being torn apart

by the mistakes you make

I Passed

I passed the test

I so desperately wanted to fail

I didn't revise

I wanted to fail

Why didn't I fail?

The world is dying

And so am I

But I passed

I passed

I passed

I wanted to fail

I cannot bring the result into a world like this

I passed

I failed my daughter before she was even born

Because I passed the test

BLUE

Electric blue.

I have blue nails.

I'm icy but nice

manifesting your mess.

Yes

I have blue nails.

Say you like my blue nails.

I don't know how to fix you.

Why are you so blue

when I paint over you every day.

I'm so tired of trying to be like you.

I painted my nails red.

Get passionate.

Blog: Instagram Poetry

I don't normally blog, but I have something to say. It needs to be said. Maybe I'm not the right one to say it but I'm doing it anyway. 

Instagram is a hotbed of delusion. 

I don't just mean people photoshopping their pictures beyond recognition, buying followers, or lying that magic diet teas actually work. I mean Instagram poetry. Not all poetry on Instagram is bad, by any means, but unfortunately, most of it is. 

I think that the rise of micro/minimalist poets like Rupi Kaur have given the idea that posting a line or two of fake deep text is art, and that's sad. There is nothing wrong with short poetry, if it actually contains something of substance. I look at these so called poems, and there is no narrative, no emotion, not even any exotic words or imagery that aren't pedestrian as hell. It's sad. So, so sad to see one of the most beautiful art forms sink so low. 

Sylvia Plath didn't die for this. 

Doormat

When did I grow fibres?

When did I say to your shoes

that I wanted to welcome them home

after they had spent the night

at someone else's house?

When did I fall asleep?

When did I say 

that you could wipe your dirt all over me?

When did I become your doormat?

I'm awake

motherfucker.

As You Wish

Kill me if you want

because I only lived to make you happy.

Hair

I'm tearing strands of my hair from my head

because you  don't think I am beautiful
yet
so I will rip myself into a million pieces
until I find peace
and I am what you are looking for

Face

You're not that nice

though you pretend to be

when everyone can see

but I've seen your face

your fucked up

not for public face

that frightening face

when you let how screwed up

and fucked up

you are 

out

and it's too late

because I want you

even though I know 

you're going to kill me